by John Lutz
Quinn held the phone in the glow from a streetlight and pecked out Pearl’s cell phone number.
Fedderman thought he had a chance to get to Jill Clark’s apartment in time. He had the unmarked and was using the flashing lights behind the grill. Vehicles in New York seldom got out of the way as they should have when their drivers saw flashing lights, maybe because they had no place to go. Fedderman would give them a short, deafening blast of siren, and they’d find a way to let him pass. He was doing okay.
Near Fifth Avenue, brake lights suddenly flared on the delivery van he’d been tailgating.
Both vehicles had been building speed and were doing around thirty. As Fedderman stood on the brake pedal and yanked hard on the steering wheel, the unmarked’s right front fender clipped the van. The steering wheel came alive and spun in Fedderman’s hands.
He managed to gain control and avoid hitting a man walking a dog. While his attention was diverted, the car’s right front tire caught on a curbstone sticking a few inches into the street. A hubcap went spinning out in front and crossed the street in a graceful glittering arc, causing a lot of rubber screeching and horn blaring. Then both the unmarked’s right-side tires shredded their sidewalls along the edge of the curb.
“Shit!” Fedderman said just before the car jolted over a storm drain and his head bounced hard off the side window.
The car shuddered and bucked before coming to a stop near a NO PARKING HERE TO CORNER sign.
Fedderman sat dazed for a while.
When he came around he saw concerned and curious faces peering in at him through the car windows, saw beyond them people running toward where he sat in the crippled vehicle.
He thought he’d better call Quinn, then abandon the unmarked and commandeer a cab.
It was after business hours. The midtown building where E-Bliss.org had its offices was almost completely unoccupied. The windows facing the street were dark.
All but one, where a faint light filtered through closed drapes.
The inside of the building was quiet. Peaceful. The nighttime janitor service wouldn’t show up for hours. The corridors were silent and empty, their waxed floors flat and gleaming dully like perfectly still waters.
There was no one around to hear the sharp, single shot.
It might as well have been a domino falling.
73
Victor had figured out a way to follow Palmer Stone’s instructions, and make Jill Clark’s death look like an accident. Gloria, the expert on accidental death, would be proud.
He parked the Chrysler a block down from Jill Clark’s building and walked back. He was wearing khaki pants and a blue pullover shirt, well-worn jogging shoes. On his head was a Mets cap, not cocked at an angle like a younger man might wear it, but square on his head like someone trying to be unrecognizable on security tape would. People passing on the sidewalk didn’t give him a second glance. If asked later to pick him out of a lineup, they’d have a problem. He didn’t want to make a memorable impression tonight except on Jill Clark, and she’d remember him for the rest of her life.
In his right hand was a navy blue duffel bag with a Nike swoosh and a web handle. Mr. Average, possibly returning home from a workout at the gym. The bag contained two rolls of duct tape, pruning shears, dental floss, and a package of single-edged razor blades. Protruding from its almost zipped opening was the blunt end of a wooden broomstick, redolent of the way tennis racket handles jutted out of club bags. The other end of the yard-long length of broomstick, inside the bag, was carved and sanded to a point. Not too sharp a point; Victor had learned not to create immediate extensive internal bleeding, so his subject’s agony would be prolonged.
As he strolled, he smiled. Jill would cooperate rather than die right away. Everyone scratched every way they could for those last precious seconds of life, for something as opposed to nothing.
Nothing was forever.
Jill would write her good-bye note within the first ten minutes, and then the real fun would begin. Victor had to concentrate on Gloria and her tragic state in order not to have an erection and attract attention.
After he was finished with Jill, Victor would pour cleaning solvent over her, which he knew was stored beneath her sink. Then he’d extinguish the pilot light on her old gas stove and turn on all the burners.
Before leaving, he’d set Jill, and then the draperies, on fire.
