Mister X Part 25

"Before he finds Chrissie?"

It was a possibility Quinn so far hadn't given much weight, but maybe he should. The killer-Maureen Sanders's killer-might be searching for Chrissie as they were.

And vice versa.

Either way it was an explosive situation.

"Chrissie did strike me as a young woman who could look after herself," he said.

Erin, still teared up, nodded.

Quinn went to the file cabinets. He withdrew the file of newspaper clippings Chrissie had given them and laid it on the desk where Erin could reach it.

"She brought us these," he said.

He remained standing, and opened the file so the two of them could examine the contents.

"You've probably seen some of these before," he said.

"Most of them," Erin said.

She examined the file's contents, idly turned the last clipping in the folder, and there was a sketch of Chrissie.

"That's one of dozens of copies," Quinn said. "We had that done by a police sketch artist. We're using it to help search for her."

"Her?" Erin Keller said, looking confused.

"Chrissie. For some reason she-"

"This woman?" Erin asked, placing a finger with a painted pink nail on the sketch.

Confused, Quinn nodded. "We think it's a reasonably good likeness."

"Maybe it is, but it isn't Chrissie. This woman looks nothing like Chrissie. Or Tiffany."

"She told us she and Tiffany were fraternal twins. They wouldn't necessarily look anything alike."

"My daughters are-were-identical twins."

"They were...alike?"

"Identical means identical. Especially when it came to Tiffany and Chrissie."

Quinn moved around the desk and sat back down heavily. He leaned backward in his chair and for some reason wished he could light up a cigar. But it wasn't the kind of thing to do now, in front of Erin Keller.

Who the h.e.l.l is our client?

"Whoever this woman is," Erin Keller said firmly, "she isn't Chrissie."

PART III.

And all my mother came into mine eyesAnd gave me up to tears.-SHAKESPEARE, Henry V Henry V

40.

Pearl took a few steps inside the door and stopped to look around.

The offices of City Beat City Beat looked like the set of one of those 1930s movies wherein all the characters talked like machine guns. The small newspaper occupied the third floor of what appeared to be a mostly deserted redbrick office building in Lower Manhattan. There was an arrangement of battered green steel desks littered with papers. Journalists were seated at most of them, working away or swinging this way and that in their wooden swivel chairs to talk to-or yell at-colleagues. Above the turmoil, ceiling fans slowly rotated. looked like the set of one of those 1930s movies wherein all the characters talked like machine guns. The small newspaper occupied the third floor of what appeared to be a mostly deserted redbrick office building in Lower Manhattan. There was an arrangement of battered green steel desks littered with papers. Journalists were seated at most of them, working away or swinging this way and that in their wooden swivel chairs to talk to-or yell at-colleagues. Above the turmoil, ceiling fans slowly rotated.

The entire hectic scene was palely lighted by fluorescent fixtures dangling on chains. n.o.body was chewing on a cigar. No one had a pencil stuck behind his or her ear. And there were computers on the desks instead of bulky black typewriters. Other than that, Pearl felt as if she'd wandered into a production of The Front Page. The Front Page.

Cindy Sellers, medium height with short brown hair, wearing a beige skirt and a white blouse with a man's red tie, made her way between the desks and emerged from the sea of activity and chatter and shook hands with Pearl.

"We're getting close to press time," she said, by way of explaining all the frenzy.

"I appreciate you taking the time to see me," Pearl said, as Sellers led her toward a small cubicle part.i.tioned off with metal-framed frosted gla.s.s.

Sellers glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. "The pleasure's mine. You might be the story."

Pearl also smiled. Stop the presses! Pearl says... Stop the presses! Pearl says...

But she knew she wasn't at the New York Times. New York Times.

"My office," Sellers said when they were in the comparative privacy of the cramped cubicle. She plopped down behind her green steel desk and motioned for Pearl to take the only other place to sit, a hard wooden chair that looked as if it might have been manufactured by some religious sect that considered sitting a sin.

Pearl sat.

Sellers gave her a grin. "This is where I look at you and say 'shoot.' But I guess that's a dangerous thing to say to a cop."

"Some cops," Pearl said.

"Fire away, Detective."

"I'm wondering if you're you're the story," Pearl said. the story," Pearl said.

"How so?"

"The shadow woman."

Sellers acted surprised, then emitted what might be described as a guffaw.

Yes, Pearl thought, a guffaw a guffaw.

"You're way off track," Sellers said, "but I can see how you got there. And I'm not going to tell you where I get my information."

"I can imagine," Pearl said. "We have loose lips all over the place."

"I'm having such a good time, not to mention a good payday, writing about the mysterious shadow woman that you think I manufactured her. I don't do that kind of thing, Pearl, I'm a journalist. A professional." Sellers waved a hand as if trying to flick something sticky off her fingertips. "All that mishmash in the outer office might look like confusion and something lightweight, but we all take it seriously. Call us naive and altruistic, but we have ethics."

