by John Lutz
Murray felt for a pulse and found only still flesh.
65
Quinn entered Renz’s office and paused briefly, nothing showing on Quinn’s face. He hadn’t known Nobbler was in there, but he’d heard loud voices. He wondered why Renz had called him in with Nobbler present. Maybe he wanted a witness, just in case. Or a referee.
Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler’s face was crimson as he paced Renz’s overheated, humid office. Renz was obviously trying to show some compassion for him; after all, Nobbler’s best friend and coconspirator, Ed Greeve, had been knifed to death last night. Quinn wondered how much compassion Renz actually felt. He’d been plenty pissed off on the phone when he’d called and told Quinn how Greeve had gotten himself killed. Pissed off at Nobbler.
Nobbler stopped and whirled to face Renz, who was seated behind his desk and looking calm in a way that portended a storm.
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” Nobbler said, “working in goddamned secret and setting up an undercover cop to tail Madeline Scott.”
Renz, maybe thinking staying seated would help him remain calm, didn’t move. His voice was tight. “Greeve wouldn’t even have known about Madeline Scott if he hadn’t been following Weaver.”
“So what? Greeve’s—Greeve was a cop. He was supposed to follow people.”
“Not other cops.”
“He was following that Scott bitch when he was killed. I know because he phoned me on his cell from outside Billy G’s just before he started the tail.”
“Following both women, you mean.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t matter?” Renz rested both palms flat on the desk, as if it might float away on Nobbler’s sea of senselessness if he didn’t hold it down. “Like hell it doesn’t matter. You’re interfering in my case. If I’ve got a cop following my cop following a suspect, I oughta goddamned know about it. What was Greeve doing tailing Weaver, anyway?”
“He thought it might advance the investigation.”
“My investigation. And Weaver had lost Scott when Greeve was killed. Greeve was following Weaver, so he probably lost Scott when she did. There’s no reason to suspect Scott killed him.”
“Who else but Scott?” Nobbler asked. “You knew Greeve. Do you honestly think he was killed by some other, real prostitute he was about to bonk?”
“He had his pants down around his ankles,” Renz pointed out. “And according to Officer Murray, Greeve’s last word was whore.”
“That’s all the friggin’ media in this town cares about. It’s all over the papers and TV—how a police detective was killed by a prostitute. One of the headlines is even COP CAUGHT WITH PANTS DOWN.”
“They’re usually not so precise.”
Nobbler turned a deeper shade of red. “Don’t give me that kinda shit. You know Greeve wasn’t killed by some ordinary whore who caught him—”
“With his pants down. You can’t blame the media. They’re saying it because that’s where the evidence points.”
“Do you believe it?” Nobbler asked, actually vibrating while trying to maintain self-control.
“Frankly, no.”
“But we wouldn’t believe it if it had actually happened that way,” Quinn said.
Both men stared at him, as if noticing him in the room for the first time.
“Fact is,” Quinn said, “we don’t know it didn’t happen that way.”
Nobbler glared at him as if he wanted to rip out his throat.
“He’s right, Wes,” Renz said. He puffed up his saggy cheeks and blew out a long breath. “Nobody likes it, but he’s right.”
“Everybody’s human,” Quinn said. “Greeve was vulnerable just like the rest of us. He might have gotten mixed up with a prostitute, and then things got out of control. It could’ve happened even with Greeve, with the right woman, whether she was a saint or a whore.”
“That’s right,” Renz said. “Remember Bernie—”
“Yeah, yeah!”
Nobbler jammed his fists deep into his pants pockets and strode to stare out the window. Some of his anger seemed to have leached out of him. “Why are you so interested in Madeline Scott?” he asked, not turning around.
“She has the same name as a homeless woman who was killed by a subway train,” Quinn said.
If Nobbler was already aware of that, he gave no indication. “So what?”
“Coincidence?” Quinn asked.
“Maybe. They do happen, or the word wouldn’t be in the dictionary.”
