by John Lutz
Time to wait, and at that she had become an expert.
They sat in a window booth in the Lotus Diner, by chance Quinn’s favorite booth, where he often had breakfast and read the papers over coffee. Daylight was battling dusk, and the sidewalks were still crowded. The steady stream of pedestrians hurrying past were mostly unaware of Quinn and Linda Chavesky, though they were at times less than a foot away on the other side of thick plate glass.
Quinn and Linda were ill at ease with each other at first, but by their second cup of coffee were somewhat more open. Quinn liked Linda, and he sensed that she liked him. Dressed in slacks and a loose-fitting yellow blouse, with her hair calculatingly mussed and a gold chain necklace, she seemed much more attractive than she had at the earlier crime scene. The light they were sitting in didn’t do her any favors, and she didn’t need any. Judging by the crows-feet just beginning to show at the corners of her intelligent blue eyes, Quinn guessed her to be in her early forties. That was the principal thing about her, he thought, her obvious intelligence. And a subtle sadness born of hard experience. Quinn recognized that expression; he’d seen it often in the mirror. She had some kind of makeup on this evening that mostly disguised the redness of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.
“Rosacea,” she said, smiling at him. She’d noticed him staring.
“Pardon?”
“It’s a hereditary affliction that causes a kind of redness in a ring pattern on the face. At times it makes me look something like a raccoon.”
“I wasn’t thinking raccoon,” Quinn assured her, taking a sip of coffee.
“Also makes me look like a drunk, since alcoholics sometimes have the same look from ruptured capillaries.”
“Obviously, you’re not a drunk.”
“Well, I am, but a dry drunk. I intend to stay that way.”
“I had my own go-round with the bottle a few years ago,” Quinn said. “When I had the problem in the department and my wife left me.”
“When things finally worked out at least somewhat for you, did you have trouble quitting?”
“Not really. I don’t think it ever became a problem in itself. And I still have a drink now and then.”
“There’s the difference between you and friends of Bill, like me.”
They both knew “friends of Bill” was code for Alcoholics Anonymous.
Linda rotated her coffee cup on the wet saucer ring with both hands and fixed her blue eyes on Quinn. “You have a daughter, right?” The way she looked at him and spoke, her words and eyes boring into him, made it seem as if they were alone in the diner.
“Uh-huh. Lauri. A great kid. Woman. She’s living out in L.A. with her true love, a guy named Wormy who fronts a band.”
“I married young and divorced, never had kids. Too late now, and the alcohol messed me up when I could have gotten pregnant. Thank God I didn’t. An alcohol addiction doesn’t leave room for much else, including love or sex. My hell years.”
“Over now,” Quinn said. “For you and for me. Where’s your ex?”
“Back in St. Louis, selling mortgage insurance, last I heard. We don’t keep in touch. Not much sense in it.” Linda stared down into her cup, then up again at Quinn. “I damned near lost my medical license in St. Louis. Then I quit practicing and fought the booze for a few years, and came to New York for a new start. That was five years ago.”
“That’s when you started in the NYPD,” Quinn said. “In Latent Prints. Wasting your talents and qualifications. Couple of years and you became an assistant M.E. And a good one. I researched you.” Best to start off with honesty.
“Sure you did. You’re a cop. So am I, in a way. I ran a check on you, too. It’s too easy on the computer. I really didn’t have to do much bouncing around on NYPD databases to learn about you. You’re something of a legend in the department, Quinn. That’s why I was so nervous at first when I sat down here.”
“You didn’t seem nervous.”
“I still am, a little bit.”
He smiled at her. “We’ll have dinner.” He’d almost said, “with wine,” but caught himself. “A good meal will relax both of us. I’m still a little nervous, too. I remember seeing you at a few other crime scenes. You attract the eye.”
She blushed at the compliment. The rosacea made itself evident, as if she’d been wearing a mask and it had left faint marks. Quinn found it somehow attractive, this disorder.
“Your ex-wife, May, is in California, too,” she said. “Anywhere near your daughter?”
“Close enough. I’m sure they see each other, but not often. May doesn’t like Wormy. Who does?” He felt a little stab of guilt. “Well, tell you the truth, I’ve become sorta fond of him.”
“What about you and May?”
“We get along with each other. She’s remarried to an attorney out there. Elliott. Not a bad guy. She and I talk, but only about Lauri. Our marriage ended because May couldn’t be a cop’s wife.”
“Familiar story.”
“Yeah. I don’t hold it against her. I wouldn’t hold it against anyone. Don’t worry about May.”
“Should I worry about Pearl?”
“That’s over,” Quinn said, thinking, We’re only meeting for coffee, then some dinner. But he knew there was much more going on here than that. They both knew it.
“Pearl know it’s over?” Linda asked.
“It’s her idea. I accept it.”
“You sound as if you’re trying to talk yourself into accepting it.”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But it’s over.”
“You sure?”
“I think so.”
Linda sighed and sat back in the booth. She glanced at the people streaming past out on the sidewalk, so near yet separated by a wall of glass. “So many people in this world. And cops seem able to make it long term only with other cops, or people in the same business.”