Within minutes of his exiting the building, the blaze should be steady and strong. The gas would continue to seep until it, too, was ignited. By the time the fire department arrived, the apartment would be an inferno.
He’d take the broomstick with him. With a fire, you never could tell what might not burn completely—and where the broomstick would be, it might not burn at all.
Victor didn’t have a full erection, but he was tumescent as he entered Jill’s building. He hoped that if anyone did happen to see him, they wouldn’t notice.
Gloria!…
Pearl’s cell phone in her purse played the first four notes of the old theme from Dragnet. Although it was muted, she still heard it and removed the phone, saw that it was Quinn calling.
“Everything okay there, Pearl?” he asked.
“Just another night in paradise,” Pearl said. “I’m in the bedroom trying not to be a pest.”
“And Jill?” There was an unexpected concern in Quinn’s voice.
“She’s in the living room watching TV. Some sitcom rerun about a bunch of neurotic misfits living in an apartment in New York.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’ve seen the episode four times and don’t want to see it again.”
“Victor Lamping is on his way over there,” Quinn said.
“He’s probably coming as Tony Lake. Nothing new there. He’ll be tickled to see me.”
“He was seen buying a wood-handled broom earlier today,” Quinn said.
“Oh…. Who’s on him?”
“Weaver was. She lost him. Listen, Pearl. Feds and I might not be able to get there in time to help you.”
“Weaver lost him?”
“Don’t be catty, Pearl.”
“Could be he’s just coming over to try again to bed Jill. Poor bastard’s balls have probably turned blue from trying and failing.”
“A broom, Pearl. He’s not going to be Tony Lake tonight.”
“Maybe he just needed a broom. To sweep.”
“Pearl…”
“I can handle things here, Quinn. You know I can.” Not like that screwup Weaver.
“I can get some radio cars over there within minutes.”
“And spook Victor after we’ve gone to all this trouble to lure him into our trap?”
Her reaction didn’t surprise him. “There’s that possibility.”
“Probability, even if they arrive without lights or sirens.” Pearl unconsciously passed her hand over her Glock 9mm in its belt holster. “I’ll control things here and wait for you and Feds.”
“You’re taking a chance, Pearl. Sticking your neck way out.”
“So are you, Quinn. It’s the only way we can stop these assholes.”
“I don’t want—”
“Don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna do the slightest harm to Jill Clark.”
“I was thinking about you, Pearl.”
But you’re letting me face one of the creepiest killers ever by myself.
“Don’t worry about me, Quinn. I’ll do my job. If you have to worry, make it about your friend Dr. Linda.”
“Damn it, Pearl—”
She broke the connection.
Why did I say that? Why did I have to say it?
She heard the rasp of the intercom from the other side of the door, in the living room.
Heard Jill answer it and invite someone up.
Jill went to the mirror near the door and made sure her blouse was tucked tightly in her jeans, then fluffed her hair. It was an effort making herself look good for Tony Lake now that she knew what he might be capable of doin
g to her. What he might have done to those other women.
But even now, sometimes, he could be so charming it was—
There was a scuffing sound in the hall. She pressed her lips tightly together and rolled them to make sure her gloss was on evenly, then turned away from the mirror.
Two knocks on the door, firm and loud.
She gathered herself, then went to the door and opened it. Smiled big and broad.
“Tony!”
Quinn was three blocks from Jill’s apartment, seething in the back of the cab. A block ahead, something was going on involving a tall van and some flashing yellow lights. Maybe a tow truck trying to handle more than it could manage. Whatever it was, it had traffic stalled to intermittent gains of ten or fifteen feet before brake lights flared again and the cab would come to a complete halt.
The driver’s gunfighter eyes met Quinn’s in the cocked rearview mirror. He swiveled in his seat to face Quinn and mouthed that he was sorry, there was nothing he could do to make better time.
Quinn squirmed and nodded. He understood, and he didn’t see that things were going to change anytime soon.