“It’s not in my dictionary,” Quinn said.
“You think Greeve being knifed while he was following Scott might have something to do with the Torso Murders?” Nobbler asked.
“We don’t know. We can’t even be sure Greeve was still tailing Scott when he was knifed.”
“Coulter’s been killed down in Louisiana,” Nobbler said. “The Torso Murder case is gonna be shut down. Neither of us solved it,” he added almost absently.
“I thought only one of us was trying,” Renz said.
Nobbler ignored him, continuing to gaze outside at the summer glare. “The Torso Murderer was already on the run, taking both of us pretty much out of the game. Maybe nobody in law enforcement is gonna get credit for his death. Hell, Coulter mighta been shot so somebody could rob him. Or maybe it was a hunting accident.”
“Likely was,” Quinn said.
Nobbler turned around. “So Coulter being shot is the kind of coincidence you believe in.”
Quinn smiled.
“We’re trying to solve crimes here,” Nobbler said. “We shouldn’t set up separate squads and not share information.”
“Information like autopsy reports?” Quinn asked.
A big vein in Nobbler’s forehead began throbbing as if it were a fire hose about to burst and start spewing all over the place. He started to reply, then bit down hard on his lower lip and stalked from the office, slamming the door behind him.
“He took that well,” Renz said.
“He’s got no right to be pissed at us,” Quinn said.
“You think it mighta been the new Madeline who knifed Greeve?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t sit right.”
“So many things about this case don’t,” Renz said. “It’s not gonna be long before the media wolves get on to us. It’s hard for me to believe. We set up a killer already on the run as a suspect to divert them, just picked the guy out of a hat, and damned if he isn’t shot to death down in Louisiana.”
“His photo was all over the country.”
“Still…”
“Could actually have been a coincidence.”
“Jesus, Quinn.”
“Maybe we oughta test it by setting up another wanted killer who’s somewhere out there on the wind. We mighta stumbled onto something here.”
Renz covered his face with his hands for a moment, then removed them and looked up at Quinn.
“I’m thinking about Ed Greeve,” he said solemnly.
“He wasn’t a bad guy,” Quinn said. “And he was a hell of a cop. He deserved better. When’s the funeral?”
“I didn’t mean that,” Renz said. “I was wondering why anyone would stick him.”
“The logical answer is he cheated a whore and she took offense.”
“Screw logic. It’s caused a lotta trouble in my life.”
“Mine, too,” Quinn said with genuine sadness. “It’s what we live by and love, and it’s frightening where it can take us.”
“Like real love,” Renz said.
66
“I talked to a neighbor in the same building,” Victor said. “She told me she saw Madeline Scott go out alone right after dark dressed like a hooker.”
They were in Palmer Stone’s cool, ordered office at E-Bliss.org. Victor’s shirt was wrinkled and he needed a shave. Possibly he was growing a beard. Stone had never liked beards around a place of business.
“What time did she come home?” Stone asked, from behind his desk.
“She didn’
t. Not all night. I gave up watching for her about six this morning.”
“That’s bad,” Stone said. “Maybe she’s on the run.”
“Why would that be?”
“A cop was stabbed to death in the Village last night.”
“I don’t see the connection,” Victor said. “My guess is she really was hooking and spent the night with a client.”
“She doesn’t need the money,” Stone said.
“Maybe she needs the sex,” Victor said. “Some people like it too much.”
Stone stood up from his chair and ran his hands through his meticulously styled gray hair, considering a nymphomaniacal Maria—Madeline Scott. His hair miraculously fell back into place. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Drugs and sex. Maybe even something else.”
“I don’t even want to think about the something else,” Stone said.
“What with the cops thinking the Torso Murders are stopped, maybe we should take Maria Sanchez out,” Victor said.
Stone knew he didn’t mean out on a date. “Delete her?”
“If you’d rather put it that way.”
Stone would rather. He didn’t like altering the nomenclature of their business. “Let me think on it.”