“I’m not so sure I believe that,” Quinn said.
Linda looked back at him with all her somber intelligence. “Sure you do. That’s why you’re here. That’s why we’re both here.”
“We don’t know each other all that well,” Quinn said, “but already I hate it when you’re right.”
Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler sat behind his desk and waited patiently for Greeve to enter his office. He knew “The Ghost” wouldn’t have wanted to see him so early in the morning unless he had something interesting to report.
There was a perfunctory knock on the door, and Greeve entered. As he did so, Nobbler absently lowered the file folder he’d just finished reading, placing it out of sight in a partly opened desk drawer.
Greeve looked this morning as he always did, slender and faintly mournful. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and a neatly knotted black and red tie, mostly black. His dark hair was combed straight back, making it obvious that it was receding and thinning. His long face was pale and closely shaven; no dark whiskers to offset his pallor.
“This about the Torso Murders?” Nobbler asked, wanting to get straight to the point.
Greeve gave a somber nod. “I followed Quinn and his team from Renz’s office yesterday,” he said. He didn’t sit down but stood with his hands in his pants pockets, his feet close together. His long body was at a slight forward lean, his narrow shoulders hunched. The man knew how to loom. “Quinn and company hauled ass out of there. There’s no way to know what they were discussing, but I know why the meeting broke up.”
“The latest Torso victim,” Nobbler said. He’d learned about the most recent victim late yesterday afternoon, and it was all over the papers and TV news this morning.
“Yeah. They went to the crime scene, and I figure they’ll be back there today canvassing the neighborhood. Probably just Pearl and Fedderman, though.”
“You’d be better off staying with Quinn, then.”
“That’s the way I figure it,” Greeve said. “The word I get is that ballistics tests already made the gun as the same one that killed the other victims. Little t
wenty-two-caliber pest pistol. One to the heart that probably didn’t kill the victim right away. Same kind of sexual mutilation.” Greeve shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, then settled in again so it was evenly distributed, almost like a macabre dance step. “None of this is confirmed yet.”
Nobbler nodded. There was no need to tell Greeve he was way ahead of him on the postmortem information.
“Actually,” Greeve said, “I stayed on Quinn last night after he parted company with Pearl and Fedderman. He met the M.E. who examined the victim at the scene of the crime, Dr. Linda Chavesky.”
Nobbler sat forward over his desk, interested. “You mean they met someplace other than the crime scene?”
“They had coffee at a diner over on Amsterdam. Then they took a long walk and went to dinner at an Italian restaurant on Broadway. Had antipasto and rigatoni carbonera. Then he put her in a cab. No good-night kiss.” Greeve smiled. “Coulda been the garlic.”
This fascinated Nobbler. “You saying it was more than a professional meeting?”
“I’m sure it was. Looked like they were more interested in each other than whatever else they were talking about. I was hoping he’d jump her bones. I’m kinda disappointed. But then, I guess Quinn is, too.”
Nobbler drummed his fingertips on the desktop and thought for a few minutes, trying to process this and figure out how he could use it.
Greeve seemed comfortable with the silence.
“Dr. Chavesky…” Nobbler said at last. “I think I know which one she is over there.”
“Nice-looking woman,” Greeve said.
“We need to find out more about her.”
“Definitely. I’ve heard rumors she’s got a past. Has to do with the bottle. Not here in New York, though.”
“That we know of,” Nobbler said.
Greeve smiled. “So far.”
Nobbler shook his head, causing his fleshy jowls to quiver. “Quinn oughta know better.”
“You’d think,” Greeve said. “For now, I’ll spend some time trying to find out more about the postmortem. See if there’s anything pertinent there that’s being kept secret, since these two have gotten so close.”
“No. Just stay on Quinn.”
Greeve nodded. “Your call.”
“I can catch up on the postmortem,” Nobbler said. “I’ve got a confidential contact in the medical examiner’s office. Guy named Nift.”
Greeve smiled mournfully. “Confidential contact. That the same thing as a snitch?”
“It’s a difference without a distinction,” Nobbler said.
Greeve nodded. “You see a lot of that these days.”
16
He sat on a stool in Has Beans coffee bar and watched her approach on the other side of the glass door.
She was attractive enough that almost every male reacted in some way when she came through the door. Very well built under that blue sweat suit, he thought. Medium-length blond hair cut in some kind of layered way so it would always look slightly mussed, just the right amount of makeup. Her jaw was strong—what used to be called mean—but her full lips took away its severity. There was a slight angularity to her blue eyes that made them interesting. She looked a little like that sexy movie star Charlotte Rampling, only younger. Just the right age.
He slid off his stool at the bar, moved toward her with a smile, and gestured with his arm toward one of the vacant tables near the back of the place, where it was less crowded. Not coming on too strong, but already taking charge. Friendly and firm. They liked that, or they wouldn’t have sent in the questionnaire in the first place.
She smiled back, nodded, and their paths converged at the table. He saw that she had a small galaxy of light brown freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Charming. He made a mental note to memorize their pattern.
