Darker Than Night fq-1

by John Lutz

“I can’t think of a better way to put it,” Pearl said.

  “We’re all in a lousy mood,” Quinn said. “Let’s get outta here. Get into some air-conditioning.”

  “I gotta get back to the precinct house and pick up my car,” Fedderman said. “I’m going out to dinner with the wife. We got reservations.”

  I’ll bet she does about you. “Take the unmarked,” Pearl said.

  “Thanks. Drop you two at Quinn’s place?”

  They both nodded, and the three of them trudged glumly toward the car. Nobody spoke because there wasn’t anything to say. That was the problem. They were headed toward a wall and they all knew it, and talking about it wouldn’t change a thing.

  Pearl was driving, Fedderman in front with her, Quinn in the backseat.

  The car had just pulled out into traffic and was starting to accelerate when gunfire came at them from the park.

  59

  There was a muted cracking sound from outside the car, and a louder crack as a small hole appeared low in the passenger-side window. The sounds were so close together it was impossible to know which came first. Fedderman said, “What the fuck?” and held out a bloody hand, then slumped forward.

  Pearl figured it out right away but couldn’t accelerate out of trouble because of stopped traffic ahead. The car jerked to a halt. Quinn rammed a thumb down and unbuckled his seat belt. “Get down, Pearl!” He slid low behind the front seats.

  Another shot sounded off to their right.

  Quinn heard Pearl shouting into the radio, loud but not frantic. “Ten-thirteen, shots fired, officer down! Eighty-sixth and Central Park West!”

  She repeated the call for help, which would immediately attract every cop within blocks.

  “Feds,” Quinn said, “you hit bad?”

  “His arm, I think,” Pearl said.

  “Upper arm,” Fedderman said. “I got the bleeding stopped. Can’t you move the fuckin’ car, Pearl?”

  “Sure. Other than the motor’s dead and we’re blocked in.” Another shot. “I can’t see him. I can’t see him, dammit!”

  Quinn sat up straighter and saw the top of her head above the level of the dashboard as she peered into the park trying to spot the shooter. “Get down, Pearl!”

  “I can’t see the motherfucker.”

  “Down, Pearl. Goddammit, get down!”

  Another shot. The rearview mirror suddenly became detached and whizzed and whirled, clattering around the confines of the car like a gigantic insect trying to escape. The passenger-side window turned milky as the deflected bullet snapped over the slumping Fedderman.

  Pearl got down.

  It had been quiet but for the shooting. Now sirens were yodeling all around them. There were shouts and blaring horns outside. A siren so near and loud it hurt Quinn’s ears, and the screech of tires as a vehicle braked hard.

  The siren growled and grumbled to silence. Quinn cautiously raised his head and saw a police cruiser directly alongside. He pointed toward the park, and the cop riding shotgun nodded. The two uniforms piled out and the near one took shelter behind the cruiser, while the other jogged bent low toward the stone wall that ran along the edge of the park.

  “Stay low and call again for an ambulance,” Quinn said to Pearl as he worked the door handle and prepared to slide out of the car.

  “Radio’s damaged. They know Fedderman’s shot and should be sending medical.”

  “Look after him till they get here.”

  “Look after yourself, Quinn. Remember your heart.”

  Quinn knew she was right about an ambulance being on the way, but he wanted to make sure, so he used his cell phone to verify the request. Then he was aware of his heart fluttering like a panicked bird in his chest. But what else would you expect? It was the rush of adrenaline. And there was no pain.

  He stayed low, opened the door, and eased out of the car to join the uniform hunkered behind the patrol car. Smashed sunglasses lay flat on the pavement near one of the cops’ regulation black shoes. Quinn could see other units that had responded. Sirens were still wailing and an ambulance with lights flashing was picking its way like a broken-field runner through stalled traffic on Central Park West.

