John Lutz Bundle

by John Lutz

  Mustn’t get them confused, he cautioned himself with a smile.

  My God! Helen and Zoe are right. At least a part of me is enjoying this.

  Though he didn’t think he was being followed, the tension was still there. His back muscles were tight, and his antennae were out for anything unusual, anything that might spell danger. He was moving through the city in a kind of hyperawareness. It was a strain that would eventually take its toll.

  The trick, he soon realized, was to stay among people, but not so many that they provided cover to fire from and then escape into.

  Stop thinking defensively. You be the one to use crowds for cover, to look for the killer and apprehend him, to take him down if necessary without killing anyone else.

  Quinn was just beginning to realize how difficult that would be.

  He didn’t want to keep pounding the pavement wearing himself out, and just in case he was at the moment being stalked, he didn’t want to become a still target, whatever the time.

  On First Avenue he saw a bus preparing to stop for a knot of people standing in front of a bank. At the last second, he boarded and fed in his change. He found a seat away from the window, near the back of the bus, and settled in for his ride uptown.

  The roar of the bus’s engine, the rhythm of accelerating and stopping, allowed him to relax. Manhattan was a big island. It wouldn’t be easy for hunter and prey to come together. The killer would be waiting and watching at points where his quarry might show—workplace, apartment, the near proximities of friends and associates, known haunts. That was part of the problem. Quinn knew practically nothing about his prey, and didn’t know how much his prey knew about him. He was beginning to catch on as to how this game was played. He would at some point have to actively hunt. Hunter could become prey in an instant.

  He glanced at his watch. Almost nine o’clock.

  He was fair game.

  74

  Dr. Alfred Beeker’s blond assistant Beatrice was on duty behind her desk in the anteroom when Quinn arrived at the doctor’s Park Avenue office. She was the only one in the room. A mug of coffee and a half-eaten cinnamon roll sat on a white paper napkin on her desk. The whole place smelled like cinnamon.

  She looked up at Quinn and appeared frightened. Had Beeker told her about Quinn? Was Beatrice herself part of the S&M lifestyle that Beeker embraced?

  “Is Doctor Beeker in?” Quinn asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “the doctor’s with a patient.” Doing a nice job of pretending not to remember Quinn.

  “In his office?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like to look in on him.”

  Now Beatrice looked alarmed. Beeker must have put a word in her ear about Quinn. She glanced back at the door, then at Quinn, weighing her chances of stopping him from barging in on Beeker and not liking them.

  “I need to see him,” Quinn said.

  “I told you, he’s—”

  “You don’t understand,” Quinn said. “I only want to see him. I won’t even say hello, if you don’t want me to.”

  She stood up and faced him with her arms crossed. Quinn admired her spunk.

  “I’m not going to go away until I see him,” Quinn said. “Which way would be less all-around trouble? If you called in and asked him to step out here for a moment, or if I barged in while he’s in the middle of a session with a patient?”

  “What if I call the police?”

  “You remember me, dear. The police?” He showed her his shield, though he was sure she already knew who he was.

  “Why didn’t you say in the beginning this was police business?”

  “I wanted to see how cooperative you’d be.”

  “I’d say you just like to play games,” she said. Not angrily, though.

  “You’ve got me there.”

  She sat back down, plucked the receiver from her desk phone, and pushed a button. Then she turned her back on Quinn and talked softly enough that he couldn’t understand her.

  A few seconds after she’d hung up, the large door on the wall behind the reception desk opened, and Beeker stepped into the anteroom. He glared at Quinn, and his face turned a mottled red. Plenty angry, Dr. Alfred Beeker. Again, though, Quinn noted the doctor was unafraid.

