Urge To Kill. John Lutz

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      “Rich widows down there,” Quinn reminded him.

      “Widows looking for rich husbands,” Fedderman said, “not for bloodstained ex-cops. They get a sniff of my past and don’t want much to do with me.”

      “Jesus, I’m glad I called.”

      “Me, too, Quinn.”

      Quinn’s mind flashed an image of Fedderman, balding, gangly, paunchy, able to make the most expensive suit look as if it had just been stripped off a wino. Not tempting widow bait, Fedderman.

      I should talk.

      “You and Pearl still on the outs?” Fedderman asked, as if reading Quinn’s mind over the phone.

      “Yeah. Pearl’s got her own place, and she’s still working that bank guard job at Sixth National.”

      “Job for guys in their eighties,” Fedderman said. “Banks don’t get robbed anymore in ways a guard might prevent. Usually it’s done by computer. Robber might never even see the inside of the place.”

      “Technology.”

      “Who the hell understands it, Quinn?”

      “Everybody under thirty.”

      “Not us,” Fedderman said.

      Quinn took a cautious sip of his coffee. It was still almost hot enough to singe his tongue. Mr. Coffee needed some adjustment.

      “You want me to fly up there?” Fedderman asked. “I can close down the condo, put my convertible in storage.”

      “You drive a convertible?”

      “Uh-huh. Lot of guys around here do. Reliving their youth. Place down here sells new cars made in emerging nations at reasonable prices ’cause of the low labor costs. I got a red Sockoto Senior Special. Front seat swivels and kinda lifts you so you can get out easy.”

      That was disturbing to Quinn. “You’re in your fifties, Feds. You don’t need that kinda crap.”

      “Nice, though. Makes things easier. You’re still a young man, Quinn, comparatively. You got it made with early retirement, but you’ll find out how it is.”

      Early retirement, Quinn thought. A false accusation of child molestation, then a bullet in the leg. Some way to retire.

      “Not that you haven’t earned it,” Fedderman said, reading Quinn’s mind again. “You want me to fly up there?”

      “Not yet. Renz is waiting for confirmation and for the media wolves to start howling in unison. Then he’ll give us the go-ahead.”

      “Confirmation?”

      “Officially there’s no serial killer yet. Not enough definitive evidence to link the murders.”

      “From what you told me, he’s out there.”

      “Renz still has hope there won’t be another victim. Busy building his fool’s paradise. You know how he is.”

      “So we sit back and wait for the next victim?”

      “Not much else we can do,” Quinn said.

      “I guess not. And I’d like to be with Renz on this one, thinking there might not be a next victim, but I know better.”

      “We all do.”

      Quinn added some milk to his coffee and tested it. Cool enough now to be bearable. Coffee could be a trial to drink, but he liked to use the coffeemaker now and then just to fill the kitchen with the warm scent of fresh grounds.

      “Aren’t you gonna ask me what Renz is paying this time?” he asked.

      “Screw the money,” Fedderman said. “You know what I mean?”

      “Sure. It’s the game.”

      “I know Pearl feels the same way. That’s why I always figured you two’d stay together.”

      “Fire and ice,” Quinn said. “Sometimes it makes lots of smoke but not much in the way of flames.”

      “Long as there’s embers,” Fedderman said.

      Quinn wondered if, in Pearl’s heart, there were even embers.

      Fedderman was quiet for a while; then he said, “Can you feel him out there, Quinn?”

      He couldn’t help it; there was a note of hope in his voice. Fedderman knew Quinn was notorious for splicing into the thought processes of the mad and dangerous men who killed over and over. Quinn understood them from their work, from the pain they caused and the pain they left behind. He could read their handiwork the way a hunter reads a spoor, and then set off in the right direction.

      “Quinn?”

      The voice on the phone was faint, as if Florida were drifting away from the rest of the continent.

      “He’s out there,” Quinn said.

      After hanging up the phone he sat and drank some more coffee. It was making him hungry.

      8

      Pearl sat on the park bench with her cell phone in her hand, wondering if she’d done the right thing. It wasn’t the bank; she knew they’d take her back when the NYPD and Quinn cut her loose. It was Quinn himself. She was certainly over him, but did he know it? Would he act accordingly?

      Had Pearl made a mistake? Should she phone Quinn and back out of her agreement to become a cop again, just for a while?

      Questions. Too many of them. When they reached a certain critical number, Pearl usually decided to ignore them and charge blindly ahead.

      This time was no exception. She slipped her cell phone back into her purse and settled back on the bench. It was on the edge of the park, facing the street, so there was lots of pedestrian traffic.

      A compact, dark-haired woman with a kind of vibrancy even when sitting still, Pearl was drawing male stares. She ignored them.

      Right now she didn’t feel beautiful, and the hot sun beating down on her didn’t help to improve her mood. A bead of perspiration trickled erratically down her back beneath her shirt and into the waistband of her jeans. She admitted to herself that she felt like crap. Usually she felt better after making up her mind, when there was no turning back. Not this time. She hoped it wasn’t an omen.

      She felt suddenly as if she were suffocating in the heat; she breathed in some exhaust fumes, and didn’t feel much better. But the next few deep breaths moved her away from the edge of panic. Manhattan air—whatever its quality, she could live on the stuff. Millions of other people did.

      A squirrel with a gnarly tail that looked as if it might have been run over by a tire ventured close to the bench, where someone had scattered some peanut shells. It began to gnaw at one of the larger fragments of shell, then hunched СКАЧАТЬ