  Slowly the cop behind the car stood up straight. His partner was still crouching with gun drawn behind the low wall. Beyond him, Quinn could see blue-uniformed figures moving among the trees in the park. The cop next to him, an old-timer with gray tufts of hair sticking out from beneath his cap, looked at Quinn and said, “All the noise we made, the shooter’s shagged ass outta here by now.”

  Quinn nodded, feeling a lot of tension flow out of him. It had been a while since the last shot was fired, and a virtual army of blue was on the hunt in the park.

  He walked around the unmarked to see how Fedderman was doing. Behind him, he heard the gray-haired cop say, “Stepped on my fuckin’ glasses.”

  The paramedics were already moving Fedderman out of the car and working him around so he could lie on a stretcher.

  Pearl was also out of the car and had come around to Fedderman’s side. She touched Quinn’s shoulder lightly as if to assure herself he was solid and all right; then he was aware of her moving away.

  “It’s just my arm,” Fedderman kept saying, trying to sit up. One of the paramedics, a guy with biceps the size of thighs, gently forced him back down.

  “Call Alice and tell her I’m gonna be okay,” Fedderman said, looking up at Quinn.

  Quinn nodded. “Soon as you’re in the ambulance.”

  “Get her on the phone now. I can tell her myself.”

  The oversize paramedic shook his head no.

  “Sorry, Feds,” Quinn said. “He’s bigger’n I am.”

  “Bigger’n anybody.”

  “You better cooperate and let them stop that bleeding.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Suddenly pale, as if what happened had finally caught up with him, Fedderman settled down flat on the stretcher and remained motionless while they strapped him in and transported him to the ambulance.

  There had been a lot of blood, but Quinn didn’t think the bullet wound was life threatening.

  Still, you never knew for sure until the doctors got to you.

  A uniform came over and handed Quinn a slip of paper. “Number for you to call.”

  Quinn thanked him. He didn’t recognize the phone number written on the paper, but he figured the call would be from Renz. He looked over to where Pearl was filling in a couple of plainclothes detectives as to how the shooting occurred. There were people who looked like reporters huddled around them, but, so far, no TV camera crews had arrived. Quinn decided he’d call Renz back and then get out of there before TV did close in and spot him.

  It occurred to him that he was the one tracking a killer. The one who’d just been shot at. And he was the one running from the press as if guilty of something.

  Quite a world. Upside down.

  It wasn’t Renz who answered Quinn’s call; it was Egan. He’d know about the shooting. When a cop was shot anywhere in the city, it didn’t take long for the word to spread.

  “Where are you, Quinn?”

  “Outside the park on Central Park West. Shooter was inside the park, firing out.”

  “I thought maybe you were the one that got shot.”

  Hoped, more like it. “Pearl and I are okay. Fedderman took one in the upper arm.”

  “You think the Night Prowler was the shooter?”

  “Yeah, I think we can be sure of that.”

  “Does anybody in that fucked-up situation think he can be nailed before he gets out of the park?”

  “No, and there’s not much chance of it. He was probably out of the park before we went in after him. And even if he stayed in the park, he’d be hard to find. It’s gonna be completely dark soon.”

  “Far as you’re concerned, it already is completely dark. You gonna be there awhile?”

  “Not much longer. Soon as Pearl and I are done here, we’ll drive to the hospital to check on Fedder
man. I’ve gotta call his wife.”

  “Okay. Stick at the hospital till I see you there. I wanna talk. I want you to listen.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You better.”

  “And Fedderman’s gonna be okay. Thanks for asking.”

  Quinn cut the connection.

  The Night Prowler sat on the subway, which was rattling its way downtown. He tried to look relaxed. It wasn’t easy. The risk he’d taken! If he hadn’t been alert, even lucky, and made his way out of the park several blocks away on Central Park West, they might have had him. Quinn might have won.

  He concentrated on sitting still and looking at the ghostly reflection of his pale face in the opposite dark window. The man in the window, with the darkness sliding past behind him, appeared calm, but tension was running through his body like a spasmodic electrical current. The gun was an unyielding lump beneath his belt at the small of his back, concealed by his untucked shirt. The gun.