  As he stood looking at Beeker, Quinn became acutely aware of the compact revolver in his pocket. In an odd way it wasn’t at all like the gun he usually carried holstered, his old police special revolver. That gun was used to maintain order, to protect people, or to use in self-defense. This gun was for a separate and distinct purpose—for stalking and killing another human being. Quinn couldn’t help imagining Beeker in his black leather outfit, standing and holding a whip, with Zoe…

  “Make this fast,” Beeker said.

  I’d love to.

  Beatrice took a large bite of cinnamon roll. It released a surge of sweet scent in the office.

  Quinn nodded to Beeker, smiled and nodded to Beatrice, then turned and walked out the door.

  He’d learned what he wanted to know. The doctor was in.

  And not outside in the city streets, stalking him.

  75

  Quinn soon learned the rhythm of the hunt.

  He moved along the sidewalk at the speed of pedestrian traffic. The knack was in being careful to stay near other people, but at the same time avoid becoming part of a crowd that might shield the killer’s approach. He knew that a larger crowd tended only to mean more confused and conflicting witnesses. After shooting him, the killer might even become part of the swarm of onlookers.

  It was no good to think of yourself as only the prey. Quinn knew that to survive he’d sometimes have to become the hunter. He crossed streets often, and every half hour or so doubled back. Sometimes he’d find a concealing doorway, or some other quiet corner from which he could observe. There he would wait to see who was walking in his wake. He had no idea what his pursuer looked like. What he wanted was to see the same man twice, to judge his bearing and attitude. He was pretty sure he was being followed, and that he’d be able to spot the killer. At that point Quinn would become the stalker. Quinn figured he had a chance here. He was good at spotting tails, and at shaking them. Why not at arresting them?

  Or, if necessary, at killing one of them?

  In truth he was almost positive that was what he’d have to do, that this was a serious game played to the death.

  But the morning wore on, and whoever was following Quinn—if there was someone following him—remained anonymous and all the more dangerous.

  It was almost eleven o’clock when Quinn decided he should have lunch. He’d stop at a diner, someplace he’d never been before, where it couldn’t be predicted he would go. The noon lunch crowd was still an hour away, so the restaurants shouldn’t be crowded yet. He could get a table or booth where he’d be facing the door, away from a window through which he might be seen, or even shot.

  It all seemed so incongruous at that moment. So unreal. The morning, the street, the city seemed so normal. Was he really taking part in some madman’s deadly game?

  He knew that kind of thinking could be like an opiate, dulling alertness. He was in a game, all right. A hunt. And he’d damned well better remember it.

  About a hundred feet ahead, a knot of pedestrians waited at an intersection. People were standing on and just off the curb, impatient for the light to change so they could cross. Quinn thought about hurrying to join them, then became aware that his right shoelace had come untied and was flopping around. He was passing a low stone wall running parallel to the office building on his right, and he didn’t want to catch up to the people at the corner too fast. It was a good time to tie the shoelace.

  He stopped, braced his foot up on the low wall, and quickly retied the brown lace.

  When he straightened up to continue walking, he saw that the light at the intersection had just changed to walk. The knot of pedestrians had surged forward and dispersed. Most of them were almost halfway across the street. Al
l of them were gone from the corner and the curb.

  All but one.

  He was a medium-height, well-dressed man in a dark blue suit, coat open, tie flapping in the breeze. He had neatly trimmed dark hair combed straight back, and looked fit and handsome.

  Quinn remembered the blue suit, the head of thick black hair. The man had been part of the knot of people at the corner, waiting to cross the intersection

  Only he hadn’t crossed. He’d turned around and was now walking toward Quinn.

  None of this might have seemed real a few minutes ago, but it was real. And coming at him. It was happening!

  The man’s smooth, athletic stride didn’t slow or in any way change as he slipped a hand into his pocket. The movement hadn’t seemed fast, but it had been fast.

  Faster than Quinn could reach his own pocket.

  The man had stopped now and was standing in shooting position, his body turned sideways, his right arm extended and holding a small revolver pointed at Quinn. The dark eyes sighting over the barrel at Quinn were somber and intent and without fear.

