Her smile was tentative. “I’m not sure it will change your life all that much.”

“Nonsense. You’ve changed it already.” He reached across the table and lightly touched the backs of both her hands. His fingers seemed to emit low-voltage electricity. “I’ve often thought of writing a book myself.”

She drew her hands back, cocked her head again the way she did. “Tell me something. You didn’t plan all this as a way to get to meet me so I could help you get published, did you?”

He looked flabbergasted. Actually stuck out a forefinger and crossed his heart. “Not a chance. Do people really do that?”

“More often than you’d think.”

“All I’ve done is thought about writing a book. I’d never attempt one.”

She appeared curious. “Why not?”

“Well, I guess because I’m not a writer. I mean, when did you know you were a writer?”

“I’ve always known.”

“Well, I’ve never known and don’t know now.”

“But you’d like to write.”

“Well, somewhat.”

“Maybe you won’t know till you try.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t even know how to try.”

She said, “I have an apartment full of books that teach people how to write.” The words had come from her mouth automatically. She was embarrassed now, wishing desperately that she could snatch them back.

His hands were touching her again. He said, “The least I can do is look at them.” He shrugged. “Who knows, I might be another Nancy Paretsky.”

“Anything’s possible,” Honor said. “Maybe we’ll even solve that mystery you asked about.”

“Mystery?”

“Was Shakespeare a phony?”

“You probably could tell me more than your books about that.”

“If you asked the right questions, maybe.” She felt the blood rush to her face and hoped he didn’t notice. She sipped some more coffee as a diversion.

“You could show me what questions to ask,” he said.

“I’m no expert on the bard,” she said.

“I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Honor flipped a mental coin, knowing even as she did so that it was the same on both sides.

“I’m only a few blocks from here,” she said.

The killer knew where she lived but decided not to mention that. No reason for her to know he’d followed her home one evening. He’d even thought, momentarily, of paying her a visit. But he’d known the time wasn’t right.

He left a tip and they walked from the coffee shop. She noticed he had a black leather case, almost like a purse, slung by its strap over a shoulder. It must have been out of sight beneath the table.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“It’s sometimes called a European wallet.” In truth he’d seen such cases called that only in an advertisement. “Or a man purse.” He grinned over at her. “I prefer ‘European wallet.’ ”

“I kind of like man purse,” she said. And she did. She liked a man who dared to be different. “What do you keep in it?”

“Oh, just things that I use.”

“For what?” she asked coyly.

“This and that.”

“Like maybe staying the night someplace and still being able to have a fresh shirt and shave?”

“That, too,” he said, and felt to make sure the black leather flap was locked.

PART FIVE

Cookery is become an art.

—ROBERT BURTON, The Anatomy

of Melancholy

53

“She wrote a cooking mystery,” Fedderman said.

They were in Honor Tripp’s apartment. She was lying dead on her bed, on her back, wrists and ankles bound so that her legs would never again straighten in response to what she wanted, because she was past wanting anything. The expression on her face suggested she had died in pain. The knife and cigarette burn injuries on her nude body indicated how intense that pain must have been.

Quinn and Pearl were there with Fedderman, along with Captain Harley Renz, who’d come right over from his office when he heard about the homicide call, and that the letters D.O.A. had been carved in the victim’s forehead.

Nift the nasty little ME was there, hands on hips, staring down at what was left of Honor Tripp.

“Straighten her out,” Nift said, “and she would have been a good looking piece of trim.”

The others ignored him, as well as the CSU techs bustling around the apartment. Except for Pearl. Quinn heard her slight intake of breath and sensed her body tightening. Nift could get under skin, and had sensed that shortly after they’d met. There was nothing she could do about it but endure.

“A cooking mystery,” Renz said. “No doubt she shared her knowledge about her special dishes with her killer.”

“He would have asked her about them,” Quinn said.

“Tenderized meat dishes especially.” Nift said.

“Just make yourself useful,” Quinn told him, sensing Pearl was coming to a boil.

“Okeydoke,” Nift said, seemingly unconcerned. He used a stainless steel probe for a pointer. “The carving in her forehead occurred after death. But don’t assume the killer showed her any mercy; he simply wanted there to be less bleeding than if her heart was still pumping. Less mess that way, and his carving would be legible.”

“D.O.A. I guess that means the obvious,” Pearl said. “Dead on Arrival.”

“Who called it in?” Quinn asked Fedderman.

“Neighbor in the apartment upstairs. Said he heard a lot of moaning and sobbing around midnight. It went on for over an hour. A short while after that, he heard somebody leave.”

“He do anything about it?”

“Said he considered it and decided not to. Figured it might be his neighbors making love.”

“With the sobbing?” Pearl said.

Nift smiled and said, “Strange on the Range.”

“The neighbor still over there?” Quinn asked Fedderman, before Pearl could launch a zinger at Nift.

It was Renz who answered. “Yeah. I talked to him after Fedderman did.”

Renz wasn’t wearing his uniform. The neighbor had probably assumed he was an ordinary detective in a sharp suit.

“His name’s Justin Beck. Laid-off engineer.”

“Midnight’s a good approximate time of death,” Nift said. “I can make it more precise later.” He resisted looking at Pearl’s breasts, or making a smart remark. Quinn didn’t figure he was reforming. Nift smiled. “Honor Tripp and I will get together later at the morgue, and she’ll reveal all her silent secrets.”

“So screwed up . . .” Pearl said, under her breath.

“You and Quinn have got this one,” Renz said.

“So we figured,” Quinn said. He remembered that Jeanine Carson had been killed around midnight. It was a popular time for murder. Also alibis.

Renz gave an exaggerated sigh and glanced around the bloody bedroom, like an animal seeking an exit. “I’ll be in my office at the precinct,” he said, finding the way out.

Quinn looked at Pearl. “Let’s go next door and talk to Mr. Beck.”

“You kids needn’t be concerned with me,” Nift said, motioning deftly with his probe. “I’ll be here for a while, having fun.”

Pearl said, “We won’t give you another thought. People say you’re a jerk-off, and they’re right. It’s lucky you don’t have any real authority.”

Nift’s features remained impassive. Quinn had to admire his coolness. Pearl could be a tough in-fighter.

“I’ll stay here and keep Nift company,” Fedderman said, helping to keep Pearl cool.

“Just stay away from the corpse,” Nift said. “I wouldn’t want anything to fly out of your suit and contaminate the scene.”

Ignoring Nift, Quinn said to Fedderman, “If he says anything you dislike, shoot him.”

“Come get me first,” Pearl said, “so I can help.”

“Just make sure you get him in a crossfire,” Quinn said.

“I might only be a bit player in these little dramas,” Nift said, “but I always get the girl.”