  He’d missed! He was sure of it!

  He’d assumed the detective in the car’s front passenger seat would be Quinn, but the second he squeezed the trigger and caught a glimpse of the man’s profile, he knew it was the other one-Fedderman.

  The trailing shots had gone into the stalled car; he was sure of that but couldn’t know if any of the bullets found their mark.

  He could hope they had, but that was all. Soon as he got back to his apartment, he’d check TV news. Surely, Channel One would have something on the Central Park shooting. And the other local channels might break into regular programming.

  This fucking city will jump to attention when I make it jump!

  The Night Prowler shook his head, causing a woman seated on the other side of the subway car to glance up at him curiously, then quickly look away.

  He struck a casual pose, a bored expression, while his mind worked furiously. What am I thinking? That’s not what this is about, making the city jump. That’s not what I’m about.

  He needed, first of all, to find out about Quinn. Maybe Quinn was dead. It was difficult to imagine, but maybe one of the wild shots into the car had struck him in a vital spot. Maybe he was at least wounded.

  Stress.

  He could feel the word even as he thought it. Could feel it insinuating itself throughout mind and body. He knew he had to hold stress at bay so he could function at the high level he demanded. That his mission demanded.

  Benzene.

  But lately the fumes that had carried him to a placid and advanced mental state hadn’t worked their magic as quickly or as well. The body adapted to everything eventually; the Night Prowler knew that.

  But he had to do something to relieve his stress. And soon.

  Knowing Quinn was dead would help immensely. Would change the world.

  But right now he looked down and saw that his hands were trembling in his lap.

  The train lurched and slowed and light crept in at the edges outside the dark windows.

  His stop.

  Almost home.

  Alice Fedderman took the news like a cop’s good and faithful wife, stricken with worry but with a calmness about her.

  She’d been expecting this for years. Any phone call, long ago and long forgotten, might have brought her the same news. And now here it was.

  But not as bad as it might have been. That was the kind of thing you told yourself, that you grabbed hold of and clung to at a time like this.

  Her husband was alive.

  She was on her way to the hospital and not the morgue.

  60

  Because of the incompatibility of cell phones and hospitals, Quinn had used a pay phone near the waiting area to call Alice. He’d noticed while talking that his heart rate had picked up again.

  He hadn’t thought about his heart during the action at the park until Pearl cautioned him. It had slowed its rhythm and seemed normal since he’d arrived at the hospital. But maybe talking to Alice Fedderman was more of a strain than he’d imagined.

  May had waited for phone calls like the one to Alice. So would Pearl, but in a different way, because she was a cop herself.

  And I’ll be waiting.

  There was a thought that sobered him.

  When he returned to the waiting area, a spacious, carpeted alcove off the main hall, a tall, redheaded doctor, wearing wrinkled green scrubs, was talking to Pearl.

  When Quinn joined them, the man identified himself as Doctor Murphy. He had about him a sharp scent that might have been medicinal or simply an agent in soap.

  Pearl, sitting slumped in one of the carefully arranged gray chairs, said, “Fedderman’s going to be okay.”

  Quinn had thought that would be the word, but still he was relieved. “His arm…”

  “The bone was nicked,” Dr. Murphy said. A green surgical mask dangled high on his chest like some kind of neck-wear he’d loosened. “Most of the damage was done to soft tissue. The bullet appeared to have struck something and was flattened before it hit him, or it might have penetrated the bicep and gone into his side. As it is, his arm will be in a cast for about six weeks. Then, with therapy, he’ll be able to recover ninety percent of previous mobility.”

  “What in the movies they call a flesh wound?” Pearl asked.

  The doctor looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

  “A car window,” Quinn said. “That’s what the bullet went through before it hit him.”

  “He’s lucky the window wasn’t down. Detective Fedderman is still under anesthetic and will be a while in the recovery room.”

  “His wife’s on the way here.”

