“You’d fallen asleep about ten o’clock . . .” he reminded Beck.

“Yes, and around midnight I was awakened by what sounded like screaming, only . . . kind of muffled. Then, in between screams, what sounded like whimpering.”

“No one else heard any screams,” Fedderman said.

“I’m not surprised. These screams wouldn’t carry very far. I told you, they were muffled by something, and I’m—I was—her closest neighbor.”

“Your bedrooms are precisely side by side, I believe,” Fedderman said.

“I suppose they are.”

“You share a wall. And a heating and air-conditioning duct.”

“I guess we do. What’s that supposed to mean?” Beck seemed more annoyed than afraid of where Fedderman might be taking the conversation. And slightly embarrassed. Yes, his bold warrior’s features were definitely flushed. Fedderman knew why. Honor Tripp’s sex life was part of Justin Beck’s, too.

Make sport of me now, you voyeuristic toy soldier bastard.

Fedderman smiled and shrugged. “Means you do what thousands of other New Yorkers do when they happen to find themselves side by side with an attractive neighbor, separated by only a vent. If that neighbor has any kind of sex life . . . well, it’s inevitable that you’re going to hear things. Sometimes it must seem almost like being a participant.”

Beck took a deep breath. He seemed to think about that.

“Okay,” he said at last. “The night of the murder, Honor was with a man in bed. I thought what I was hearing were sounds of sexual thrall. Instead . . .” He swallowed.

“You overheard the murder,” Fedderman said.

Beck nodded. “I didn’t know it at the time. Not at first, anyway.”

“Of course not.” Fedderman didn’t want this guy to go dry. “Listen, Justin, you could be a help to us. You must have been able to hear just about everything through that vent. Did you hear either one of them say anything?”

“No. Like I told you, she was gagged.”

“And it never occurred to you that this was something more than sex?”

“There are all kinds of sex practiced by all kinds of people.”

True enough, Fedderman thought. “What about him? Did you hear a man’s voice at all?”

“Now and then. He told her . . .”

“What?”

“That he was going to do this or do that. With the knife and the cigarette. I couldn’t make out the words through the wall. That’s when the muffled screaming would start.”

“Was he interrogating her?”

“I don’t think so. It was difficult to be sure. He seemed more into issuing orders. Now and then he’d give a cold kind of laugh. The bastard was enjoying himself. I thought they both were. I never imagined what he was doing, how far he was taking it.”

“So that’s why you didn’t call the police, or try to stop what was going on.”

“Right. I figured what was going on might be perfectly normal for them. The usual S&M behavior. Sexual games. Far as I knew, he wasn’t doing anything Honor didn’t like.”

“What about the screams?”

“I told you, they were muffled. All part of kinky sex, far as I could tell.”

“But eventually you did call.”

“I got to thinking about it. How she sounded. I decided. . .”

“What?”

“It didn’t really sound like kinky sex. It sounded more like somebody might really be hurting her. Still, I didn’t know enough to go pounding on her door, or go barging in there to save her. And I knew the cops would be here fast once I called.” He let out a long breath and sat back. “Which is how it happened.” He bowed his head. “Not fast enough.”

“You couldn’t have broken in and saved her,” Fedderman said, staying on Beck’s side. “Probably you would have just hastened her death, then maybe caused your own. This guy doesn’t play gently, and you would have been between him and freedom.”

“So he’s the D.O.A. guy? Back with us?”

“Not much doubt about it.” Fedderman snapped his leather notebook shut. “We’ll need you to go down to the precinct house and add to and sign a statement.”

“Assault can sound like sex,” Beck said, feeling guilty and fishing for Fedderman’s agreement. He needed atonement.

“Sometimes they aren’t that different,” Fedderman said. “Then there are those times when one partner turns up dead.”

“Then it’s time to do my duty as a citizen. And I will.” Beck chewed his lower lip for a few seconds. “Listen, if me making a statement gets in the papers or on TV, this killer’s not likely to come after me, is he?”

“That’s not his game,” Fedderman said. “He’s probably already stalking his next female victim. But if you’re worried about that, the sooner you put your signature on a statement, the sooner you’ll be safe. You can’t be prevented from doing what you’ve already done.”

Beck visibly brightened. “That makes sense.”

Fedderman guessed it did. Would it make sense to a sadistic killer? He wasn’t so sure.

57

The hot spell hadn’t subsided, but rain was added to the mix. It fell in large drops straight down, bouncing like stones off window ledges, air conditioner covers, metal trash containers, and crawling traffic. If you were indoors, it was a good place to stay.

Some of the detectives were thrashing things out in the office at Q&A. It was a sauna, even though the air conditioner was vibrating and humming along.

Quinn and Pearl listened to Fedderman’s account of his interview with Justin Beck. Helen’s lanky body was slouched asymmetrically in a chair. It was between their desks, but nearer to Quinn’s. Fedderman was in one of the clients’ chairs, facing them all.

“Not really of much help,” Pearl said, when Fedderman was finished talking.

Quinn agreed. “I didn’t hear much of what we didn’t already know.”

“That’s kind of the point,” Helen said.

“The killer didn’t say anything about the earlier murders,” Quinn said, “or any plans he has for future victims.”

Fedderman absently straightened a nonexistent crease in his pants. “I got the impression that Beck didn’t happen to eavesdrop on Honor Tripp’s bedroom only the night of her murder. And the killer must have noticed that vent in the wall, right next to her bed.”

“He knew someone was listening,” Helen said.

Fedderman said, “I kind of got that same creepy feeling. Mess around next to that big vent and someone almost has to overhear.”

“But why would the killer want that?” Pearl asked.

“Maybe he gets his kicks that way,” Fedderman said, “being watched. Or in this case, heard.”

“I didn’t read anything important in his statement,” Pearl said. “So I’m guessing he didn’t overhear anything important in his vent.”

“That’s the notable thing about what Beck says he overheard,” Helen said. “There was nothing about art. And Honor Tripp was a genre writer. A mystery novelist. Mysteries are thought by some naïve souls to be the opposite of art.”

“So that’s the message?” Quinn asked. “The killer is parading the fact that this murder had nothing to do with art in general, and so not with Bellezza specifically?”

“That could be it,” Helen said.

Fedderman looked at her.

“Wouldn’t a simpler way to put it be that he’s trying to throw us off the scent?”

“You know this guy better than that, Feds.”

“He’s going to up the ante,” Pearl said. “That’s the sicko’s message.”

“Exactly,” Helen said. “And the pool of his potential victims has widened. From now on they won’t have to know anything about art, or be aware of missing Michelangelo pieces. This killer is no longer playing games. The treasure hunt is over.”

“Which makes our work harder,” Quinn said.

They all sat in silence for several seconds, considering. Trying to get into the killer’s mind, knowing it wasn’t a nice place to visit.

“He’s going to force a showdown,” Quinn said.

“Something like that,” Helen said. “He doesn’t like balancing on the head of a pin.”