  Quinn was fumbling his own revolver out of his pocket, knowing even as he did so that it would be too late. He’d simply tied his shoe, briefly let down his guard, and he was dead.

  He braced himself to dive to the side, but he was only going through the motions, giving himself a slim chance.

  Before he could move he saw the man’s extended arm suddenly drop.

  Quinn stared, confused.

  He’s dancing!

  That was Quinn’s first thought as the man shuffled his feet, snapping his head this way and that. Then he became aware of the noise, a roar of gunfire.

  He looked in its direction and saw Pearl standing in the middle of the street with her feet spread wide, holding her big nine-millimeter Glock in both hands and blasting away.

  Then came a sudden, vibrant silence.

  Quinn looked away from Pearl, back in the direction she’d been shooting.

  The man in the blue suit lay motionless on the sidewalk. There was blood spreading out from beneath him. A lot of blood.

  Quinn knew Pearl had disobeyed Renz’s instructions. She must have been tailing Quinn, perhaps even tailing his pursuer, the man in the blue suit.

  The .25-Caliber Killer.

  Aware of his heavy breathing and the blood pulsing in his ears, Quinn stood and watched Pearl approach the downed man to make sure he was dead. After kneeling briefly beside the man, she stood up and walked toward Quinn. Her features were calm, unsmiling, the composed face of a woman at peace with the knowledge that she’d done a difficult job successfully.

  Quinn felt beads of sweat running down his ribs beneath his shirt. Pearl had acted on her own and saved his life.

  He couldn’t yet calculate the cost she’d have to pay, but he knew it was nothing to how much he owed her.

  76

  Throughout the next day they learned about Martin Hawk, saw where he’d been staying in Manhattan, where he lived in Stamford, Connecticut. They learned how he lived, what he read, whom he knew, and in a sense came to know him.

  In his Manhattan hotel room they’d found a blue carry-on containing a large bicycle hook, rolls of duct tape, a coil of nylon rope, and a sharp knife. Everyone there was relieved, even the SCU people. No one was more relieved than Quinn. There was no doubt about it now. Renz and Helen’s single-killer theory had been on target. They’d gotten the right man, and he’d left them no choice but to take him down permanently.

  Hawk’s house and its contents were even more revealing.

  In Stamford, he’d lived alone in a ten-room brick and stone house on a wooded piece of property large enough to be called an estate. He’d lived and been educated in England for a while, and had indeed been a hunter. His big game trophies attested to that. According to neighbors he was friendly, even charming, but was somewhat aloof and had lived a lonely life. On his walls hung valuable abstract art. In his refrigerator were gourmet foods. In his garage were a two-year-old Jaguar and a three-year-old Land Rover. In his office and his bedroom were framed photographs of two attractive women, but there was nothing in the house to identify them.

  Hawk’s office yielded the most evidence. A concealed safe contained client names and a set of books for a company referred to as Quest and Quarry.

  All in all, the suspect’s hotel room and home were mines rich with the ore of evidence. If he’d been alive to stand trial, the outcome wouldn’t have been in doubt.

  But Martin Hawk would never stand trial, and soon the case would be officially closed.

  Quinn and Pearl were still decompressing from the action that took Hawk’s life, and had almost claimed Quinn’s. Fedderman had taken the time to call the airport and check on flights back to Florida. Cindy Sellers had her scoop and was no longer hectoring Renz, who was basking, even romping, in favorable publicity. Mitzi Lewis couldn’t stop walking around smiling and marveling at her good luck. It was easy to be funny when you were so grateful to be breathing.

  The pressure was off all around.

  Quinn spent most of his time at Zoe’s and slept there to avoid the media wolves. He and Zoe would make love, and afterward it would be hours before he’d fall asleep. Maybe the cause of his sleeplessness was the lasting exhilaration of still being alive, along with the residue of fear. He’d experienced these emotions before. It took a while sometimes to come down from the adrenaline and cortisone high of taunting death and winning.