  Doctor Murphy smiled. “She won’t mind the news, considering how bad it could have been. I’ll instruct the nurses to inform me when she arrives.” He nodded to both of them and stalked back to the hall and through wide swinging doors, which hissed open at his approach.

  “Egan’s on his way here, too,” Quinn said.

  Pearl snorted. “Tell me it’s because he’s injured.”

  “Pissed off is what he sounded like.”

  “Well, he’ll cheer up when he sees me.”

  “He doesn’t have to know you’re here.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  Quinn sighed. “Listen, Pearl-”

  “I’m thirsty.” She stood up and strode toward a drinking fountain in the hall near the phone Quinn had used, a woman beyond reason.

  Quinn sat down, leaned back, and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. All things considered, he didn’t feel so bad about this evening. The essential news was good: no one had been killed, and Fedderman would be his old self once his arm healed.

  Yawning, Quinn reached over to a lamp table and picked up the only magazine, a dog-eared People. Jennifer Lopez worked hard to keep in shape. There was scandalous news about a distant Kennedy relative. Sean Penn was acting up again. A new movie was going to star the winner of a cable TV talent hunt show. This he learned just from the cover.

  “Getting educated?”

  Quinn looked up to see the blocky, muscular form of Captain Vincent Egan. He was surprised to see that Egan was wearing a tuxedo, his face flushed above the tight collar and white tie.

  “On your way to the prom?” Quinn asked.

  “On my way to a banquet at the Hyatt, as a matter of fact. Where I’m going to see the commissioner, where maybe a lowlife like you might find part-time work next year serving the haut monde.”

  “There’s fish on the menu?”

  “Be as much of a smart-ass as you want, Quinn. I won’t have to put up with you much longer. I’m gonna recommend at the banquet that you be taken off the Night Prowler case. It’s beginning to look bad for the department, setting a serial child molester to catch a serial killer.”

  Quinn felt himself getting angry and tried to control it. What Egan wanted more than anything was for him to stand up and lose his temper, take a swing at him as Pearl had done. Pearl. He caught sight of her down the hall, talking on the pay phone, and hoped she’d have sense enou
gh to stay away until Egan was gone.

  “What I came here for,” Egan said, “was to see if you had anything to say that would lead me to believe you were any closer to the Night Prowler.”

  Covering your ass. “I’d say we were pretty close to each other a few hours ago.”

  “That’s true. When he unfortunately missed who he must’ve been aiming at. But that’s not quite the kind of close I had in mind. Out of fairness, I stopped by to give you one last chance to come up with something positive that suggested progress.”

  “That’ll be your story, anyway.”

  Egan pulled a cigar from his pocket and fired it up with a lighter. The hell with hospital rules. And New York rules that said you couldn’t smoke anyplace other than inside your house or apartment and within five feet of an ashtray and exhaust fan. “That’ll be my story,” he confirmed, and blew an imperfect smoke ring.

  He turned and swaggered away, not an easy thing to do in a tuxedo, and it took all the willpower Quinn had to remain in his chair. He hadn’t budged through the entire encounter with Egan.

  A nurse said something to Egan, no doubt about the cigar. Egan blew smoke her way and didn’t break stride.

  He did break stride when he saw Pearl.

  Now Quinn stood up. Don’t be stupid, Pearl, please!

  Pearl walked toward Egan, smiling. Quinn had seen that smile. No, no…

  She leaned toward the surprised Egan and whispered something in his ear. Then she walked away, toward Quinn.

  Egan stared after her and seemed to puff up with rage. His flushed face glowed like red neon above the pristine whiteness of his formal shirt and tie.

  Quinn thought surely Egan was going to come after Pearl. Instead he whirled and trod swiftly down the hall, then stamped around the corner as if trying to crack walnuts with every step.

  “What did you say to him?” Quinn asked Pearl.

  “That you were my fella and he better get off your ass. That you had a health problem, and if anything happened to you, I’d hold him personally responsible.”

  “I sincerely doubt that’ll help matters,” Quinn said, and told her about his conversation with Egan.