“She’s a loose cannon, Palmer.”
“I don’t want to take any unnecessary chances.”
“Madeline Scott will have a fatal accident. Who the hell cares about her enough to even notice? Hardly anyone in New York even knows who she is. And you know she’s dangerous. She’s getting more and more unstable, and she runs off at the mouth. I mean, with Maria, the transformation was never completed. She’s not like our other special clients. She never really became Madeline Scott.”
Stone thought Victor was making a pretty good case against Maria Sanchez–Madeline Scott. And with the police assuming the late and unlucky Tom Coulter was responsible for the Torso Murders, there wouldn’t seem to be any connection between them and her death. Not as long as Sanchez-Scott’s death was thought to be accidental.
Stone wished Gloria was out of the hospital and well. She was the expert on accidental death. Victor…Well, the changes in Victor lately had to be taken into consideration. His increasingly sloppy appearance. His apparent streak of sadism. Emotion shouldn’t be mixed with business. And of course there was the stress of Gloria’s serious injury. More emotion. Would Stone be sending a loose cannon to delete a loose cannon?
“Let me think on it,” Stone said again.
Victor shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
Lately Stone had been wondering about that.
Two days later, Victor was back in Palmer Stone’s office. He was more neatly dressed this time, in a medium blue suit made from some kind of light material that gave it a graceful drape. And he no longer needed a shave. The scraggly beginnings of his beard were history. Stone liked him much better this way.
“Remember our conversation about Maria Sanchez?” Victor asked.
“Let’s refer to her as Madeline Scott,” Stone said.
“Okay. Whichever she is, I’ve been watching her.”
Stone wasn’t really surprised. “Why?”
“You said you were thinking about deleting her. I thought it would be a good idea to make some preliminary plans.”
“And now you want to know my decision,” Stone said.
“No, I don’t think we should go near her.”
“Really?” Stone had been leaning in exactly the opposite direction. Victor had convinced him. He just hadn’t been sure Victor was the man for the job.
“I found out the police are watching her. And around the clock.”
“Question is,” Stone asked, “were the police watching you while you were watching Madeline Scott?”
“Not a chance. I’m sure about that, Palmer. I’m a pro.”
“So are the police. Especially Quinn.”
“We’re okay on this,” Victor said. “When the cops lose interest in her, then maybe we should delete her.”
“Maybe,” Stone agreed.
“I know,” Victor said, with a smile. “You’ll think about it.”
But what Palmer Stone was actually thinking about was the police surveillance of Madeline Scott. How long had she been under observation? Why would they be watching her?
What did it mean?
67
“Som’un’s out there,” Cathy Lee said sleepily.
It was a warm, muggy Louisiana morning, and the drone of swamp insects was almost louder than the sound of the car rolling over muddy ruts to park outside the ramshackle house.
Cathy Lee looked over at Joe Ray, who was snoring lightly, lying on his stomach with his face half buried in his pillow. Juan was in the other bedroom, quiet for a change. Usually he snored loud enough to rattle the leaves on the trees, which was why Cathy Lee had her and Joe Ray’s door shut.
Cathy Lee crawled out of bed, crossed the bare plank floor, and peeked out the window.
Her heart gave a jump.
A sheriff’s department car was parked out there in the shade of the big willow tree. She knew there was enough incriminating evidence in the meth lab to get all three of them locked up for years. She glanced behind her. Maybe she could slip out the back, run out on Joe Ray and Juan. She was sure they wouldn’t hesitate to run out on her. The truck was parked out in back of the house, and she could get in and drive away.
But the big engine turning over would make a lot of noise. Somebody would surely hear it. And the sheriff’s car might give chase.
She watched the car door open and a tall, broad-shouldered sheriff’s deputy got out and looked around. It was hot, and he’d left his Smokey hat in the car. A young guy with a buzz cut, real good-looking. Kathy decided maybe she could handle him, go out and see what he wanted (not that she didn’t know), and divert him from looking in the outbuilding.
