Darker Than Night fq-1

by John Lutz

  Pearl seemed unimpressed.

  “It’ll help,” she said.

  Quinn didn’t feel like arguing. He wasn’t sure he believed Pearl, but whatever she’d whispered made Egan seem almost to explode, and that was all to the good.

  Besides, here came an angry, frightened Alice Fedderman, charging down the hall toward them at a run.

  61

  Unlike Dr. Rita Maxwell, who leaned toward earth tones, Dr. Jeri Janess favored green. Her office was furnished mostly in shades of green. It was a restful color and many psychoanalysts made it the basis of their decor.

  The office wasn’t as plush as Dr. Maxwell’s. It was on Second Avenue near the turnoff to the Queensboro Bridge. An air conditioner, taller than it was wide, hummed smoothly in one of the casement windows, softly overwhelming any sound that might filter into the office from the street nine stories below. Dr. Janess wanted to avoid the stereotypical setting for analysis, so there was no couch. Other than her desk chair, there were only two extremely comfortable leather armchairs, both green leather with brown piping.

  Dr. Janess sat now in one of the chairs across from her new patient, Arthur Harris, and continued sizing him up, looking and listening for clues. She was sure she’d heard his name somewhere before. He was well dressed, and in many ways average-looking. You’d make a great spy, Mr. Harris. There was his mustache, which was darker than his hair, and she suspected it was false. His wire-rimmed glasses looked like cheap drugstore frames, and if they weren’t clear glass, the lenses were incredibly weak.

  Jeri Janess was an attractive African American who’d spent her formative years in a rough section of Harlem as one of six children raised by their mother. She’d listened to her father’s bullshit on the rare occasions when he visited. Listened to her brothers justify behavior that had gotten two of them shot and another beaten so badly he was in a wheel-chair for life. Listened to the lines of her uncle and the neighborhood creeps who tried to get into her pants from the time she was thirteen. And she’d watched her mother taken in by her father. Watched one of her sisters marry at sixteen, then turn to drugs and hang herself in a neighboring vacant apartment. It all made Jeri want to learn why people behaved that way.

  And she had learned.

  Arthur Harris, my ass.

  But it wasn’t unusual for new patients to be coy about their identity. At least Harris hadn’t told her he was there because “a friend” had a problem. Dr. Janess decided to play along with the lie for a while. Eventually she’d find out everything she needed to know about Arthur Harris, what was bedeviling him and why, and perhaps how she could help him.

  “How would you describe this tension and restlessness you mentioned?” she asked.

  “It’s like something expanding under my skin, squeezing me in at the same time it’s pressuring me so I might explode.”

  “Like a secret that needs to get out?”

  He stared at her. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Yes, like a secret, buzzing inside me. And if I confessed it, I’d relieve all the pressure. The tension would go away. Only I don’t know the secret myself!”

  Obviously, you’ve read Freud. “Perhaps we can find it out together. When you have more confidence in yourself and in me.”

  He put on a shy act, lowering his gaze. “Maybe someday I will have that confidence, Dr. Janess.”

  “You and I both need to work on it, and it will happen.”

  “I believe you.”

  I don’t believe you. Not yet. “Would this problem be about women, Arthur?” she asked with sudden directness. An ambush.

  The shyness lifted from his features. “If you’re a man, everything’s about women. So the answer’s yes and no.”

  “That’s how most men feel about women,” Dr. Janess said, smiling to let him know she was joking and their appointment time was up.

  It wasn’t until several hours after Harris had left that she remembered where she might have heard the name. In a college history class years ago, or more recently watching a documentary on television.

  She sat at her computer and went online to Google “Arthur Harris” and make sure.

  Her memory was correct. Arthur “Bomber” Harris, sometimes referred to as “Butcher” by his countrymen, was the British vice air marshal who’d enthusiastically overseen the RAF’s carpet bombing of German cities and the deaths of thousands of civilians during World War II.

  Of course it was a common enough name, and it could be coincidental that her new patient had it.

