“Not that I could surmise. But when I saw her name in the paper, and what had happened, I determined to phone you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“That’s because I had another, more curious phone call, and I wondered if the calls might be connected.”

“Why is that?”

“I said I didn’t know Jeanine Carson as a friend, and that’s true. I also know that Andria Bell and Jeanine were . . . quite close. They were both involved in the art world. So was a woman named Ida Tucker, who called me.”

Quinn was wondering where this conversation was going—if anywhere. He was trying to keep it straight even as he wondered about Winston Castle’s sanity. This guy was too much of a character to be genuine.

“That would be after Andria’s death,” Quinn said.

“Yes. This Ida Tucker tried to negotiate by phone to buy a piece of art that I don’t possess.” Something, along with a wider smile, an added sheen to his complexion and sparkle in his dark eyes, transformed Castle’s face. “She claimed it was a lost Michelangelo sculpture titled Bellezza.” He leaned closer to Quinn and dropped his voice even lower. “That means—”

“It means beauty in Italian,” Quinn interrupted.

“Very good! The Tucker woman described a small white marble bust of a beautiful woman that was said to have been modeled after a very influential courtesan of the church. Legend has it that she was murdered to ensure her silence.”

A courtesan of the church.

Quinn met Castle’s glance, trying to determine what the game was. What the hell am I getting into here?

Castle seemed dead serious.

“So what did this marble bust look like?” Quinn asked. “Other than it was white?”

“She didn’t describe the bust in detail, but said she inherited some letters her brother-in-law, Henry Tucker, wrote on his deathbed that do describe it. She said she was afraid to mail such information or discuss it over the phone. So she gave the letters to a trusted friend, who was traveling to New York with some students anyway. She was to show the letters to me.”

“Andria Bell,” Quinn said.

Castle nodded. “Exactly. She phoned but didn’t make a connection. When she did reach me and we talked, she seemed to be feeling me out. She did say she had some letters, but she was hesitant to show them to me.”

“Why would she be hesitant?”

Castle shrugged his beefy shoulders. “I suppose she wanted to make sure I was the right man. I would think this bust is worth a great deal of money.”

Quinn smiled. “Money enters into almost everything.”

“Yes,” Castle said, “but this seemed to be about something other than money. Something more was making her cautious.”

“What would that be?”

The thick black mustache across from Quinn perked up in a grin. “That’s what I want to hire you to discover.” Castle’s twinkling dark eyes looked beyond Quinn.

“Ah, Maria!”

Quinn looked where Castle was staring and saw that a dark-haired woman, attractive but built somewhat too short and heavy to be fashionable, had come outside to join them.

“My wife, Maria,” Castle said, with a sweeping motion of his right arm, as if introducing a celebrity. “Detective Quinn is about to agree to help find Bellezza.”

The fleshy, dark-haired woman smiled warmly. Flesh crinkled around her dark eyes, but not in a way that made her look older. “That’s wonderful.”

“I haven’t exactly—”

“We’re paying him fifty thousand dollars if he’s successful,” Castle said.

Maria seemed unmoved by the number.

“You have to understand,” Quinn said. “I’m leading the efforts to find and stop a serial killer.”

“The one who killed Andria Bell and those other poor women.”

Maria appeared distressed. Quinn thought she’d surely cross herself, but she didn’t.

“This is something of a bonus for you, Detective Quinn,” Castle said.

Quinn wasn’t thinking of the money. Well, the money came second in his musings. The city of New York was compensating Q&A generously, but Castle had a point in suggesting that this wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. The missing bust and the mass murders at the Fairchild Hotel had become intertwined—find Bellezza and find the killer. That seemed to be how Winston Castle saw it. He was probably right.

This was, Quinn decided, one investigation. Why had D.O.A. become not only a serial killer but a mass murderer? The likely answer to that was something in his conversation at MoMA with Grace Geyer. As he was stalking Geyer, she had unknowingly tipped him to even bigger game. D.O.A. had simply seized opportunity.

Quinn saw the possibilities here. If the killer had stumbled into something that enticed him, and that had unexpectedly developed into mass murder, maybe it would be one of his rare mistakes. The one that might lead to his death or apprehension.

“You will accept our payment for your services?” Castle asked.

“Let’s see how the investigation goes,” Quinn said. “See just what the connections are. Then we can talk about the return of the bust.”

Castle suddenly seemed to get taller, paunchier, distressed and insulted. Quite a gamut of emotions played over his wide features. “I can assure you the bust is not stolen property from some museum.”

“We’ll check the museums as a matter of routine,” Quinn said. He was somewhat surprised by Castle’s concern for his honor and reputation.

“We shall shake on it,” Castle said, extending his hand. Another abrupt change of mood. He moved in on Quinn and pumped his hand with a crushing grip. No limp-handed English handshake here. This shake had sealed the deal.

“This is wonderful!” Maria said, beaming at Quinn. “We were so distressed by the deaths of both girls.”

Quinn was confused. “There have been seven victims.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean to slight anyone.” Now she actually did cross herself, absently and so quickly that Quinn barely saw it. “It’s the two who most concern us, but the others are held just as close and dear to the breast of—”

“Which two are those?” Quinn asked.

Maria clasped her hands, and her Renaissance peasant features became solemn. “Andria Bell and Jeanine Carson.”

Quinn felt as if he were lost in the nearby hedge maze. D.O.A. had slain Jeanine Carson to keep his hand in, to divert, to taunt Quinn. Other than what might have been a coincidental involvement with art, that was the two women’s only connection—they were tortured and killed by the same sadistic, cunning animal. Used as pieces in the game he played.

“Sisters,” Maria Castle said. “They were—God help them—sisters.”

27

“Sisters, all right,” Jerry Lido said. He had spent much of the night doing ancestry research online. He’d informed Quinn that he hadn’t had a drink since the day before, so Quinn wasn’t positive of Lido’s findings. The Q&A tech whiz did his best work while fueled by alcohol. While skunked, actually.

He was slumped in an uncomfortable wooden chair angled toward Quinn’s desk. His shirt was half tucked in and his tie was loosened and askew. Quinn noticed that Lido’s hairline had receded what seemed like another inch or so, leaving a sharp widow’s peak.

“Andria Bell and Jeanine Carson are daughters of Ida Tucker and Robert Kingdom. Jeanine was briefly married to a Brady Carson, who died three years ago in a boating accident on Lake Erie.”

“What kind of accident?”

“Explosion. Fumes from the boat’s engine compartment below deck built up and went boom.” Lido shrugged his bony shoulders. “It happens with some frequency. Nothing suspicious about it, and nothing to suggest there was an investigation.”

“Was he alone on the boat?”

“No, he was with a fishing guide. That’s whose boat it was. The guide lived long enough to tell his rescuers what happened. Carson had ducked below deck to get some tackle, and he lit a cigar. It was unlit in his mouth when he lowered himself down through the hatch, and he had a book of matches in his hand. That was all the guide remembered. He’d yelled for Carson to be careful, but it was too late.” Lido gave a weary, wicked grin. “Bad things can happen when you light a forbidden cigar.”