Careful not to wake Joe Ray, she put on her white terry-cloth robe, making sure it was open enough to reveal cleavage. Then she did what she could with her hair and sidled out onto the porch without slamming the door.
The deputy looked at her and smiled. It made him look ten years younger. Maybe this would be easy.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Sheriff’s Deputy O. E. Simmons.”
“Mornin’ to you, Sheriff’s Deputy O. E. Simmons. I’m Cathy Lee Aiken, an’ I’m at your service.” She almost smiled and saluted, but figured that might be too much.
He didn’t respond as she thought he would. His smile stayed stuck on but dimmed, and she realized he simply had one of those faces, was one of those people who smiled through everything because that was the way their features were set. And on second glance, he didn’t look so young. Not if you paid attention to his eyes.
“Anybody else in the house?” he asked.
She was looking at the big 9mm handgun perched on his hip. The eyes and the gun. Best not to lie to this man. “Two fellas. Joe Ray an’ Juan.”
“That’s three.”
“No, sir. Joe Ray is one fella.”
“Uh-hum.” He moved in closer to her. There were crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes, as if he’d squinted into the sun too much.
He didn’t react as she took the three sagging wood steps down off the porch to meet him, letting the robe part to reveal a lot of leg. His eyes told her he wasn’t interested in her in the way she wanted. Out of the shade of the porch roof, she was the one squinting into the sun, at him. Are you gay, Deputy O. E. Simmons?
“You come here to see one of ’em?” she asked.
“If one or both of ’em might own the truck we found out in the swamp.”
Cathy Lee breathed easier. When they’d gotten the F-150 retitled and painted a dark blue (her favorite color), Joe Ray and Juan had ditched the rusty old Dodge off the road in the swamp about a mile from the house. That shoulda been the end of it. Something given up to the swamp you could put out of your mind as gone for good. She guessed there hadn’t been enough time for the saw grass
to grow up where the truck had mashed it down, and somebody’d spotted the old hulk and reported it to the state police.
“We got a problem?” a voice asked.
Joe Ray had awakened and stumbled sleepy eyed out onto the porch. He was shirtless and barefoot but had pulled on his old jeans. There was a rip in one leg, revealing a dirty knee.
“It’s about the old Dodge truck we left in the swamp,” Cathy Lee said. She looked at the deputy. “Have we broken some kinda law?”
Simmons looked puzzled, still with the smile that wasn’t a smile. “This wasn’t a Dodge. It was a near-brand-new Ford.”
Joe Ray had started down the porch stairs and almost fell. He looked panicky for a moment. Cathy Lee realized she was standing with her mouth hanging open.
“Somethin’ wrong?” the deputy asked.
“We got that truck all legal,” Joe Ray said too defensively.
Simmons narrowed his eyes. These two were acting as if he’d happened onto a Mafia meeting. “You the one left it stuck out there in the mud?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about it. My friend Juan was drivin’ it last night.”
“Where would he be?”
“In the house, fast asleep. Musta had a late night.”
The deputy rested his right palm on the top of his black leather holster and glanced off to the side.
“What’s in that outbuilding?”
“Gardenin’ tools. That kinda stuff,” Joe Ray said.
“I never noticed any plantin’ around here when I drove in.”
“I hear somethin’ about a truck?” Juan asked. He’d come out onto the porch. He was barefoot, like Joe Ray, but wearing a white T-shirt with his jeans.
“The Ford truck,” Joe Ray said. “You know.”
“I was on my way home from Rodney’s Roadhouse last night,” Juan said, “an’ got it stuck in the mud. Woulda thought that was impossible with that big Ford, it havin’ four-wheel drive an’ all, but I missed a turn an’ drove it well off the road. I gave up after tryin’ to get it out an’ walked the rest of the way here. Truck’s still where I left it, I guess.”
“Yeah, I saw it,” the trooper said. “Need a tractor or somethin’ with a winch to pull it out.”