"Such bulls.h.i.+t," Pearl said.

Sellers grinned. "Okay, I was lying. Half lying, anyway. What we're most interested in is a story, and if I'd thought of inventing or becoming a mysterious shadow woman, I might have. But I didn't." She made a big show of crossing her nonexistent heart with the tip of her forefinger. "Honest."

"You didn't stick a needle in your eye," Pearl said.

"If I had a needle..." Sellers rolled her chair back a little so she had room to cross her legs and swivel slightly this way and that. "What made you think if you came here and asked me I might tell you the truth?"

"I believe in the direct approach."

"Me, too. How you getting along with your new profiler?"

"Addie seems okay."

"Just okay?"

"Now you're trying to manufacture a story."

"What I told you about my profession, it wasn't all bulls.h.i.+t, Pearl. I think you know that. You and I are in kind of the same business-we dig, and we know how to dig. We find out things."

Pearl decided to take the bait. "What have you found out about Addie Price?"

"Probably nothing you don't know. She was attacked in Detroit and would have been killed, but her a.s.sailant broke off the attempt and fled."

Pearl sat silently.

"Our girl made the most of things, turned her brush with death into opportunity. She earned degrees in criminology and psychology and made contacts in the local media. Became a minor celebrity, blabbing about her theories on radio and TV whenever a serious crime was committed. Beyond that, I don't know much else about her."

"You've got it pretty much covered," Pearl said.

"Anything you want to contribute?"

"Nothing that I could. What is it about Addie that interests you?"

"I'm not sure. Just a feeling that something about her isn't right. Do you have the same feeling?"

"No," Pearl lied.

"I deal in favors made and repaid," Sellers said. "That's why I took time out of my busy day to talk with you. Why I just told you what I know about Adelaide Price. And I think I put your mind at rest about your theory of me being the shadow woman. All I want in return is for you to tell me whatever else you find out about Addie Price."

"Whatever's connected to the investigation and newsworthy, you mean?"

Sellers shrugged. "Oh, sure. I'm not interested in her personal life."

Both women laughed.

Then Sellers said, surprising Pearl, "You and Quinn aren't completely over."

"Maybe not as far as he's concerned," Pearl said. "But yes, we're over."

Sellers winked. "Because of Yancy Taggart?"

Pearl felt the rush of blood to her face and knew Sellers would enjoy having made her blush. "How do you know about Yancy?"

"I told you, it's my business to find out things. Yancy's getting it on with one of the investigating officers, so he might become part of the story."

"I don't agree."

"Well, Yancy's got a way of becoming a big part of whatever he gets involved in. You'd be surprised at his connections, with his lobbying for those crackpots who want windmills on skysc.r.a.pers."

"They aren't crackpots, and it's not windmills. They're wind turbines, and it makes more sense than it seems to when you first hear it."

Sellers grinned silently at her.

"Well, maybe not," Pearl said.

"What I know about Yancy is he's d.a.m.ned convincing. He can make those wind turbines seem like good sense, at least long enough to pry money from wealthy donors. If he was still a tobacco industry lobbyist, everybody'd still be smoking."

Pearl deadpanned it and said nothing. For all she knew, Sellers was trying to confirm things she didn't know for sure. Or maybe she had some other motive.

"Guys like Yancy can be exciting," Sellers went on. "Full of charm and schmaltz. Oh, sometimes they have other sides you wouldn't expect, redeeming facets to their personalities. But then so does everyone else. h.e.l.l, you wouldn't believe it, but sometimes I have a kind heart."

Pearl gave her a level look. "Are you trying to get me deeper in your debt by warning me about Yancy?"

"Warning? No, that'd be too strong a word. I would say, though, a man like that, who's been around and plays around, you need to be careful." Sellers stood up, indicating that they'd talked long enough and she had to get back to newspaper biz. "But you're a cop. You've been around, yourself, and you understand people. You sure don't have to be warned. But it wouldn't hurt if somebody who sometimes knows more than you do was kind of looking out for you."

Pearl knew the game. Sellers was offering to feed her information about Yancy in return for whatever information Pearl might give her about the investigation. Or about Addie Price. After all, both women dealt in information.

For the first time since entering the modest, stifling cubicle, Pearl wondered if this conversation was being recorded. Sellers was the type who probably recorded everything. And used it whatever the consequences. Well, the h.e.l.l with it Well, the h.e.l.l with it, Pearl thought. She was sure she hadn't said anything incriminating or even out of line, and she didn't intend to.

Pearl stood up. "Thanks, but I can pretty much look after myself."

"I would agree with that," Sellers said. "And I hope we've cleared up that shadow woman thing."

"Sure," Pearl said.

Sellers walked her out through the maze of green desks, swivel chairs, and maelstrom of activity, staying slightly ahead of her in the manner of a guide escorting someone through a dangerous jungle.

Lies, lies, lies, Pearl thought, all the way back down to the street and the jungle outside.