Frenzy by John Lutz Read Free Book Online

forties.”
    â€œOkay, we get it,” Quinn said.
    â€œNo distinguishing marks,” Weaver said.
    â€œDon’t push it,” Pearl said.
    Weaver smiled. “Might have moved with a slight limp.”
    Quinn’s body gave a start. The plane crash in Maine! “Which leg?”
    â€œNothing on that,” Weaver said.
    â€œDid the uniforms find out if Lettie Soho is the woman witness’s real name?” Harold asked. “Sounds like a nom de plume . ”
    â€œRight you are,” Weaver said. “Her real name’s Marjory Schacht. She uses a pen name and writes chick lit.”
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” Quinn asked.
    â€œHard to explain,” Pearl said. “Think of it as women’s light fiction.”
    â€œNo sign of drugs or alcohol in any of the victims,” Weaver continued.
    â€œNow, that’s odd,” Fedderman said.
    â€œCould be they just didn’t have time to get a buzz on before the bastard killed them,” Sal said.
    â€œSmall amounts of marijuana in the purses of Kramer and Geyer,” Weaver said.
    â€œGeyer again,” Quinn said. “I wonder if the killer used her to get into the suite. Did Margory Schacht see who let the man in?”
    â€œShe isn’t sure, but she thinks it was Andria Bell.”
    â€œStill,” Quinn said. “He might have learned about their presence from Geyer. Seen Geyer as the wild one in the flock and struck up a conversation with her.”
    â€œAt the museum, maybe,” Pearl said. “She was an artist, and he might have pretended to be one. He could have gotten her chatting about art.”
    Weaver folded her papers and slid them back in the brown accordion file. Finished with her presentation, she moved from the center of the room and stood near Pearl’s desk.
    â€œWe need to get back to the hotel,” Quinn said. “Talk to whoever was staying near the victims. Talk again with Marjory Schacht—Lettie Soho.”
    Harold said, “Christy Mathewson.”
    The name of one of the victims.
    Everyone looked at Harold, waiting for more. Harold was used to being looked at that way.
    â€œHe was a great ball player. Old time pitcher. Way back when they used little gloves.”
    â€œIs the victim’s name spelled with an ie or a y ?” Pearl asked Weaver.
    Weaver reopened her brown file folder, shuffled some papers, and looked. “Uniform spelled it with a y .” The male spelling.
    â€œLike the baseball player,” Harold said. It got him another look.
    â€œDo you know how the ballplayer spelled his name?” Sal asked.
    â€œNo,” Harold admitted.
    â€œSo you think the victim was a male impersonating a female?” Fedderman asked.
    â€œNaw,” Sal said. “The uniformed cop probably just spelled it his way.”
    â€œIf Christy was actually a male,” Quinn said, “Nift would have noticed.”
    â€œThat’s for damned sure,” Pearl said.
    Quinn’s cell phone buzzed and vibrated. He worked it out of his pocket and saw that the caller was Renz. He walked over near the coffee brewer for something like privacy before answering.
    Renz filled him in on what the NYPD knew. Pretty much what Weaver had covered minutes ago. Then: “Nift said all the victims were tortured with the knife, some worse than others. But especially Andria Bell. Also, she died last.”
    â€œHe wanted something from her,” Quinn said.
    â€œLooks that way. Like he was trying to get some information from her. I wonder if he did.”
    â€œMy guess,” Renz said, “after looking at the body, is that she told him whatever he wanted to hear. Then he made sure it was the truth.”
    â€œThe girls . . .”
    â€œThe asshole saw them as a bonus. Might not have even known they were all staying in the same suite, until he was inside and they’d all seen him.”
    â€œYeah,” Quinn said, “we have to