“That’s a good word for it,” Renz said.

“You know that hedgerow maze at the Far Castle?”

“Yeah,” Renz said. “It looks confusing.”

“Well, that’s how this is.”

Quinn looked across the desk at Ida Tucker.

She was smiling.

33

The killer wanted to see if Weaver went someplace unexpected. Someplace where there would be privacy if he arranged for them to be alone.

It wasn’t unexpected that she headed directly toward work at the offices of Q&A. Maybe she had paperwork to catch up on. Runaways to find, burglars to apprehend, killers to kill.

All in a busy day.

Weaver paused near a doughnut shop, and stood as if contemplating. It was still morning. Not so late that she shouldn’t enjoy a breakfast doughnut. Or maybe she’d already had breakfast and was going to buy doughnuts for the other cops. They’d owe her something in return. Unless she was repaying a doughnut debt of her own. That was how cops thought; somebody always owed somebody. Doughnuts were the coin of their realm. They took that crap seriously.

As Weaver crossed the street toward the doughnut shop, the killer found a place where he could lean on a black painted bannister and pretend to study a map. He looked like a tourist today, even carrying a cloth bag advertising a Broadway show. A long-running revival of a revival starring a burned-out cast. Something a tourist would savor.

Through the doughnut shop’s steamed window, he saw Weaver slide into a booth while balancing a mug of coffee and a plate containing several doughnuts.

All for herself. Selfish bitch.

Or maybe not. She had to watch what she ate, with a body like that. A beauty for sure, but she’d have to control her diet in middle age.

If she reached middle age.

The killer settled in, knowing he’d be here awhile. Within a few minutes, he found himself getting hungry for a doughnut.

Quinn hung up the phone after his conversation with Renz. He hadn’t told Renz about the box of bricks and straw that had been shipped from England, and he didn’t mention the letters. They seemed to have disappeared, anyway.

Ida Tucker was still sitting patiently in her chair, her hands folded in her lap.

“Who do you think took the letters that were in the box?” Quinn asked her.

“Whoever took what else was in the box. Unless you think someone actually sent Willa a box containing nothing but bricks and straw all the way from England.”

Quinn thought it was possible that the box’s original contents were stolen in England, before the box was shipped, but he didn’t mention the possibility.

“What do you think happened to whatever was taken from the box?” he asked.

Ida gave her frail shrug. “It’s a mystery.”

“Here’s another one,” Quinn said. “Why did Andria Bell call Jeanine Carson several times from LaGuardia airport the day she died?”

“I wasn’t aware that she had. Maybe Andria simply wanted to let Jeanine know she was in town. They were sisters.”

“That’s true. DNA samples indicate that Andria and Jeanine were actually related by blood.”

Ida fixed icy eyes on Quinn, as if her lies were a match for his facts any day. “It isn’t a pretty picture. It involves degradation and rape.”

Quinn tapped the sharp point of a pencil over and over on his desk and regarded Ida Tucker. She must have such ugly memories, know so much that she dreaded reliving even in her mind. Quinn decided not to make her paint that picture once again. Or the original picture, painted over.

Ida visibly swallowed. “Some of the foster homes the children were placed in were nightmares. When Robert and I decided to adopt, we met Jeanine. She was only ten years old. We had to have her. Then, when we learned she had a younger sister, we felt the kindest and best solution was to adopt both girls, raise them the rest of the way like the sisters they were.”

“Did it work out okay?”

“Yes. Until they encountered the madman in your city.”

“I apologize for my city,” Quinn said. He leaned forward and gently patted the back of her hand. “I mean that, dear.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It’s odd though, wouldn’t you say, that both sisters would happen to encounter the same madman?”

“A giant statue of a woman with a torch, standing on a tiny island out in the ocean, is odd. Riding in trains under the ground is odd. A seriously undressed cowboy playing a guitar at a busy intersection is odd. A giant ape climbing a skyscraper is odd.”

“That last is just in the movies,” Quinn said.

“And the other three?”

“Well . . . I get your point.”

Ida stood up and smoothed her skirt. “If we’re finished here, I’ll go about the process of claiming my girls’ remains.”

“One thing more,” Quinn said. “You never mentioned your adopted son, Winston Castle.”

For a moment Ida seemed to draw a blank. “Oh! Is that what he’s calling himself now?”

“Yes. He owns a restaurant here in town.”

She waved a hand and smiled. “Good for him. He can be . . . rather aimless at times.” Her smile broadened. “Like the rest of us. Anything more?”

“No,” Quinn said, marveling. “You might drop by and see Winston.”

“I might. Thank you for bringing him to my attention.”

Quinn was finished talking to her anyway, so he let her call time. He had a feeling they’d have more conversations.

At the door, she paused and turned. “Will I have to identify the bodies?”

“They’ll probably request that you do. It won’t be as bad as you might imagine. They try to make it as easy as possible. Would you like me to send someone with you?”

“No,” she said, after giving it a few seconds’ thought. “I’ve seen worse, though I can’t remember when. I can manage this.”

“If you have any questions . . .” Quinn said. “Remember you have my number.”

“I do have questions,” Ida said. “Some I want answered, and some I don’t.”

He watched her go out into the sauna the city could become after a summer rain.

One of the questions Quinn wanted answered was who were the other people on Jeanine’s cell phone? Most of them, he was sure, were simply friends, business associates, neighbors, businesses she frequented. Checking each number might be a waste of time, but it had to be done. And who could know if a real clue might present itself?

And if this family was so close, why had Winston Castle pretended that Ida Tucker wasn’t his mother? And why would Winston Castle’s mother not mention their relationship? Or seem not to think much of it when Quinn brought it up?

The logical answer, it seemed to Quinn, was that she wanted to protect her son.

Mothers were like that.

34

When Weaver left the doughnut shop, the killer counted to twenty and then fell in behind her.

All the doughnuts. She’d eaten all of them on her plate, and then gone to the counter and ordered more doughnuts to go. The killer was amazed again that she could eat so prodigiously and still have such an impressive figure.

The doughnut boxes left no doubt where she was going, so he cut over a block and picked up his pace. There was no way she could somehow spot him following her if he was ahead of her.

By the time Weaver, balancing the two flimsy white boxes of doughnuts, crossed the street toward the converted building that housed the offices of Q&A Investigations, the killer had found a suitable observation post. He watched from where he was shielded by a van some workers were loading with cut-rate furniture.

It was starting to rain. Just a drizzle, but some of it was running inside his collar and down the back of his neck.

Before Weaver entered the building, an elderly woman exited. She tried holding the door open for Weaver, but Weaver won that contest, even with the boxes. The woman walked slightly bent by age, taking small, careful steps. Her head was bowed, as if she were thinking or depressed.