Jill liked it that he sort of took charge of the meeting but waited until she’d sat down before he sat. And he had a wonderful smile that dissipated much of her nervousness. He certainly was handsome enough, and he was tastefully dressed in tan pants and a darker brown sport jacket. His cream-colored shirt beneath the jacket was open at the collar, revealing a few dark chest hairs. The hair on his head was parted and neatly combed and there was no beard stubble on his face, so he wasn’t going for the macho need-a-shave look.
Jill decided there was nothing here not to like. So far so good.
When he’d sat down opposite her, he said, “Tony Lake,” and extended his hand.
She laid her hand in his and felt a gentle pressure. Just right. “Jill Clark.”
“As advertised,” he said, with the smile again.
“You too,” she said, not knowing how else to respond. She raised her chin and a look of pleasure moved over her features. “It smells terrific in here,” she said. “I love the aroma of roasting coffee.”
“Me too. And there’s a touch of cinnamon in the air. Makes it smell all the better.”
“I agree.” My, don’t we already have a lot in common?
He nodded toward the oversized gray mug he’d brought with him to the table. “I’m having a Honduras,” he said. “It’s a caramel latte. They’ve named their coffee drinks after Central and South American countries.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve been here a few times before.” Then she quickly added, “By myself, though.”
“Could be the countries are where the beans come from,” he said.
That had never occurred to her. “You think?”
“Truthfully, I have no idea.” He seemed amused by the detour their conversation had taken. First-date talk. “So which piece of geography do you want to order?”
“I like their El Salvador.”
He went to the bar and returned a few minutes later with a large mug topped with creamy froth.
“I’ll have to try one of these sometime,” he said, placing the mug before her on the table and sitting back down. He took a sip of his Honduras and studied her over the mug’s thick rim. “So tell me about yourself, Jill.”
“I guess you read my online profile.”
“Sure. Like you read mine. They go only so deep. People tend not to confide in computers. Being online isn’t like sitting across from someone and talking face-to-face.”
“You’re right. We should do some confiding.” She sampled her El Salvador, found it too hot, and set the mug back on its coaster. Foam might be sticking to her upper lip. She dabbed it gently with the back of her knuckle and felt no dampness. “I hope you won’t find me too dull.”
“Not hardly. You already cleared that hurdle by just walking in the place. A lot of Central America came to a boil.”
She laughed. “Well, let’s see. I haven’t been in town all that long. Like a lot of other people, I came to New York for a fresh start. There are more possibilities here.”
“Opportunities.”
“I haven’t run into too many of them yet.”
“Maybe this is one.”
She put on her best smile. “Maybe it is. I’ve been working for Files and More. That’s a temp place. And for the past week I’ve been a temp at Tucker, Simpson, and King, a law firm on the East Side that specializes in traffic violations and domestic disturbances.”
“AWD. Arguing while driving.”
She laughed. “Fixing traffic tickets, actually. As for the domestic cases, from what I’ve seen they go further than arguing.”
“Yeah, I suppose they do.” He appeared genuinely concerned. “It’s a problem.”
She tried the El Salvador again. Better. “All I’m doing there is filing, which gets old fast. And you know how temps get treated—especially at the smaller companies, like this one. When they know you’ll be leaving at the end of the week, no one bothers to get to know you.”
“Jill, I can’t imagine someone not wanting to know you better. Especially people of the male persuasion.”
“Uh-huh. They want to know me in the biblical sense, and skip the Old Testament.”
He t
hrew back his head and laughed. She approved of his sense of humor, and he seemed to approve of hers. She’d been afraid he was going to be a dry stick. Who could tell from an online profile that might be 90 percent lies? She glanced around at the place she’d chosen to meet him. Strangers around them who were supposed to provide some sort of comfort and assurance.
Am I really doing this? What do I actually know about this man?
“So what do you do?” she asked.
“For a living? I sell advertising space in international publications. There’s some traveling involved, but I don’t mind. Kind of enjoy it, in fact.”
“Sounds interesting.”
“About like Files and More.”
“Oh, I think not.”
“You a religious person?” he asked.
Where’d that come from?
She answered carefully. “Not particularly. There should be plenty of time to get around to that.”
“So you want to have fun first.”
Ah, there’s where he was going.
“I didn’t exactly mean it that way,” she said. She didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. A toss between the sheets she could have in this town any time; she was, after all, a woman who could bring Central America to a boil. She wanted to be clear she was looking for something more here. And wanted him to be looking for more than casual sex.
“I hope you didn’t take what I said the wrong way,” he told her. “I mean, you know, about having fun…” He looked terribly concerned that he might have offended her.
She smiled and patted the back of his hand. “Not to worry, Tony. I’m neither a bimbo nor a nun, nor a combination of the two.”
“Let’s hope they’re mutually exclusive,” he said.
“Let’s hope. Hope is a good thing.”
And she did hope.
Jill and Tony talked for more than two hours except for a few minutes when Tony left the table to talk on his cell phone.
Jill decided that their coffee bar date had gone marvelously. He’d been about to kiss her on the forehead when they’d parted outside of Has Beans, but then he’d changed his mind, despite her unspoken wishes. Obviously, he didn’t want to push too soon and too hard.