He reached in his wallet and counted out what was on the meter, along with a generous tip, then tapped a knuckle on the clear divider and shoved the wad of bills on the steel swivel tray.
Then he was out of the cab and striding along the sidewalk in the direction of Jill’s apartment. If the leg he’d been shot in months ago still ailed him, he didn’t feel it. He resisted the urge to break into a run, knowing it would only exhaust him and might ultimately slow him down.
As he walked, brushing people aside, ignoring their hostile glares and remarks, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and pecked out Pearl’s number.
What the hell was going on in Jill’s apartment?
74
As Pearl moved toward the bedroom door, she heard her cell phone faintly playing Dragnet in her purse on the bed but ignored it. She knew it couldn’t be heard from the living room.
She inched the door open. She could see across the living room to the small foyer and the hall door.
Tony, all right.
Jill was facing him, with her head raised as if expecting a kiss, playing her role.
As Tony pecked her cheek, he drew a small semiautomatic handgun from behind his back. It had a sound suppressor attached, dull gray and about six inches long with baffles. He began bending his elbow awkwardly so he could point the gun at Jill.
He’s going to shoot her low in the side, to wound, and then…
Pearl didn’t hesitate. She had her Glock out within seconds and snapped off a shot she knew would be wide of Tony but would certainly miss Jill. It wouldn’t take him down, but it might startle him into forgetting for a few seconds about Jill.
Tony reacted fast. He shoved Jill away and swung the gun toward the sound of Pearl’s shot, instantly saw her advancing down the hall toward him.
Pearl had a clear shot at him now. As she steadied her gun she saw a dulled muzzle flash and heard the silenced pistol spit at her. Tony’s shot missed. So did her return shot. She knew he had a twenty-two. It was his weapon of choice, and even silenced it had sounded like a small-caliber gun. Pearl figured it would probably take several shots to stop her. Her powerful 9mm Glock could put Tony down with one shot.
If it hit home.
Pearl kept advancing down the hall, the Glock bucking and crashing in her hand. Tony wasn’t retreating. Grade A for guts. Kill the bastard! She expected any moment to feel the sting of a bullet.
One of Tony’s wild shots glanced off a framed print hanging in the hall just as Pearl came alongside it. Less than a foot from her face, the frame swung and dropped to the floor as the glass exploded into thin fragments. Pearl felt the right side of her face catch fire. She suddenly couldn’t see from her right eye, realized it was closed, tried to open it but couldn’t because of the pain.
Shit!
It only made her enraged. No time or room now for fear.
Through her watery left eye she took shaky aim and squeezed off another shot, knowing it would hit nothing but wall.
She saw a blurred figure dart to the side, turn, and disappear out the door to the hall.
Pearl staggered all the way into the living room and became aware that she wasn’t headed toward the door. She was dizzy and had lost her bearings. She aimed her left eye at a huddled figure pressed back in a corner.
Jill.
Pearl started toward her and was suddenly nauseated. She looked down at her right arm and saw blood splatters on it.
There was something else wrong. Pain was taking her over, making it difficult to breathe. Am I going into shock?
No, damn it!
She took two steps backward and fell slumping into the sofa.
The figure huddled in the corner wasn’t there anymore. Then she saw it. Jill was crawling across the room toward her.
“Jewel?”
Jill’s voice sounded as if it had come from the next room. Only it hadn’t. Jill, standing up now, was only a few feet in front of Pearl.
“Jewel? Jewel? My God! You okay?”
“My cell,” Pearl said. “Go get my cell phone. In my purse in the bedroom.”
“Jewel?”
“My cell, goddamnit!”
On foot, Quinn dashed against the traffic signal through speeding, blaring traffic. He didn’t slow down once he set foot on the opposite curb.
He’d reached Jill’s block and was almost to her building, running flat out now, heart pumping so fast and hard it hurt.
Maybe he’d make it.
Maybe he’d get there in time.
