Urge To Kill. John Lutz
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Название: Urge To Kill
Автор: John Lutz
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Ужасы и Мистика
Серия: A Frank Quinn Novel
isbn: 9780786023042
isbn:
Irritated, Quinn braked down to about ten miles per hour and peered through the windshield to find a space where he could veer in and stop at the curb.
There didn’t seem to be a space.
Hell with it, he thought, and was about to double-park when a cab pulled out into traffic ahead of him, vacating a space. Quinn steered in close to the curb and saw that there was a fire hydrant there. That was the only reason there was a parking space in this part of town, and it was illegal. He braked to a halt anyway.
If there’s a fire, I’ll move.
The reflected flashing lights grew brighter, the headlights blinding, as the police car wedged in at an angle behind him. He let the Lincoln roll forward a few feet, giving the driver behind him as much room as possible.
Quinn knew better than to get out of the car. He sat still, his hands high on the steering wheel where they could be seen, and watched in the rearview mirror. In the whirligig haze of reflected light behind him, he saw doors open on both sides of the police car. Darkly silhouetted figures climbed out and advanced on the Lincoln, seeming to move jerkily in the alternating light show.
This shouldn’t take long. Quinn might even know one or both of the uniforms. And the cops might know him. He could easily talk his way out of a ticket. Quinn was much respected in the NYPD. He even occasionally heard the word “legend.” He prepared himself to exchange some friendly words and be on his way.
In the mirror he saw one of the silhouetted cops turn back toward the police car. Quinn figured the uniform was going to run a check on the Lincoln’s plates.
Odd, Quinn thought. They could have both waited in the car while the plates were run. It was also odd that the cop on the driver’s side had returned to the police car. It would make more sense for that cop to approach the Lincoln and talk to Quinn through the lowered window.
The one on the right side of the Lincoln, who should have been doing the license check, kept coming, then passed briefly from view at the edge of the mirror.
Quinn felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck. Something was wrong here.
Brightness slid to the side, out of the mirrors, and the radio car that had pulled Quinn over whooshed past him and continued down the street, its roof bar lights no longer flashing.
The passenger-side door of the Lincoln swung open, and the cop who’d approached on that side slid into the seat.
He wasn’t wearing a uniform. Instead he had on an unbuttoned light raincoat, though it wasn’t raining, and beneath it a suit and tie. A big man, in his late forties, overweight and with dark bags beneath his eyes. His jowls and the flesh beneath his chin sagged, making him look like nothing so much as a pensive bloodhound.
Quinn recognized him immediately, but the prickly sensation didn’t go away.
The man who’d slid out of the night and into his car was New York City Police Commissioner Harley Renz.
Renz smiled, not doing a thing for the bloodhound look, and glanced around. “Smells like hell in here.”
Quinn knew Renz was right. The cigar smoke odor had seeped into the upholstery and every cranny of the car. Even Quinn sometimes found it offensive, and he was used to it.
“You can get out as easy as you got in,” he said. He and Renz had always gotten along, but not in the friendliest manner, each knowing the other perhaps too well.
“You smoking one of those illegal Cuban cigars you like so much?”
“Venezuelan,” Quinn said.
“If you insist.” Renz settled back in his plush seat, still looking over at Quinn. “You got an extra?”
“No,” Quinn said. “You can finish this one.”
“It’ll finish you first.” Renz upped the amperage on his smile. His effort at charm. Still a bloodhound. His eyes had gotten droopier since Quinn had last seen him, slanting downward more at the outer corners as if weights were attached to the sagging flesh. He held his insincere smile as he stared at Quinn. “How’d you do?”
“Do?”
“At the poker game.”
“Won.”
“Ah. Really, all that means is you quit soon enough not to lose.”
“That why you stopped me? You riding in one of the traffic cars so you can collect graft from poker winners?”
“Seeing as I’ve become police commissioner, you should speak more respectfully to me.”
Quinn didn’t bother answering. He was wondering why Harley Renz would be interested enough in his poker night to follow him when he left the game.
“So what’s this about?” Quinn asked. “You want in?”
“I know some of those guys you’re playing cards with, Quinn. They cheat.”
“Your kind of game.”
“Even so…”
Quinn waited, tired of word games. He actually did have a sliver of respect for Renz, even though Renz represented authority and bureaucracy. Renz had at one time been a tough and effective homicide detective, and now and then it showed. And both men knew Renz was commissioner because of Quinn’s work on the Torso murders, for which Renz had skillfully garnered most of the credit. Quinn didn’t care about that. In fact, it had been part of the arrangement. The enthusiastically devious and ambitious Renz had used his newfound fame to become the most popular police commissioner in the city’s history. A media darling of monstrous proportions, his high standing in the polls translated into leverage he didn’t hesitate to use.
“I want to tell you a story,” Renz said.
“About speeding?”
Renz waved a hand dismissively. “You were going way too fast, but we can forget about that.”
Quinn pressed a button, and the window on his side of the Lincoln glided down. Sultry night air mingled with exhaust fumes tumbled into the car. He took a final pull on the cigar and tossed the glowing butt out into the street, watching it bounce and spark like a miniature fireworks display.
“Littering,” Renz said. “Illicit cigars, gambling, speeding, and now this. Jesus, Quinn! You’re a one-man crime wave.”
“It gives me something to do in retirement.” Quinn sighed and brushed cigar ash off his shirt. “It’s still hot out there.”
“Hotter than you know.”
Quinn left the window down to let in plenty of heat so maybe Renz would leave sooner and the car would air out. He leaned forward so he could reach the ignition key and killed the motor.
“This story of yours,” Quinn said. “Go ahead and tell it. And try not to be so cryptic.”