When he was about five feet away, he saw a glint of something. Eye white. The man’s right eye was partly open.
Even as Westerley realized the sleep and snores were feigned, the man was up and on his feet. He shook his head and beard, sending grass and bits of leaves flying, and he saw that Westerley was wearing a uniform. He must not have noticed the gun, though, because he spun on his heel and ran.
Westerley was immediately after him. The man seemed to come all the way awake and lengthened his stride. He was picking up speed as they entered the woods, pulling away from Westerley, his long black hair whipping side to side like a metronome.
“Halt!” Westerley yelled. “Sheriff’s department! I’ll shoot! I’ll shoot your goddamned heart out!”
The suspect ran faster.
Shit!
Westerley stopped running and spread his feet wide. He leveled the gun then raised it slightly to fire a warning shot.
It was at that moment that the fleeing suspect glanced back to see where Westerley was and ran hard into a tree.
He was groggy and struggling to get back up when Westerley reached him, kicked his legs out from under him, and cuffed him.
“That made an ugly sound,” Westerley said, “when you hit that tree.”
“Didn’t feel too good, neither,” the man said, gasping. Both of them were fighting for breath.
“I was ready to put one into you,” Westerley said, hefting the revolver.
“What for? Sleepin’ under an elm?”
Westerley got a good handhold on the man’s shirt and belt and lifted him to his feet. He gave him a shove.
“What’re you doin’?” the man asked.
“Keep walking toward the barn,” Westerley said, shoving him onto the narrow path.
“Why’d you chase me?”
“Why’d you run?”
“Where we goin’?” Answering a question with a question. The way guilty people did.
“Walk.”
“I got rights!”
“I know,” Westerley said. “Soon as I catch my breath, I’m going to read them to you.”
By the time they’d reached the cruiser, Westerley had introduced the suspect to Mr. Miranda. He secured him in back, behind the cage, and got in behind the steering wheel.
Less than a minute after he’d turned the cruiser off GG and onto the Interstate, he saw the highway patrol. There were four cars with lights on but sirens off, across the median and heading at high speed in the opposite direction.
“What about my bike?” the suspect whined from the back of the cruiser.
“I don’t think you’ll need it anymore,” Westerley said.
26
New York, the present
Quinn and Pearl had lunch in Quinn’s brownstone over on West Seventy-fifth Street, only a short walk from the office. They often did that, stopping at a deli to pick up carryout food.
In the brownstone, they could relax and talk freely, and not always about whatever the agency was working on. Sometimes the talk was about converting closets to bathrooms, about wainscoting or crown molding, or what kind of tile should be in the entry hall. Quinn could catch the news on TV if he felt like it. Pearl could kick off her shoes and stretch out on the couch for an afternoon nap. The kinds of things you couldn’t do in a restaurant.
Sometimes after lunch they would climb the narrow stairs leading up from the vestibule and visit the construction crew to see how the renovations were going.
Pearl was becoming more and more interested in the renovations. Quinn hoped that meant she was becoming increasingly interested in the brownstone, and maybe in moving in with him. He thought that in a lot of ways it made sense. He didn’t know for sure what she thought.
They didn’t stay long in the brownstone today. Even through the thick walls and floors, they could hear the tympani of hammering and the angry whine of power tools. It sounded as if this was the day the workmen had decided to tear down a wall.
Not an ideal place to hang out.
Back in the office, it didn’t take Quinn and Pearl long to fall again into the rhythm of work. Quinn was at his desk, Pearl at her computer, when Vitali and Mishkin entered. Both were in shirtsleeves and with loosened ties, Vitali short and decisive in his movements, Mishkin slightly taller and languid, looking like Mr. Milquetoast with his soup-strainer mustache.
“Finished searching the victims’ apartments?” Quinn asked.
Both men nodded. Mishkin walked over to the small refrigerator and got a bottled water. Vitali poured himself a cup of coffee and left it black.
“Show them what we found, Sal,” Mishkin said.
Vitali drew a folded slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Quinn. Pearl got up from her desk and crossed the room to peer over Quinn’s shoulder.
“We found nothing previously overlooked indicating either victim played around with S and M or had any connection to anything called Socrates’s Cavern,” Vitali said. “But we did find this.”
Quinn looked at what appeared to be a page torn from a small spiral notebook. It had the name Andy Drubb scrawled on it in dark blue ink, along with a phone number.
“It was in one of Noon’s dresser drawers,” Mishkin said, “along with some thong underwear and a peculiar brassiere.”
Pearl looked at him. “Peculiar how?”
“Not all that peculiar,” Sal said. “It was for holding up boobs without straps. Harold was unfamiliar with that model.”
“Sort of propped them up,” Mishkin said. “Cantilevered.”
Pearl rolled her eyes.
“Did you cross-directory this guy Drubb and get his address?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah,” Vitali said. “He lives down in the Village. We called the number but got no answer, and no answering machine. Drubb won’t know who called. We used a public phone in case he had caller ID.”
“Go see him,” Quinn said, “but don’t call first. See how he takes to being surprised.”
“That’s what we were on our way to do,” Sal said. “Wanted to check it with you first.”
“Maybe Drubb was in a red hot S-and-M relationship with Nora Noon,” Mishkin said. “I mean, with the thong underwear and all. And that bra thing.” He glanced at Pearl, his gaze lingering on her large breasts.
Pearl glared at him. “Are you for real, Harold?”
“Funny you should ask. What I was wondering-”
“Never mind, Harold!” Quinn and Vitali said in unison. Nobody wanted to see Pearl erupt.
“We’ve got a printout of the Socrates’s Cavern membership list,” Pearl said. “I’ll check it and see if Drubb’s on it.” She went over to her desk and pulled some stapled sheets of paper from a drawer. “It’s alphabetical, so this’ll only take a few seconds.”
“He’d probably be too young,” Sal said.
“Then maybe his father,” Pearl said
“That’s an ugly thought,” Mishkin said.
“And wouldn’t mean much if it turned out to be true,” Sal told him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Pearl said. “Drubb’s not on the list.”
“If you don’t find Andy Drubb at home,” Quinn said, “ask around the neighborhood and see what you can learn about him. It won’t hurt if he hears about it and gets nervous.” He glanced at his watch. “Stop and grab some lunch on the way downtown.”
“Wanna join us?” Vitali asked.
“We already had lunch at my place,” Quinn said.
“In the middle of the day?” Mishkin said.
“That’s when people eat lunch, Harold,” Vitali said.
Mishkin was staring at Pearl’s breasts again. Pearl was sure she wouldn’t like the reason why.
The Albert A. Aal Library looked like a miniature court building. Though it wasn’t all that wide, it had shallow concrete steps leading to half a dozen columns framing five tall wooden doors outfitted with brass kick and push plates. One of the doors had a sign warning that it was automatic, as if anyone getting too close to it might be flipped back down the steps. Fedderman chose that one. The others looked too heavy to move.