A horn blared close to him, startling him. A cab veered to the curb about twenty feet in front of him. A voice:
“Quinn! Quinn!”
Quinn stopped and saw Fedderman shouting out the lowered side window in the back of the cab.
“Quinn!”
The cab’s rear door swung open wide, looking as if it might spring off its hinges. Fedderman was leaning out waving at him.
“Get in, Quinn! Get in!”
Quinn knew they could make better time than he was making on foot as long as traffic didn’t bog down again. He ran toward the cab, stumbling and almost falling as he stepped off the curb. His ankle felt sprained, but not enough to slow him down.
Getting too old for this…
No, not yet!
Victor understood it now—Jewel was a cop. They’d been waiting for him to come after Jill.
And the bitch had shot him!
He knew it wasn’t serious, but a bullet had grazed the side of his neck, fortunately missing that carotid artery. Still, blood was flowing down inside his collar, and he could feel the warm wetness down his back.
He couldn’t be sure if he’d hit Jewel; he’d been was firing small-caliber rounds at a distance. Almost surely she was coming after him.
No time to wait for the elevator. He threw himself down the steps, managing to stay on his feet by gripping the banister and shoving off the walls at the landings. He thought he could hear Jewel’s footsteps on the stairs above and made himself move faster. She might have a clear shot at him any second. And she’d probably called for backup. He had to get out of the building, reach the streets before more police came.
He was in the lobby, almost slipping and falling on the slick tiles. Still holding the silenced handgun, he thought about turning around and firing a snap shot up the stairwell to at least slow down Jewel if she was pursuing him.
No time even for that.
He bolted toward the heavy door to the street, hit it hard with his shoulder, and spun as he lurched outside.
The cab pulled to the curb. Fedderman shoved a wad of bills at the driver as Quinn, on the right side in back, opened the door and started to climb out.
“Hell is that?” he heard Fedderman say.
Stooped over and with one foot still in the cab, one on the curb, Quinn looked up and saw a man burst from the doorway of Jill’s
apartment building. He must have hit the door hard on the inside because he was spinning as he broke outside. Quinn saw something in his right hand. Identified it immediately.
“That’s Victor!” Fedderman shouted.
Quinn very calmly but loudly shouted, “Gun!” He gripped the butt of his old police positive special and pulled the revolver smoothly from its leather shoulder holster.
The cab’s window behind him starred as a bullet smacked into it. Victor was standing with his feet spread wide facing Quinn. He was holding his weapon with both hands aiming carefully. Quinn noticed it hadn’t made any noise and saw the bulky silencer on the barrel.
No time even to seek shelter!
Quinn lowered himself to a kneeling position to present a smaller target and fired a shot at Victor. Another shot barked nearby. He glanced back across the interior of the cab and saw Fedderman’s ample stomach paunch and wrinkled tie mashed against the outside of the opposite side window. Fedderman was standing and firing across the cab’s roof.
Another shot, and a bullet snapped past over Quinn’s head.
Outgoing.
Victor had decided to make his stand. He made no attempt to escape. A bullet zinged off the cab’s hood. The cabbie had had enough. Quinn heard the engine roar and felt rather than saw the cab pull away fast from the curb.
Exposed now, Fedderman moved up so he was standing directly behind Quinn. Both men fired over and over at Victor. Quinn’s ears rang from the din and he could smell cordite, see brass casings from Fedderman’s 9mm bouncing around like loose coins on the sidewalk.
Victor seemed almost to melt as he fell.
He lay motionless with one leg twisted beneath him.
Quinn and Fedderman separated and approached the still body from different angles. Fedderman, his white shirt cuff flapping above his gun hand, reached it first and kicked the silenced .22 away from where it lay next to Victor’s dead hand.
He stooped low and touched the base of Victor’s neck lightly, feeling for a pulse, and then looked up at Quinn. “Gone.”
“Let’s get upstairs,” Quinn said, breathing hard. “See how Pearl is.”
