“Okay, we get it,” Quinn said.

“No distinguishing marks,” Weaver said.

“Don’t push it,” Pearl said.

Weaver smiled. “Might have moved with a slight limp.”

Quinn’s body gave a start. The plane crash in Maine! “Which leg?”

“Nothing on that,” Weaver said.

“Did the uniforms find out if Lettie Soho is the woman witness’s real name?” Harold asked. “Sounds like a nom de plume.”

“Right you are,” Weaver said. “Her real name’s Marjory Schacht. She uses a pen name and writes chick lit.”

“What the hell is that?” Quinn asked.

“Hard to explain,” Pearl said. “Think of it as women’s light fiction.”

“No sign of drugs or alcohol in any of the victims,” Weaver continued.

“Now, that’s odd,” Fedderman said.

“Could be they just didn’t have time to get a buzz on before the bastard killed them,” Sal said.

“Small amounts of marijuana in the purses of Kramer and Geyer,” Weaver said.

“Geyer again,” Quinn said. “I wonder if the killer used her to get into the suite. Did Margory Schacht see who let the man in?”

“She isn’t sure, but she thinks it was Andria Bell.”

“Still,” Quinn said. “He might have learned about their presence from Geyer. Seen Geyer as the wild one in the flock and struck up a conversation with her.”

“At the museum, maybe,” Pearl said. “She was an artist, and he might have pretended to be one. He could have gotten her chatting about art.”

Weaver folded her papers and slid them back in the brown accordion file. Finished with her presentation, she moved from the center of the room and stood near Pearl’s desk.

“We need to get back to the hotel,” Quinn said. “Talk to whoever was staying near the victims. Talk again with Marjory Schacht—Lettie Soho.”

Harold said, “Christy Mathewson.”

The name of one of the victims.

Everyone looked at Harold, waiting for more. Harold was used to being looked at that way.

“He was a great ball player. Old time pitcher. Way back when they used little gloves.”

“Is the victim’s name spelled with an ie or a y?” Pearl asked Weaver.

Weaver reopened her brown file folder, shuffled some papers, and looked. “Uniform spelled it with a y.” The male spelling.

“Like the baseball player,” Harold said. It got him another look.

“Do you know how the ballplayer spelled his name?” Sal asked.

“No,” Harold admitted.

“So you think the victim was a male impersonating a female?” Fedderman asked.

“Naw,” Sal said. “The uniformed cop probably just spelled it his way.”

“If Christy was actually a male,” Quinn said, “Nift would have noticed.”

“That’s for damned sure,” Pearl said.

Quinn’s cell phone buzzed and vibrated. He worked it out of his pocket and saw that the caller was Renz. He walked over near the coffee brewer for something like privacy before answering.

Renz filled him in on what the NYPD knew. Pretty much what Weaver had covered minutes ago. Then: “Nift said all the victims were tortured with the knife, some worse than others. But especially Andria Bell. Also, she died last.”

“He wanted something from her,” Quinn said.

“Looks that way. Like he was trying to get some information from her. I wonder if he did.”

“My guess,” Renz said, “after looking at the body, is that she told him whatever he wanted to hear. Then he made sure it was the truth.”

“The girls . . .”

“The asshole saw them as a bonus. Might not have even known they were all staying in the same suite, until he was inside and they’d all seen him.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said, “we have to allow for that possibility.”

“We do have a security guy at MoMA says he saw Grace Geyer talking with some man, away from the rest of the group. In the fourth floor painting and sculpture section.”

“But he doesn’t remember what the man looked like,” Quinn said.

“Right. We tried to find the guy on the security cameras, but had no luck there. And the guard says he couldn’t pick the guy out of a lineup.”

“If we get a suspect,” Quinn said, “he sure as hell is going to try.”

“I’m going on Minnie Miner’s show tomorrow,” Renz said. “I won’t mention the security guard. Guy’s liable to leave town like a rocket.”

“If he’s smart,” Quinn said. He didn’t think the museum guard would be much of a help as a witness, but the killer wouldn’t know that for sure. “If we need him, we can reach out and get him. Whatever you tell or don’t tell Minnie Miner, be careful with it.”

“She’d really rather talk to you,” Renz said, sounding a little miffed.

“That would just impede the investigation,” Quinn said, feeding Renz what he wanted to hear. Not that it wasn’t the truth. “Maybe someday,” he said, “we can use Minnie.”

“Weaver see you yet?” Renz asked.

“Yeah. She filled us in on what the uniforms first on the scene had.”

“Tell her what you know,” Renz said, “so I can know it.”

“You bet,” Quinn said, and broke the connection.

The detectives were all staring at him, wondering if they had anything new to work with.

“Was that Renz?” Fedderman asked, unnecessarily.

“Yeah. Grace Geyer was seen by a museum security guard talking with a guy in MoMA. They were standing away from the rest of the group.”

“Maybe trying to pick her up,” Fedderman said.

“Or just talking about brush strokes,” Sal said.

“You ask Renz about Christy Mathewson?” Harold asked.

“While you and Sal are on the way to get verification statements from potential witnesses at the hotel,” Quinn said, “why don’t you call Nift and see about this Mathewson thing.” Keep us from possibly looking stupid, now that you’ve brought it up.

“Good idea,” Harold said. “Touch all the bases.”

Quinn gave him a look that might have meant he was perplexed or angry.

Sal said, “Let’s get out of here, Harold.”

They left, Sal thinking you really never knew for sure about Harold.

10

England, 1940

Tucker could see the bombs slung beneath the planes’ fuselages as the pilots brought the Stukas in single file, bow to stern above the Sondra. He hoped the German pilots would consider the small fishing boat too minor a target to waste bombs on.

He got his wish, but that didn’t rule out the machine guns mounted beneath the planes’ wings.

The little boat rocked this way and that as the captain attempted to zigzag. That helped some, but not much. A man in a French army uniform stood up near the bow and aimed his rifle at the incoming lead Stuka. He was cut nearly in half by machine gun bullets. Two of the crewmen hacked lines and launched a small dinghy the boat might tow, but no sooner had the dinghy hit the water than the crewmen both spun and dropped overboard beneath the hail of bullets. The boat’s grizzled old captain stepped halfway out of the pilothouse to yell some instruction, then fell in a red mist of blood.

Immediately after the first pass, the planes wheeled to the left, maintaining their single file line, as they maneuvered for another run at the boat. This time, as the first plane approached and the winking muzzle blasts of its guns became visible, men began diving and jumping overboard.

BEF Corporal Henry Tucker, huddled near the stern, decided it was time to abandon ship.

He scooped up his backpack, leaving all other equipment and belongings behind, and jumped off the stern into the roiled water in the boat’s wake.

Tucker had forgotten how heavy the backpack was. It began to pull him down into the swirling water. He tried to release it, but one of its straps was tangled around his wrist.

He was actually underwater when a hand gripped the backpack’s strap and he felt himself lifted out of the water. He thumped painfully into the bottom of the wooden dinghy and was lying on top of the backpack.