“I doubt it.”

“Me, too.”

“He probably had a gun,” Helen continued. “It would be hard to keep all those girls in line with only a knife—not impossible, though. However he was armed, it’s easy to talk people into thinking you won’t harm them if only they’ll do as you say. They’ve got nothing against you personally that you know of, so it’s easiest for them to cooperate. With a knife he could have been in charge. With a gun he would’ve been king.”

“You think he tied down and gagged Andria first?” Quinn asked.

Helen rubbed her long chin. “Maybe. I’m guessing he had a gun and was in complete control, so he could’ve done anything he wanted. He most likely held all the girls at gunpoint and had one of them—or maybe Andria—tie up and gag the others. It wouldn’t have taken long, using their shoelaces and panties.” She paused, looking up at the wall clock as if she were being timed. “Using the panties would have humiliated the girls as well as quiet them. Seems like it’d be a male thing to do.”

“Agreed,” Quinn said.

“So I figure our killer used a captive helper to secure everyone, then he used his knife on the girls that were bound and gagged lying side by side on the bed.”

“That must have been hell for all of them,” Quinn said. “Especially for the last few, who had to watch their friends suffer and die.”

“It wouldn’t have been quick for any of them,” Helen said. “The killer had plenty of time, and he used it to enjoy himself.”

“What about Andria Bell?” Quinn asked. “Why was she tortured the most and killed last?”

“Because she’s the reason the killer was there.”

“And that reason is?”

Helen grinned and shrugged her bony shoulders. “Wouldn’t we like to know?”

She uncrossed her long arms and straightened up from where she’d been supporting herself on the desk, looking as if she was getting ready to try a free throw. “I dropped by the morgue,” she said. “Talked to Nift and saw the photos. Did it look to you as if the killer got whatever he wanted from Andria?”

“You mean did she tell him all her secrets?”

“Yes. Her big secret, anyway.”

“And then he stopped torturing her?”

“Sure. He’d have accomplished his purpose. And he wouldn’t have wanted to hang around forever in the middle of all that damning evidence.”

Quinn thought about Helen’s question. “There’s no way to be sure,” he said. “My guess is Andria died during torture, probably from shock rather than loss of blood. But that doesn’t mean the killer didn’t get what he wanted. He might have decided to make sure. Or simply to amuse himself by drawing out his victim’s death.”

“But what’s your gut feeling?”

They both knew this was a serious question to put to a cop. Especially at this stage of an investigation.

Quinn said, “I think she told him what he wanted to hear.”

Helen leaned back against the desk edge and crossed her arms again. Quinn found himself wondering if she would have a temporary crosswise crease in her ass from the desk.

“You think D.O.A. is still alive and did these killings?” she asked.

“The experts said nobody could have survived that plane crash,” Quinn reminded her.

“No human remains were found at the scene of the crash,” she said.

“Tracks indicated predators probably dragged the body away,” Quinn said. But he recalled Weaver’s witness, Lettie Soho, saying the man she saw at the Fairchild Hotel had a slight limp. Slight. Maybe.

“What about a parachute?” Helen asked.

“The plane was too low, and a chute would have been seen. The medical examiner and the court decided D.O.A. died in that plane.”

“Yeah.”

“He was a careful killer,” Quinn said. “He thought ahead. Made contingency plans.” Quinn watched Helen chew the inside of her cheek. “Maybe we’ve got a copycat,” he added. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Hmm.”

“What does ‘Hmm’ mean, Helen?”

“We’d all like it to be a copycat,” she said. “Easier all around.”

“Except for the victims,” Quinn said. “If our killer’s a copycat, he really went to school on the earlier murders. The real and original D.O.A. couldn’t have been more vicious and sadistic.”

They looked at each other, waiting for what had to be said.

“Of course you’re right,” Quinn said. “We do want it to be a copycat. And it well might be. The more sensational the killer, the more likely some twisted animal will emulate him. That’s how these monsters think.”

“We forget sometimes they’re individuals,” Helen said. “They don’t all think alike all the time about everything.”

“The killings stopped after the plane went down,” Quinn pointed out.

“Or paused,” Helen said.

“Or paused,” he agreed.

As she knew he would.

12

Loose talk at the hotel bar, overheard by Harold, yielded another witness who might have glimpsed the killer entering Andria Bell’s suite. He was still registered at the Fairchild Hotel. He’d complained about something he’d seen or heard and the management had moved him up a floor at his request.

Sal had phoned from down in the lobby, so the witness, a middle-aged man with thin brown hair and a thick waist, was standing with the door open so Sal and Harold would notice him waiting a short way down the hall from the elevator.

He was about five foot ten and all soft angles, with his scant hair neatly combed straight across. Pink tie, white shirt, and gray blazer. He didn’t fit his name, which was Duke Craig, if Harold had it right.

The man introduced himself as Craig Duke.

“Nice room,” Harold commented, though it was nothing special. “Spacious and clean.” Starting the interview on a positive note.

“I guess it’s okay,” Duke said. “I’ve stayed here before.” There was a small gray sofa and a matching armchair in the room. And a desk with a wooden chair. Duke motioned for Harold and Sal to sit in the sofa and armchair. Sal took the uncomfortable desk chair before Duke could get to it. Duke eschewed the armchair and sat on the edge of the bed.

People. Sal thought he’d never get tired of watching them. The older he got, the more predictable they became. Yet now and then there was somebody . . . something. . .

Harold got his worn black leather notepad from a pocket, along with a stubby yellow pencil. He’d take copious notes during the interview, but Sal knew Harold often was merely sketching little fish. None of them the same size, but all swimming in the same direction. He had asked Harold about that once, and Harold had given some complex explanation involving salmon that Sal found incomprehensible.

“You said you’ve stayed here at the Fairchild before,” Sal said to Duke in his voice that was more like a growl. Then waited.

“The annual convention’s here,” Duke said. “Glow View Paint. You’ve heard of us?”

“No,” Sal said.

“I sure have,” Harold said. “You guys are nationwide.”

“That’s right!” Duke seemed buoyed about Harold knowing that. “What we cover stays covered. I’m a sales rep. Reps and other Glow View employees are here from all over the—”

“Where are you from?” Sal interrupted.

“St. Louis.”

“East?”

“West. Missouri.”

“About last night,” Sal said. “How did you happen to be looking out your door and see—most likely the killer—enter Andria Bell’s suite?”

“I’ve been reading all about that in the papers,” Duke said. He seemed suddenly ill at ease. A paint salesman from Missouri caught up in murder in New York.

“That doesn’t exactly answer the question,” Harold said.

“Well, I heard this knocking and thought it was on my door.” Duke looked off to the right, the way people are supposed to be doing when they’re lying. Harold didn’t think that common belief was true. Or is it to their left?

“And . . . ?” Sal asked, looking straight ahead.