Both detectives agreed to the hour, then stood up. Quinn got up to show them out.
As they passed the bedroom, Pearl couldn’t help herself and glanced in at the bed. It was made, but not very neatly. A book lay on the table by the reading lamp on what she still thought of as Quinn’s side, but she couldn’t make out the title. Nothing seemed to have changed since she’d moved out two years ago. Quinn caught her looking and she glared at him.
She knew he was still in love with her, and it was a damned inconvenience. They’d tried to live together and found it impossible. Pearl didn’t want to repeat the experience. It was obvious what the trouble was. Quinn was self-controlled, deliberate, and quietly obsessive. Pearl was impulsive, combative, and volatile. They clashed. Another difference was that Pearl knew when to give up on their relationship and Quinn didn’t. He didn’t know when to give up on anything.
At the street door, Fedderman said, “I’ve still got my rental. I’ll drive you home, Pearl.”
“Okay. Better than a subway.”
“Better company, too,” Fedderman said.
“If you don’t count dress, manners, and intelligence.”
Quinn was glad to hear them bickering. That was how it worked when they were a team, questioning and challenging each other, wearing away what wasn’t solid or didn’t fit, until only the truth remained.
Even if they might not like the truth.
Compared to most of the other New York papers, large and small, City Beat didn’t have much of a circulation. But Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler always picked up a copy, because he knew of the relationship between Commissioner Renz and Cindy Sellers. More than once Sellers had been Renz’s conduit to the larger media.
Nobbler, a large, portly man with squinty blue eyes and a complexion that made him always appear to have been out in the sun too long, was thinking about City Beat now. His bedroom was still dark, but he couldn’t sleep, and the red numerals on the clock by his bed glowed the time to him: 5:02 A.M. Too early to get up, and too late to bother going back to sleep. And his bladder was swollen, though not to the point of urgency. Why get up, switch on the light, relieve himself in the bathroom, and then go back to bed?
He couldn’t think of a good reason.
Ten minutes passed. Now getting up or not wasn’t the question. He had to take a leak.
With City Beat still on the periphery of his thoughts, he struggled to a sitting position on the squeaking bed, turned on the lamp, and plodded into the bathroom.
Might as well stay up now. He put on his wrinkled uniform pants from yesterday, knowing a freshly pressed uniform just back from the dry cleaners hung in the closet. He’d change into the clean uniform later, after he’d showered and shaved. He slipped bare feet into his shoes and left on the gray T-shirt he’d slept in. He went back into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and used wet fingers to slick back red hair that hadn’t a trace of gray in it.
Awake all the way now, he went into the kitchen and set up his Mr. Coffee to brew. Then he took a look out the window to make sure it wasn’t raining and left the apartment to walk to the end of the block and get a Times and City Beat from their respective vending machines.
By the time he got back it was starting to get light out and traffic was just beginning to pick up. The apartment smelled of freshly brewed coffee, and he felt hungry and wished he’d found someplace open and bought some doughnuts. Not that he needed the calories.
He poured a cup of coffee, added a dash of cream from the refrigerator, and sat down at the kitchen table.
Nobbler glanced at the Times first. There was rioting in France, Congress was calling for an investigation into something Nobbler didn’t understand, and beneath the paper’s fold there was great consternation over the Yankees’s seven-game losing streak.
The usual, Nobbler thought. All the money the Yankees had, you’d think they could buy some pitchers who didn’t have arms ready to fall off. He put the Times aside, took a sip of coffee, and looked at City Beat.
Holy Christ!
Nobbler forgot all about his appetite, the Yankees, and his coffee as he read.
He’d known about the first female torso being found, and the second dead woman. He hadn’t known that, like the first victim, only the torso of the second victim was at the morgue. And he hadn’t yet seen the results of the ballistics tests. Commissioner Renz had certainly thrown a blanket of secrecy over the second woman, so it wouldn’t be obvious right away that a serial killer was at work. And the thing with the pointed stake or whatever it was—Nobbler hadn’t known about that, only that the first woman had been sexually penetrated. He had to admit he admired the way Renz had been able to maintain even partial secrecy over matters like this. Renz wasn’t shy about working the levers of power.
Well, neither was Nobbler. And Renz had done something that really pissed him off. Frank Quinn was back on the scene, and on the Torso Murders case, along with his two detectives Kasner and Fedderman. Nobbler wasn’t crazy about the three of them, and in his mind they were no longer NYPD. Especially Quinn, who shouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the department. They gave him a ton of money and cut him loose, so what the hell else did he want? Nobbler didn’t so much resent Quinn because he was bent, more because he was bent in the wrong direction. He turned his thoughts to Kasner and Fedderman, but only briefly. Couple of losers.
What power did Renz have, to call these three retreads in as his private detective squad to solve a case that would benefit him politically?
But Nobbler knew what power—that of position and popularity. No one in or out of city government wanted to cross Renz, and strictly speaking, it wasn’t illegal for the NYPD to hire outside contractors or temporarily reactivate former cops. Especially if they were acting under the auspices of the commissioner.
Right now Renz was on a roll and wanted to stay that way. Ambitious bastard. Not that Nobbler could hold that against him.
Disgusted, he tossed the paper on top of the Times and sat back and sipped at his coffee, which was now almost too cool to drink. The information in the City Beat article was probably all over TV and radio news, and late-edition papers would pick it up. Nobbler knew how it would go, now that the media had a hand to play, and he knew how he’d deal with them if he were in charge.
But he wasn’t in charge. He didn’t like having what he considered his turf trespassed upon. And that was exactly what was happening. He was sure as hell going to do something about it.
For a long time he sat sipping cool coffee and thought about just what it was that he could or would do. There were possibilities, always possibilities. And future opportunities to be seized.
Whatever it took, he’d figure out something so that Renz and company would find themselves in a quagmire.
No, not a quagmire. Quicksand.
“It seems to have hit the fan,” Fedderman said, as he claimed the chair he’d sat in last night in Quinn’s den. The room was brighter today, with yellow sunlight spilling in between the opened drapes. There were a lot of dust motes swirling softly in the sunlight. Just looking at them made Pearl feel as if she had to sneeze. She figured Quinn didn’t clean very often.
Pearl sat in the armchair again but didn’t draw up and cross her legs this time. Her sensible black shoes were planted firmly on the floor, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. She was dressed in dark slacks, a white blouse, and a gray blazer with black buttons. She looked like a cop.
Like Fedderman, she was carrying this morning’s edition of City Beat. “It’ll be all over the TV news, too,” she said. “Some of those talking heads read things other than their prompters.” She twisted her newspaper into a roll and wielded it as if she wanted to hit someone.
She was right. Quinn had checked New York One TV before going out and walking to the Lotus Diner