Slaughter - Lutz John - Страница 57
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“I just got awakened by a phone call at my home. In my bed.” A small lie to help make his point.
“No need to be pissed off,” Weaver said. “I’m the bearer of good news. I think. Homicide called about fifteen minutes ago. There’s this couple in St. Louis, Fran and Willie Clarkson, that owns and operates a brat stand.”
“A what?”
“Brat stand. People in St. Louis like their bratwurst. You know, they look like hot dogs.”
“The people in St. Louis?”
“I’m barely awake, Nancy. Get to the point.”
At the mention of Nancy’s name, Pearl sat straight up in bed. “Dammit, Quinn!”
Weaver said, “The male half of this couple, Willie Clarkson, called about something that happened in their bratwurst stand about thirteen or fourteen years ago. They saw the stories about the Gremlin and his ear and thought they’d better call.” Quinn waited silently, staring at Pearl while she stared back, and listening to Weaver tell about the young couple, Pablo and May Diaz, and the episode with the knife. And the eviscerated rat.
“All this might have nothing to do with anything,” Quinn said.
“I wish I could e-mail you a photo of the rat.”
“Never mind that,” Quinn said.
“The Clarksons cleaned up the place at the time anyway. There was nobody there to tell them otherwise, and Fran said the rat was creeping her out. There were no investigations at the time, either. But word got around. Somebody crossed out the B in their stand’s outside menu.”
“Cruel,” Quinn said. “To you, me, the Clarksons, and the rat.”
“Minnie Miner is spreading the word about my ‘accident, ’” Weaver said. Her voice was eager, without a tremor of fear. He could imagine the diamond glint in her sly eyes. Weaver was born for action. The huntress was on the scent.
“I want to go through it again,” Quinn said.
“I don’t want to recite it again, Quinn.”
“Good. I want you to listen. The news-starved media will grab this story as if it’s a hamburger. You’ll be reported as being on the critical list after the auto accident. The doctors will have put you in an induced coma. They’ll express amazement that you’re still alive after your heart stopped beating for over five minutes. You simply came awake after you were pronounced dead and had no vital signs. There seems no reason that, when aroused from your coma, you won’t return to normal.”
“Gee, I feel better already.”
“You’ll stay in your hospital bed at Faith, supposedly making the first meager beginnings of a complete recovery. You’ll be touted as a medical miracle.”
“And the killer will be obsessed with finding out how I . . . work.” She said this with little emotion.
“What he won’t know is that you’ll be watched every minute, and we can be in your room within seconds. Just in case, you’ll be wearing a Kevlar bulletproof jacket beneath your hospital gown.”
“I want my nine-millimeter,” Weaver said, still with her calm, flat voice.
“You’ll have it, but you probably won’t need it.”
“Such a plan we have,” Weaver said.
“You should be safe. Helen is certain of one thing. The woman the killer will want more than anyone in that hospital room, and whose death will be a personal tragedy and defeat for me, is Pearl. He’s chosen the time and place. Everything else will be a diversion.”
“And he’ll assume I’m Pearl.”
“Yes. Pretending to be someone else.”
“Who is also pretending to be Pearl.”
“Uh-huh. He won’t be sure, though. He can’t be.”
“Won’t he notice the bulky flak jacket under my gown?” Weaver asked.
“He shouldn’t, what with all the distracting plastic tubes and medical paraphernalia around you.”
“At the least, he’ll hesitate.”
“Right. His target is the real Pearl, pretending to be someone else. He’ll surely expect something like that. Much like a marble under one of three walnut shells a huckster keeps moving around.”
“What prevents the Gremlin, and not you, from being the last to incorporate a switch?”
“I know him,” Quinn said. “He likes back-and-forth trickery, but not if it gets too complex “
“This is too complex?”
“I honestly don’t know. Three women are involved, and one of them isn’t real.”
“Thank God!” Weaver said, “that not everything happening around here is real.”
“Don’t be too thankful,” Quinn said. “Remember that the woman in Pearl’s bed, beneath the black wig, all the Kevlar, and Pearl’s bandages, will be you. Pretending to be Pearl pretending to be a woman who already died once.”
“Pretending to be pretending,” Weaver said. ”Because Helen has convinced you that the Gremlin wants Pearl even more than he wants the woman who cheated death.”
“She didn’t exactly cheat death,” Quinn said. “She only visited.”
He worked the miniature keyboard on his iPhone.
“Who are you calling now?” Weaver asked.
“LaGuardia,” he said. “Flight to St. Louis. Old habits die hard.”
70
St. Louis, the present
Jordan knocked on the door to Samuel’s riverfront hotel room.
Light shifted in the peephole. An unintelligible voice sounded from the other side of the door. Jordan moved over so Samuel could see him.
He knocked louder, so it could almost be said he was about to make a scene.
The door opened, and there was Samuel, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. He looked worried and scared as he shut the door behind Jordan. Then he made a show about looking at his watch. Rather the white mark on his wrist where the watch would be after he got it from the nightstand in the bedroom and slipped it on.
“We were supposed to meet farther down on the riverfront, at ten o’clock. It’s only nine fifteen.”
“I thought this would be more private,” Jordan said.
Standing there in worn loafers, sockless and shirtless, with his hair looking like it had been in a blender, Samuel made a face that was probably meant to scare Jordan, or at least gain the offensive. Some offensive. “I don’t like you changing the rules as we go along,” he said.
“Not to worry,” Jordan said.
“Did you bring the money I lent you?”
“Of course I did.”
There was another soft knock on the door.
Jordan ambled over and opened it. Behind him, Samuel Pace took a few steps and then stopped, trying to get a handle on what was happening here.
“Who’s that?” he asked in a tight voice, as if someone had him by the neck but hadn’t yet squeezed in earnest.
“The photographer,” Jordan said. “Remember? You said you might bring your lady, Eleanor, so she could pose for some shots.”
He opened the door and stepped aside. Jasmine slipped in quickly. She had a digital camera slung around her neck on a broad black strap. Jordan thought she looked old beyond her years.
She got right into the flow, looking around. “Where’s Eleanor?”
A slight noise came from the direction of the bedroom. Three heads turned that way.
Tall, blond, and very young, Eleanor opened the bedroom door and stepped into the sun-drenched main room. Her long hair was tousled but in a wild way that was strangely attractive. She wore a sheet like a toga, and looked like something out of a Shakespeare madness play.
She smiled and said, “I’m Eleanor. I hear you want to photograph me.”
As she talked, her gaze traveled from Samuel to Jasmine to Jordan. Her look lingered, and she appeared to want to say something about Jordan’s jockey-like size, and then changed her mind.
Still she seemed amused. That didn’t set well with Jordan. Neither did Eleanor’s seemingly unshakeable confidence. He wanted control of this again. He said, “You’re from money, right, Eleanor?”
“Money?”
“Your family.”
Her smile became wider, displaying perfect white teeth. “It shows?”
“Very much so. And I’m thinking you booked the hotel and paid the way for Samuel to be here with you.”
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