Something was wrong. She knew it.

Her heart was ice. Terror had come before knowledge. She was completely awake and hyperalert. Listening. Dreading. Staring wide-eyed into total blackness. Knowing now without doubt what she was hearing.

There was a third sound of someone breathing in the dark.

60

“They didn’t show up for their tai chi exercises in the park,” Renz said. “Then they didn’t answer their cell phones.”

“That was enough to send the super to investigate?” Quinn asked.

Renz nodded, his chin sinking into the smooth pink flesh of his neck. “With these two, yes. They took their tai chi seriously. Took everything yuppie and healthy seriously. They might have lived to a hundred and ten.”

A CSU unit was on the way, along with an ME and transport for the bodies. The uniform who’d caught the call was standing outside in the hall, to greet and guide the oncoming rush of specialists that sometimes reached murder crime scenes faster than flies.

Not this time, though, Quinn noticed. He leaned over and waved his hand to shoo a fly from the open eye of the woman. It returned to light on her forehead, and he gave up.

“I checked his wallet on the dresser, and her purse,” Renz said. “He’s Ben Swift. She’s his wife, Beth.”

Quinn moved closer to the two dead bodies on the bed. The man’s throat had been neatly sliced, both carotid arteries. There was a lot of blood around the bodies, but a towel had been laid over the man’s throat to keep blood from spurting. The expression on his face was puzzled but peaceful.

Next to Ben Swift, Mrs. Swift looked horrified. There were minor cuts and cigarette burns all over her body. Her wrists were fastened with thick silver duct tape to her bare thighs. Quinn could see a residue of adhesive where tape had been over her mouth. She had screamed into the tape but wasn’t heard except faintly by the killer.

Both victims had the letters D.O.A. neatly carved into their foreheads. Post mortem, so the carving didn’t leave much of a mess.

Renz pointed to a head wound near Ben Swift’s temple. “Looks like the killer took them both by surprise when they were asleep. Bashed the husband unconscious with a hard, blunt object, then gagged and taped the wife.”

“Then he sliced the husband’s throat, to get him out of the way, and turned all his attention to the wife,” Quinn said.

“It was the woman he wanted,” Renz said.

“Probably.” Quinn agreed with Renz but didn’t like jumping to conclusions at this point in the investigation.

He walked into the bathroom. There was blood on the plastic shower curtain and two of the white towels.

“It’ll be his blood,” Renz said.

Quinn nodded. “He did the murders nude and then cleaned up in here. All we’ll find are smudged rubber glove prints. He always washes most of the blood from the gloves, then peels them off so they’re inside out and puts them in a pocket.”

“Sounds right,” Renz said. “Fits the pattern, anyway. I wonder if he watches too much television, thinks we might be able to get his fingerprints off the insides of the gloves.”

“You never know about the lab guys,” Quinn said, thinking about the killer years ago who always cut out his victims’ eyes so his image wouldn’t be fixed like a photo on their retinas. “And when we’re dealing with somebody who’d do something like this, he might believe anything.”

There was shuffling around and voices coming from out in the hall. Quinn and Renz returned to the living room.

The first one in was the nasty little ME, Nift. He was followed by gloved up CSU techs and a detective Quinn knew slightly, who used to be on vice. Young guy on the make, Quinn figured, who might have something on Renz. He and Quinn exchanged nods.

“Where’s Pearl?” Nift asked, making a show of looking around.

“Not here,” Quinn said. “She knew you were coming.”

“Tell her I missed her.”

“You been shooting at her?”

“Pearl and I just joke,” Nift said, seeming to realize suddenly that he didn’t want to get Quinn mad. He motioned with his head toward the hall. “The bedroom?”

“The bedroom,” Renz said. “Make sure you don’t touch anything but the bodies.”

“I always work that way,” Nift said. He brooded as if his feelings were hurt, but Quinn knew better. Any emotion showing on Nift’s face was part of his act.

Nift hefted his big black leather bag and made his way with short, rapid steps toward the bedroom.

When he was gone, Renz said, “Necrophiliac little prick.”

“Probably,” Quinn said.

61

Minnie Miner tried from time to time to entice that horrible little ME Dr. Nift to come on her program. There was something about that guy that made people’s skin crawl, but they could no more look away from him than they could ignore a train wreck. Nift always declined, feigning professionalism. Minnie figured he was probably wanted somewhere and didn’t care to have his picture flashed around.

She put Nift out of her mind and continued idly watching a DVD of the B-roll for tomorrow’s piece on the D.O.A. murders. She was in her apartment near the studio, reclining on the sofa and sipping a vodka martini. The sun was at the windows on the wall near where the big TV sat, and from time to time, in synchronization with puffy cumulus clouds blowing past, she had to squint to see the screen clearly.

There was an establishment shot of the Far Castle across the street, the colorful umbrellas over the round white metal tables, the castle-like stone and tile building itself, then the low fence and the garden next to it, the precisely trimmed hedge maze. The sunlight seemed to cleanse while it brightened the place; everything looked picturesque and colorful, like a damned souvenir postcard. Fox hunters in red livery might stream across the scene any second, accompanied by frisky yapping hounds. Stonehenge might be nearby, instead of Bank of America.

Manhattan traffic rather than hounds running to the hunt streamed past, and lunchtime customers lounged and ate at the sidewalk tables.

The camera brought the long shot in, so it seemed the viewer was crossing the street, then it moved into the restaurant.

Minnie was idly wondering if the place served mead, when something on the screen made her sit straighter and lean toward the TV. Servers were circulating among the tables, clearing them or delivering food. Some were men wearing medieval-looking white shirts with overly bloused sleeves. Others were nubile young (reasonably young) serving wenches, with tight skirts and blouses that matched those of the male servers only cut lower in front to allow for glimpses of cleavage.

At first Minnie didn’t realize what had jogged her memory, and she had to stare hard at the TV. She had to run the DVD forward and back twice before she was sure.

One of the serving wenches was familiar. Minnie wasn’t one to forget a face, or all that cleavage. This wench looked particularly ready for a roll in the hay. Minnie smiled. It was the dyed blond hair that had fooled her for a while, the carefully mussed Olde World hairdo.

There was no doubt, though, after running the scene back a few times, then freezing it as the wench leaned farther forward to serve some frosted mugs to two businessman types. More than any of the others, this serving wench seemed to enjoy her work.

Minnie smiled, certain now. She had even, some time back, interviewed the now-blond woman for an ASAP segment on socially transmitted diseases.

Though the name tag pinned to her blouse said her name was Eileen, yon wench was Officer Nancy Weaver.

Minnie sat back and thought about that. No doubt Weaver was working undercover and wouldn’t be in a mood to talk about it.

On the other hand, a word going back beyond the Middle Ages came to mind: Bait.