Urge To Kill. John Lutz

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      The diner on First was on a corner across from a D’Agostino market. Quinn saw a parking space almost in front of it, cut across uptown traffic, and pulled to the curb, causing a delivery van driver who’d been about to park there to give him the finger. Quinn ignored the gesture. The man blew him a kiss. Still Quinn didn’t react. The guy in the van drove farther down the street in search of parking. Fedderman thought the guy didn’t know how lucky he was.

      Inside, the diner was surprisingly spacious. Lots of maroon vinyl booths and maroon vinyl padded chairs. A counter and cash register were on the immediate right, tables and booths to the left. Toward the back there was a step up and even more maroon. The breakfast crowd was gone, and among the dozen or so customers, the guy at a back booth by a window was the only one who looked like a cop, even though he was in plain clothes.

      Quinn and Fedderman walked back there. Quinn noticed that though the restaurant was cool enough, it was slightly warmer in back.

      The man who was surely Holstetter stood up. He was wearing a gray suit with the coat unbuttoned and was tall and skinny, with pointed features and oversized pointy ears that stuck way out like open doors. All in all, he looked like an overgrown leprechaun.

      When he grinned amiably with little sharp teeth he looked even more like a leprechaun, but a sad and resigned one who hadn’t been let in on the secret of where the pot of gold was.

      “Holstetter,” he said, like an admission of guilt.

      Quinn nodded and shook hands. “I’m Quinn. This is Larry Fedderman.”

      Fedderman and Holstetter shook hands, then everybody sat down. A waiter in white was there from out of nowhere, and Quinn and Fedderman ordered coffee. That was all Holstetter had in front of him on the table. Cops drinking coffee at 11 A.M. It was probably happening all over the world.

      “You guys wanna order some doughnuts?” Holstetter asked. “They’re good here.”

      “No, thanks,” Quinn said. “I don’t want to be a stereotype.”

      Holstetter flashed an oversized tired-pixie smile. “I thought since we got the coffee, we might as well go all the way.”

      Quinn figured Holstetter was treading water, stalling before getting to the Q-and-A part of the conversation. Quinn thought they were wasting time.

      “Tell us about Galin,” he said.

      Holstetter used both hands to revolve his cup slowly on its saucer, then he sat back in the maroon upholstery. “Me and Galin were friends. Know that right off.”

      Quinn nodded. “Two guys work together a while, it happens.”

      “I wouldn’t be saying this at all, only Joe’s dead, so what’s it matter? He’s got no family except his wife, and he wasn’t crazy about her. Talked all the time about leaving her.”

      Quinn thought June Galin might be surprised to hear that.

      “And what I’m about to tell you, it might not be true anyway,” Holstetter said.

      Nobody spoke for almost a minute.

      “Go or no go?” Quinn asked.

      “I think Galin might have been on the take,” Holstetter said.

      Quinn saw the hardness that came over his features. Cops didn’t talk like this about their former partners unless they were dead certain it was true.

      “I wouldn’t say that, only it might help nail whoever did Galin.”

      “Might,” Quinn agreed.

      “The thing is, I’ve got no real proof of it. But Galin and I talked a lot with each other, confided some things. He never quite said he was taking protection money, but he came close. And once he was carrying a hell of a roll of cash. Flashing it like he kinda wanted me to ask where he got it, if you know what I mean.”

      Quinn nodded. “Did you?”

      “Ask? No. I didn’t want to know.”

      “But you knew.”

      “I guess so.”

      Still unwilling to be definite about his former partner. A good cop.

      “This was when you were working narcotics?” Fedderman asked.

      “Yeah. It woulda been so simple to go on the take. Drug money. Nasty stuff, floating all over the street in those days. Both of us had our offers, but we always turned them down. At least I thought we both did. It wasn’t easy.”

      “They know how to make it hard,” Fedderman said. “Then when you take that first shitty dollar they own you.”

      “Maybe they owned Galin. That’s all I’m saying, is maybe.”

      “But you think the odds are pretty good,” Quinn said.

      “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

      “Got anybody in mind who might have had Galin in his pocket?”

      “Maybe. A dealer name of Vernon Lake. I couldn’t tell you why I think that. Just the way they talked or looked at each other sometimes, like they shared a secret. Hey, this was all a long time ago. I don’t even know if Lake’s still around. These СКАЧАТЬ