  But she doubted it. Considering his behavior and obvious prevarication, she was sure he’d simply recalled the name as she had and borrowed it.

  The first piece of the puzzle. Now she was determined to learn more about her Arthur Harris, and about this pressure he described. And she had something to work with. Maybe she’d ask him if he was aware he had a historical name, see how he’d react.

  Dr. Janess signed off her Internet service, sat back, and smiled.

  Arthur Harris, you and I are going to get to know one another sooner than you think, and better than you think.

  Quinn called Harley Renz from his apartment at eight the next morning, using the kitchen phone so he wouldn’t wake Pearl. When he’d left her in the cool breeze from the air conditioner, she’d been sleeping soundly, something not to be prodded.

  “Has Egan talked to you?” Quinn asked when Renz answered his cell phone.

  “No.” Renz seemed puzzled. “Was he supposed to?”

  Quinn told him about Egan coming to the hospital after Fedderman was shot.

  “I haven’t heard anything about you being yanked off the case,” Renz said. “That’s supposed to be up to me. And if Egan mentioned it to the chief or commissioner at the Citizens Award Banquet, I’d know about it by now. Probably would’ve learned about it before the banquet was over.”

  “What do you think stirred him up so that he came by the hospital and made that kind of threat?”

  “Like all predators, he sensed weakness and saw opportunity. A cop was shot and civilian lives were threatened. It looked like your lack of progress was starting to endanger people. And you know what, it looks that way to me, too.”

  “But I’m all you’ve got, Harley, and we both know I’m getting closer. Old cops like us can feel it when a case is coming to a head. The Night Prowler can feel it, too. That’s why he shot at the car.”

  “Shot at you, you mean.”

  “Probably. Are you warning me to be more careful?”

  “I’m remembering what you said about being all I’ve got.”

  “I still don’t see why Egan would spout off to me at the hospital, then go to the banquet and stay mum.” Quinn had decided not to mention to Renz that Pearl whispered something in Egan’s ear that almost made him launch like a rocket.

  “Obviously, he changed his mind. But he might not keep it changed for long. Here’s another piece of information for you, one Egan doesn’t have and won’t for another two or three hours. I had my contact in ballistics run another quick comparison for me. The bullet that was dug out of Fedderman’s arm isn’t from the gun that was used to take a shot at you outside the florist shop on First Avenue.”

  “So Lunt watches cop shows on TV and knows about ballistics tests, so he ditched the First Avenue gun. He’s not stupid.”

  “He’s not that.”

  Quinn watched a small cockroach wander into a patch of morning sunlight on the kitchen floor near the window and stagger toward the wooden molding. It reminded him of Egan. It reminded him of his life the last few years-trying to escape the light.

  “You still there, Quinn?”

  “Yeah.” The roach flattened itself and disappeared in the shadowed space between molding and floor. With the rehabbing and so many vacant apartments in the building, it was impossible to get rid of all the roaches, no matter how much insecticide was sprayed around.

  “Quinn?”

  “Fedderman’s okay, by the way. I tell you because I’m sure you were going
to ask.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Renz said. “I already called the hospital this morning and they let me talk to Fedderman. He’s gonna be released this afternoon with his arm in a cast. And he wants to keep working the case.”

  “He shouldn’t.”

  “That’s what Alice says.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said, sure he could work the case, no matter what his wife says. Let the two of ’em fight it out.”

  Quinn started to tell Renz what a jerk-off he was, but he realized Renz had hung up.

  Quinn did the same, and looked over and saw Pearl standing in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were puffy, her hair was a mess, and she was wearing only Quinn’s oversize T-shirt that she’d slept in. He thought she looked beautiful in the morning sun that illuminated her half of the kitchen. He forgot about the cockroach and how bad life had seemed a few minutes ago.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

  “The hospital. Fedderman’s being released this afternoon.”

  “Great! He can go home and sit on his ass and eat chicken soup for a while.”

  “He’s gonna keep working the case, unless Alice wraps him in duct tape to stop him.”

  “Duct tape. We haven’t tried that.”

