“Good God!”

“He was nowhere to be found at the time,” Helen said.

Quinn was surprised to see she that she’d teared up. “You see this shit on the Internet and it becomes real again if you let it. My great grandmother . . . my . . .” She could no longer force the words out.

Quinn snatched up a tissue and moved out from behind his desk. He gave the tissue to Helen, who folded it into quarters and dabbed at her eyes.

Quinn patted her shoulder. “It’s okay, dear.”

She shook her head. “Men into monsters. How does it happen?”

We’re supposed to know.

He gave her another tissue, then sat on the desk corner. “You’re not assuming this case has something to do with the Holocaust . . .”

“Nothing and everything,” Helen said. She dabbed twice at each eye and then slipped the wadded tissue into a pocket. “Samuel and Rebecca Gundelheimer didn’t want to surrender any of the world’s beauty to the enemy.”

“The enemy got a lot of it,” Quinn said, “though plenty of it was recovered, too.”

“The Nazis didn’t get our girl,” Helen said, “thanks to the Gundelheimers and some others.”

Quinn almost smiled at her, then realized she might not understand. “We’re thinking the same thing, I’ll bet.”

Helen nodded. “A serial killer talks with Grace Geyer, setting her up to be a victim, and out of the blue she says something that piques his interest. After pumping her for more information, he realizes he might have stumbled onto something big. He decides to cut himself in on what might be a valuable missing piece of art.”

“But he needs to know more,” Quinn says.

“Right. He follows Grace and the others to the Fairchild Hotel, intending to torture and question Andria Bell, being alone with her, taking his time. After all, she’s the expert in the group. Then he discovers Andria’s suite adjoins another, where five art students are staying, including Grace Geyer. Mass murder ensues, as well as skillful and agonizing torture, and the passing of information. That’s when the killer and our overactive family intersect.”

And what began as a vendetta chess game between the killer and Quinn develops into a treasure hunt and murder spree.

“Grace wouldn’t have known much,” Quinn said. “And Andria would have resisted talking.”

Helen said, “Under certain kinds of torture, everybody talks.” Her voice was sad. “No exceptions.”

Quinn had seen enough of the tortured and dead not to differ with her.

Helen waited, eyes dry now. Her face was still flushed, making her freckles less obvious.

“Are we still thinking the same thing?” she asked.

“Henry Tucker’s backpack,” Quinn said.

Helen managed a ragged smile. “You’ll find whatever was inside it. You’ll find the letters.”

“How can you be so certain?” Quinn asked.

“I’m certain of you.”

52

Honor Tripp looked at the man across the table and counted herself among the lucky.

So far.

They’d had only three dates, eaten three dinners together, and attended two off-Broadway shows. Neither show had been very good, but they didn’t much mind. That was because they did get along. This man, unlike so many others, seemed truly interested in her. What she was, who she was, what she thought. And he seemed to like her.

Well, more than like her.

The one thing about James Bolton that gave Honor pause was that he seemed somewhat secretive. He was skilled at deflecting questions.

So he was wary, she told herself. Like most men. Like most people in the singles society. A person gets hurt so many times and then puts up defensive walls.

Honor understood that and was patient.

Still, she wondered. She probed. It was in her nature.

“You’re not a native New Yorker, are you?” she asked, sitting across from Bolton in Beaux Arts Espresso in the Village.

Bolton gave her the slow smile that had first attracted her to him, the way it crinkled the faint scar on the side of his face. That and the way he was dressed—casually, with dark slacks, a gray shirt with its long sleeves hiked up almost to his elbows. And there was something about his hands, so strong yet sensitive. He was always unconsciously caressing things, his coffee cup, the small table’s centerpiece vase, the backs of her hands and fingers.... That was why she was drawn to him, she realized. He was so very tactile.

Bolton hadn’t answered. Honor cocked her head in what she fancied was her puzzled but pleased look. “So where are you from?”

“Around. Right now I’m living over on the East Side, near First Avenue and 57th Street.”

“That’s a nice neighborhood, but I wouldn’t say it’s nearby. What are you doing here in the Village?”

He sipped his coffee, smiling at her with his eyes through the steam wafting up from the cup. She thought it made him look kind of mystical.

“I followed you when I saw you the other day,” he said.

Honor was flattered but puzzled. She wasn’t ugly, and did have a trim figure, but she wasn’t the kind of femme fatale who drew men along behind her as if they were attached by a string.

Or am I?

“Why follow me?” she asked, and sipped her own coffee. “Didn’t you have better things to do?”

“There are no better things to do.”

“But why me?”

“One reason is I liked your looks when I saw you coming out of the Marlborough Book Shop. You paused at the curb and waited for traffic, standing almost as if you were posed. You would have made a perfect photo. That image rang some inner bell in me. I had to walk across the street and try to get to know you better. To see what you thought.”

“Thought about what?”

“Oh, you know. Did Shakespeare write all his plays?”

“You need to know what I think about that?”

“Desperately.”

“So what do you think?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

She mock clapped her hands. “Finally! Do you realize how rare you are?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You’re a man who understands he doesn’t have all the answers.”

He smiled. “There are more and more of us gaining that insight.”

She cocked her head at him and looked inquisitive. Was he serious? Or was he painting a picture of himself he knew she’d like?

Why not come right out and ask him?

“Are you playing the feminist card?” she asked.

“To what end?”

“To get what you want from me.”

“To be honest with you, I’ll play all the cards in my hand, if it means I get more acquainted with you.”

“But you wouldn’t lie?”

“I don’t think I’d have to lie to you. Soul mates don’t harbor secrets. Not from each other. They can’t.”

She studied him even more closely, as if looking for some telltale sign somewhere on his clothes. Some giveaway stain. They hadn’t talked too much before.

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll tell you the truth.”

“I wouldn’t expect any less from you.”

“I wasn’t in that bookstore to buy books. I went there to see if they had any of mine on the shelf.”

He didn’t understand at first, and then he beamed. “You’re a writer?”

“Indeed.” She immediately felt like a numbskull. “I mean, yeah. Yes, I’m a writer.”

“How many—”

“This is my first novel.”

“Where do you—”

“I get my ideas from life. Experiences like this one.”

“What’s the—”

“Title?” they said in unison.

“Strange on the Range,” she said. “It’s an occult western cooking mystery.”

“I heard women were writing more and more mystery novels,” he said.

“Have you read any?”

“I will now.”

“You really should. There are some great female mystery writers—Sara Paretsky, Sue Grafton, Linda Barnes, Nancy Pickard . . .”

“You know these people?”

“I’ve met them at conventions.”

He sat back and grinned. “Neat! I know a real writer.”