“None of them do,” Pearl said.
Neither woman said anything. Neither wanted to hear that it hadn’t mattered whether Rhonda’s cell phone would have given her cancer.
“These don’t sound like the kind of questions that solve murder cases,” Edith said.
“Oh, but they are,” Pearl told her. “Almost always it’s something that didn’t seem important at the time that turns out to be the key.”
“Rhonda had just gotten her degree in psychology and was spending most of her time waiting tables at Sporter’s, the restaurant in the next block, while she was looking for a better job. She didn’t have a lot of spare time.” Edith rubbed her palms on her temples, her fingers rigid. She looked exhausted. “I’ve sometimes wondered if that’s where she met the monster, at the restaurant.”
“It’s possible.”
“The police looked into it and found nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean there was nothing,” Pearl said.
Seeing that Edith was almost too tired to remain awake, Pearl stood up and thanked her for her time.
“Do you really think there’s a chance, after all these years?” Edith asked. Her eyes were bloodshot, swollen, and without hope.
“A chance,” Pearl said. “A slight chance.”
“I saw when you showed me your identification that you weren’t a real detective,” Edith said. “I mean, with the police.”
Pearl smiled. “I’m a real detective.”
“Private,” Edith said. “Who hired you? Who’s paying for this?”
“Twin sister of one of the Carver victims,” Pearl said.
Edith flinched slightly, as if assailed by a bright and sudden light. “Twins…my God, how she must have suffered.” She stared directly at Pearl. “She’s still suffering, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Pearl reached into a pocket, drew out one of her cards, and handed it to Edith. “If you do think of something…”
Edith accepted the card and studied it. “Quinn and Associates. Is that Captain Frank Quinn?”
“It is,” Pearl said. “You know him?”
“By reputation. I’m glad he’s one of the people looking for Rhonda’s killer.”
Pearl was reminded, as she often was, of Quinn’s high standing with the public because of his success in apprehending serial killers. He was halfway famous.
What next? Pearl thought. A book contract?
“I’ll call you,” Edith said.
Her voice brought Pearl back from her thoughts.
“If I think of something,” Edith reminded her.
“Yes,” Pearl said. “Please. Anything, however trivial. It might make all the difference.”
“Reopening the investigation can’t be cheap,” Edith said. “The surviving twin, is she rich?”
“Not usually,” Pearl said, “but she recently came into some money.”
“She must feel she has to do this.”
“She feels that way right now,” Pearl said.
“She won’t change her mind,” Edith said.
6
“Her check will clear,” Quinn said. “I called her bank to make sure there were sufficient funds.”
They were in the office, wondering why they couldn’t get in touch with Chrissie Keller at either of the phone numbers she’d given them. A message machine answered at one number, but the messages didn’t seem to get through. The other number was to a cell phone and elicited nothing but a high-pitched squeal.
“What about the check for the Sammy’s job?” Pearl asked.
“It’s good, too. I made sure.”
“We’re rich,” Fedderman said.
“Solvent,” Quinn said.
“So why can’t we get in touch with Chrissie?” Pearl asked.
“Maybe she’s one of those clients who figures she’ll be the one to decide when we report,” Fedderman said.
“Control freak,” Pearl said.
“I hate those,” Quinn said.
Pot, kettle, Pearl thought, and congratulated herself for staying quiet.
“If she doesn’t contact us in a day or two, we can start to wonder,” Quinn said. “Until then, we stay on the case. More interviews with victims’ friends and family.” He glanced from Pearl to Fedderman. “You two have any luck?”
“Not so’s you’d notice,” Pearl said.
Even as she spoke, she realized there was something about the case that she hadn’t yet noticed. It played like a bashful shadow just beyond the borders of her consciousness.
Pearl and Fedderman handed Quinn copies of their interview notes for the files, then in matter-of-fact tones told him about their reinterviewing of people close to the Carver victims. Other than the usual contradictions that could be put down to the passage of time and erosion of memory, there didn’t seem to be many discernable differences between these interviews and those done years ago. Nothing that might be construed as a lead.
Quinn considered lighting a cigar but didn’t. Pearl would raise hell. She hated it when he or anyone else smoked in the office.
He thought about Chrissie Keller, the way she’d come into the office. Something about her. He was getting a bad feeling about what they’d gotten into, where it might be heading. A deep sensation in his stomach that was seldom off the mark.
“Some of the friends and family didn’t like being taken back to that time,” Fedderman said. “You could see it in their faces, and it made your heart sad.”
“That’s what these assholes start,” Quinn said. “It goes on for years. Sometimes for generations.”
“There’s still a lot of breakage there,” Pearl said. “A lot of hatred.” But that was what she’d expected to find. She knew Quinn was right: Untimely, violent death resonated for decades.
“Let’s check these statements in detail with the earlier ones,” Quinn said. “Then we can do some more reinterviewing.”
“Revive some more pain,” Fedderman said sadly.
“Blame the aforementioned asshole,” Quinn said.
It was when Pearl was integrating the new statements into the files that she realized what had been nagging at the edges of her mind. She reached for her folder containing the copies of the newspaper clippings that had been left by Chrissie Keller.
She leafed through the clippings and stopped at those concerning Chrissie’s twin, Tiffany.
Pearl was right in what had occurred to her. She felt the flush of satisfaction that was what she loved most about this work.
“There are photos of all the victims until we get to victim number five, the Carver’s last victim,” she said. “Tiffany Keller. Lots of clippings, but none with a photograph.”
Quinn and Fedderman checked their