  But he knew that wasn’t what was disturbing his sleep.

  Something barely beyond his consciousness wasn’t right.

  77

  The morning was cooler than most, and golden with sunlight.

  Zoe skipped their usual grapefruit, toast, and coffee in the kitchen and left the apartment early to deal with her appointments. Quinn showered and dressed, then went out to buy a newspaper and get some breakfast.

  The television mounted high behind the counter of the Lotus Diner was tuned to the news, and the news, of course, was still about Martin Hawk, Renz, Quinn, and Pearl. But mostly about Martin Hawk.

  Thel the waitress came over and cleared the dishes, then topped off Quinn’s coffee.

  “You didn’t bring the check,” Quinn said.

  “This one’s on us,” Thel said. “Just this once. Don’t get used to it.”

  That was about as civil as Thel got. Quinn thanked her, and she ignored him and returned to stand near the coffee urn behind the counter.

  Quinn sat for another half hour reading the news, an ear cocked to the softly playing television.

  Reading and hearing it made things suddenly come together.

  He realized what had been disturbing his sleep. What was still bothering him.

  A very large piece of the puzzle was missing.

  He got his cell phone from his pocket and started to peck out Zoe’s office number. Then he changed his mind and called Helen the profiler.

  Helen, like Quinn, did contract work for the NYPD and had a home office. It was a converted second bedroom of her apartment in the Village, and it had French doors that led out to a small brick courtyard surrounded by foliage, an ancient brick wall, and a high wooden fence that looked ready to collapse from the weight of the vines growing up it. Helen had coffee made, and she and Quinn sat in wrought-iron chairs at the small round metal table in the center of the courtyard. They were in deep shade, and the sounds from the street were curiously muffled yet nearby.

  Helen was wearing some kind of kimono, brown leather sandals, and no makeup. Her ginger-colored hair was combed back and held by a tan elastic band. She looked younger than usual, like a lanky athlete who’d just come from a women’s college basketball game.

  Quinn sipped his coffee from an old cracked mug lettered THIMK and glanced around. “Nice back here.”

  “Private,” Helen said. He knew it was an invitation to talk in confidence.

  “I have a feeling you know why I came,” Quinn said.

  “Yeah, but you go f
irst.”

  “I know we were dealing with dual and possibly conflicting personalities in the same person, but now that we know more about Martin Hawk, I’m having a hard time buying into the notion that he did those women.”

  “You think Pearl shot the wrong man?”

  “Not exactly.” Quinn reached for words he couldn’t find. “I’m not sure what I think.”

  Helen leaned back and crossed her long legs beneath the silk kimono. Her well-pedicured feet looked huge and reminded Quinn what a large woman she was.

  She said, “Martin Hawk turned out to be an educated and sophisticated opponent who was obviously upset about the dearth of tradition and sportsmanship in society, depressed over what his life’s love and endeavor had become. You’re thinking that whatever duality he might have contained, it’s unlikely that a man like Hawk, obsessed with fairness and honor, the regimen of the hunt, would simply slaughter unsuspecting helpless victims.”

  “You’ve been giving this some thought,” Quinn said.

  Helen nodded. “As have you.”

  “Have you spoken to Renz?”

  Helen smiled sadly. “He wouldn’t want to listen. Wouldn’t believe me if he did listen. There’s a narrative fixed in his mind and in the media. It’s all working for him now, and he wouldn’t want to change it. And I have to say he’d have a point. What about the stuff they found in the bag in Hawk’s hotel room?”

  “I don’t know about it. I thought maybe you might explain it.”

  “I can’t,” Helen said. “It’s compelling evidence. It would have taken down the suspect in court if Pearl’s bullets had missed.”

  “You and I both think there’s something more to this case. The only problem is, we don’t know what.”

  “That’s where we stand,” Helen said.