John Lutz - Mister X

And what are you that, missing you

I should be kept awake

As many nights as there are days

With weeping for your sake?

E DNA S T . V INCENT M ILLAY , The Philosopher

Quinn had found a box of paper clips in his bottom desk drawer and was just straightening up when the dead woman entered his office.

Shed startled him, the way shed come in without making any noise.

She wasnt what youd call beautiful, but she was attractive, with slim hips and legs inside new-looking stiff jeans, small breasts beneath a white sleeveless blouse. Her shoulder-length hair was brown, her eyes a deeper brown and slightly bulbous. She had symmetrical features with oversized lips, a slight overbite. A yellow file folder stuffed with what looked like newspaper clippings was tucked beneath her left arm. Her right hand held a brown leather shoulder bag, the strap scrunched up to act as a handle. Shed said on the phone her name was Tiffany Keller. If she were still alive, Quinn thought, shed be pushing thirty.

There was a kind of grim resolve to her expression, as if shed just been affronted and was about to fire back.

The generous mouth suddenly arced into a toothy smile, and the dogged expression disappeared entirely, as if a face like hers couldnt hold such a visage for long. Quinn was left with the impression that hed momentarily glimpsed someone else entirely.

Captain Frank Quinn, I presume.

Just Quinn, he said. Like the lettering on the door, Quinn and Associates Investigations.

I was aware you were no longer with the NYPD, she said.

Want to sit down? he asked, motioning with a paper clip toward one of the walnut chairs angled in front of his desk.

Ill stand, thanks. Her smile widened. Im Tiffany Keller.

He continued staring at the woman while his right hand groped for the empty glass ashtray he used to contain paper-clips. You said when you phoned earlier to make this appointment that you were Tiffany Keller. Would you be the same Tiffany Keller who was a victim of a serial killer?

That would be me.

Unable to look away from her, he turned the tiny box upside down and dropped the paper clips into the ashtray, hearing the faint clickety sound that told him hed hit his glass target. Excuse me, but arent you dead?

Not exactly.

Wondering where this was all going, Quinn tossed the empty paper-clip box into the wastebasket inside the desks kneehole. It landed on recently shredded paper and didnt make a sound. What is it you want, Tiffany?

I want you to find the Carver.

The Carver was a serial killer whod taken five victims, the last one five years ago, and then suddenly ceased killing. In the way of most serial killers, hed slain only women. His victims nipples had been sliced off and a large X carved on their torsos just beneath their breasts. Then their throats had been cut.

At the time, Quinn had been laid up after being shot in the leg during a liquor store hold-up, and hadnt been involved in the Carver investigation. Hed followed it in the papers and on TV news with a temporary invalids distracted interest. It had been one of his few alternatives to staring at the ceiling. If he remembered correctly, Tiffany Keller had been the Carvers last victim.

He leaned back in his desk chair and studied his visitor more closely.

She didnt wilt under his scrutiny.

Actually Im Tiffanys twin sister, she said.

Then why the act? he asked.

She smiled even wider. Lots of even white molars. Quinn would bet shed never had a cavity. The large white smile gave her a kind of flashy cheerleader look. It would dazzle you even in the cheap seats.

I thought one of the Carvers victims herself appealing to you to take this case might be more convincing, she said. She spoke with a hint of accent, her intonations flat and slightly drawn out. She wasnt from the Northeast. Probably someplace Midwestern. Corn country. Im Chrissie. Ahm. Chrissie Keller. My twin sister and I were named after two of our moms favorite eighties recording stars, Chrissie Hynde and Tiffany.

Tiffany who?

She didnt use a last name. Some artists dont.

Some artists Ive met dont, either, Quinn said.

Like pickpockets and confidence men and such?

Uh-huh. And impersonators.

I didnt have to impersonate Tiffany, she said. I just wanted you to think that maybe, for only a second or two, you were face-to-face with her. A victim asking that her killer be brought to justice.