  “Pearl, get dressed.”

  “Like you are?”

  Quinn realized he was sitting at the kitchen table in nothing but his Jockey shorts.

  “We don’t have to meet Fedderman at the bench this morning,” Pearl reminded him.

  “True. Let’s go out and get some breakfast, read the paper.”

  “I’m not hungry. And we pretty much know what’s in the paper.”

  “Pearl-”

  “There’s no reason we can’t go back to bed for a while. We’re undressed for it.”

  She had him there.

  Claire woke up craving chocolate.

  Her unreasonable and overwhelming physical cravings during pregnancy made her uneasy. They were so unnatural, so unlike her, that they reminded her of the profundity of what must be happening inside her body and mind. To be so at the mercy of one’s nature, one’s hormones, was unnerving. If she had to, no matter what, have chocolate on waking in the morning, what other irresistible urges might compel her?

  She climbed out of bed, pulled her nightgown off over her head, and examined her nude body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She was still able to disguise her pregnancy with the right clothes, the right costuming in Hail to the Chef, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d have to remove herself from the cast. She wanted to do it herself, and not force Fred Perry, the director, or Chris Jackson, the playwright, to inform her when it was time.

  She decided again that she enjoyed being pregnant, despite the many complications. Stretch marks-who cares? Morning sickness-so what? She smiled in the mirror and patted herself on the belly before padding barefoot into the bathroom to shower.

  Claire was careful climbing into the high-sided porcelain tub. Lifting one leg high and balancing on the other was becoming noticeably more difficult every day, and a fall could be disastrous for the baby.

  She pulled the plastic curtain closed, adjusted the water to warm, and luxuriated in the shower. All her senses seemed more alive these days.

  Back in the bedroom, after drying off with a fresh towel, then combing her wet hair, Claire opened the third dresser drawer to find a pair of panties, and her eye fell on a glint of silver.

  She pulled the drawer open farther, nudged lingerie aside, and saw what looked like a silver clasp for a chain, maybe to a necklace or bracelet. When she moved a bra at the back of the drawer, there behind it was a beautiful ruby necklace.

  Claire was astounded, and after her initial surprise, pleased.

  The necklace had to be a gift from Jubal, one he hadn’t had time to present to her properly, so he’d hidden it in the drawer for later. Odd, though, that he’d chosen her lingerie drawer. But he knew she was dressing casually these days and seldom wearing a bra, and the necklace had been in the very back of the drawer.

  Or maybe he’d intended for her to find it. A surprise. Like some of the other surprise gifts he’d engineered lately.

  She glanced at the bedside clock radio. It was almost nine-thirty, eight-thirty in Chicago. Jubal would be awake, not yet at the theater but possibly at breakfast.

  Claire was chilly after her shower, so after holding up the necklace to admire it, she slipped on a pair of panties, then her robe and slippers, and went into the kitchen to put on some decaffeinated, doctor-approved coffee. She realized she was still holding the necklace. Her craving for chocolate had suddenly abated. She smiled. Jewelry could have that effect on a woman, even pregnant.

  She got the coffee brewing, then put on the necklace and fastened its clasp behind her neck. It felt cool against her flesh. She checked her reflection in the dark, mirrored door of the microwave oven and approved.

  When there was about an inch of coffee in the glass pot, she interrupted its flow from the brewer to pour a warm but too-strong quarter of a cup. Then she sat at the table with what she thought of as an espresso and used her cell phone to call Jubal’s.

  Jubal was kissing Dalia’s left nipple when he heard the opening notes of the William Tell Overture.

  “What the hell was that?” Dalia asked, pushing his head away.

  It took Jubal a few seconds to refocus his mind and give her an answer. “Cell phone.”

  “I thought it was the fucking Lone Ranger.”

  Jubal scooted away from her on the mattress, rolled heavily onto his side, and reached for his sport jacket draped over a nearby chair. Locating the phone and digging it out of an inside pocket took more time than he wanted, more overture.

  “Yeah?” he said into the phone. Too early for manners, and his sleepy mind couldn’t quite shake thoughts of Dalia. Thoughts and possibilities.

  “Jubal?”

  Jesus! Claire!

  “Hi, Claire.” Sideways glance at Dalia. “I was just thinking about you while I was getting dressed to go out for breakfast.”

  “I called about the necklace.”

  Necklace? No, no! He couldn’t think clearly. Had to answer her. And without a meaningful pause. “Necklace?”

  She laughed. “Don’t sound so guilty. I think you know the one I mean. It’s a ruby on a silver chain. Elegant. Perfect.”

  “You, uh, found a necklace?”

  “In my dresser drawer, hidden among my lingerie.”

  “Hidden?”

  “Well, it was way in the back of the drawer.”

  “I don’t know anything about-”

  Jubal understood then what must have happened. The necklace had come loose from where he’d taped it to the outside back of the drawer above her lingerie drawer. Dalia’s necklace. And as luck would have it, it hadn’t dropped to the floor or bottom of the dresser but had snagged on something and fallen into the drawer below. Or maybe she hadn’t pushed the drawer the necklace was taped to all the way closed.

  Either way, she had the necklace.

  He thought about lying, but he was committed now to an earlier lie.

  Jubal knew when not to push. If he reversed his field here and took credit for the necklace as a gift to Claire, she might sense something was wrong. He decided his best course was to continue playing dumb.

  “I’m tempted to pretend I meant this necklace as a gift,” he said, “but I have to be honest with you. The sad truth is I know nothing about it.”

  Dalia knew he was talking to Claire and was staring at him from her side of the bed. She puckered her lips and sent an air kiss his way.

  Damm it, Dalia!

  “Jubal?”

  “Honestly, Claire. We bought the dresser secondhand. The necklace must have belonged to a previous owner. Or still belongs. It’s probably just paste, maybe a kid’s necklace, or it wouldn’t have been left there.”

  “I don’t think it’s paste. It looks pretty g
ood. And I think there’s a tiny silver stamp on the clasp.”

  “Real or not, Claire, it isn’t from me. I wish it were.”

  She was silent.

  “You do believe me, Claire?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Show it to me when I get back. If it’s high quality, we’ll see if we can find out who it belongs to. And if we can’t…finders keepers.”

  “Okay, Jubal.” A beat. “Any problems with the play?”

  “No, I slipped right back into it. Born for the part. Any part.”

  “No news yet on the sitcom?”

  “Nothing yet. I told you, they had two more auditions to consider.”

  “That’s right, you did. Love me?”

  “Love you.”

  “I’ll let you get to breakfast.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. How are you? How’s the baby?”

  “We’re both fine. Both hungry. Like you must be.”

  Jubal glanced at Dalia and felt a stab of guilt. But only momentarily.

  “Love you,” he said again to Claire.

  She told him she loved him, too, then hung up.

  “That was pretty damned convincing,” Dalia said. “Maybe too convincing.”

  Jubal set the cell phone on the chair and lay on his back next to her. “Damm it! Claire found the necklace.”

  Dalia raised her head and propped her chin on her elbow. “What necklace?”

  “One I was going to give you. Since I left on such short notice for my flight out of New York, I couldn’t get to where I’d hidden it in the apartment. I was sure it’d be safe where it was for a while, though; then I could remove it and give it to you. But obviously I was wrong.”

  “Claire suspects you bought this necklace for someone else?”

  “No, I played dumb, as if I knew nothing about it, and I think she believed me.”

  “My guess is she did. I only heard your end of the conversation, but like I told you, you’re good.” She smiled. “At everything.”

  “If I wasn’t good enough just now, we’ve got a problem.”

  Still sprawled on his back, Jubal stared at the smoke alarm above the bed. He was pretty sure Claire had believed him, yet there was something about her voice. And she’d been acting strange lately in ways he ascribed to her pregnancy, pretending to find other, smaller gifts and not knowing where they’d come from. It was damned weird. Something seemed to be going on, and he couldn’t quite figure out what it was.