Urge to Kill fq-4

by John Lutz

  Quinn sighed and jammed his hands deep in his pockets so Renz wouldn’t see that they were clenched in fists. “All of this for political expedience.”

  Renz smiled and stuffed his flapping tie inside his shirt between the top two buttons, where finally it remained trapped.

  “All of this,” he said, “for that.”

  36

  Terri Gaddis wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t show up. Handsome guy like Richard, he could have just about any woman he wanted, when he wanted.

  How great it must be to be a man, rooting around among the trinkets, choosing then putting back down, instead of being one of the trinkets.

  She took a sip of her rum and Coke and tried not to keep looking at the Magic Lounge’s door. Now and then a wave of embarrassment and anger at herself would wash over her.

  What am I doing here? Other than waiting to be stood up?

  But she knew what she was doing. Trying to relieve the loneliness of working at Office Tech, then going home, sometimes stopping for drinks with one of the other women at the store, watching reality TV (Survivor. Boy, she could identify with that one), going to bed, getting up, and then climbing back on the treadmill. Day after numbing day.

  Then all of a sudden there he was, tall enough and certainly dark and handsome, chatting her up among the printers and fax machines in aisle seven.

  Lucky aisle seven.

  He’d accidentally brushed his arm against her right breast when reaching to turn on a printer-she was sure it was accidental-and it felt as if wires ran from her nipple to the core of her sexual need and another wire ran directly to her heart. Conduits of erotic electricity.

  To look at his face you wouldn’t think they’d made any contact at all, while her heart wouldn’t slow down. Terri couldn’t remember when a man had done that to her. If ever. Anyway, it was rare, and something you didn’t just toss away in your life. She’d realized that the moment it had happened.

  “This printer,” she’d told him, “will print papers on any kind of photo.”

  He’d merely smiled at her awkwardness. “If I were dyslexic,” he’d said, “I wouldn’t have noticed that.”

  That was how they’d begun a long and increasingly personal conversation. He’d been so smooth, so obviously deeply interested in her, that she’d been the one to suggest they meet later here at the Magic Lounge for drinks and more talk. And he’d seemed pleased to accept her invitation.

  Terri wasn’t naive. She knew that was a bullshitter’s stock in trade, seeming to be just what people wanted or needed at the time. But if he was pretending, he was so, so good at it. Close enough to be the real thing, when emotion was there to fill in the blanks. What was fake and genuine was difficult enough to discern in this life, even if you looked closely. A person could see glass and throw away a diamond.

  She wished he were here now to pretend, if that’s what he was doing, instead of being sixteen minutes late. She’d pretend right along with him.

  Other men in the lounge were getting interested in her, making her uneasy. All of them looked like losers, compared to Richard Crane.

  Then the door opened, and there he was. Relief flooded through her and somehow morphed into a wash of desire. He was as handsome as he’d been in the store, wearing light tan slacks, a blue sport coat with brass buttons, a pale blue shirt open at the collar. Several women in the lounge looked at him and couldn’t look away. Terri felt a tingle of excitement and possessiveness as he smiled and walked toward her.

  “Been here long?” he asked, sliding onto the bar stool beside hers.

  “Not very. Anyway, I had stuff to think about.”

  “Such as?” His gentle, hooded eyes held hers. He was truly interested in her thoughts. In everything about her.

  “About how my life is going,” she said. “One week after another in the store, stocking electronics, telling people about electronics, now and then selling electronics. It’s…”

  “Soul stifling,” he said.

  “Exactly.” He does understand.

  “Ever thought about quitting and trying something else?”

  She had to laugh. “I don’t have the nerve.”

  The bartender came over, and they ordered drinks. He a scotch rocks, she another rum and Coke.

  “So rum’s your drink. You could be a lady pirate,” he said seriously.

  She had to giggle. “Where do I apply?”

  “Right here. I can see you in a pirate outfit. You’d look sexy. Boots, three-corner hat, sword…”

  “Eye patch?”

  He seemed to think about it. “Sure.”

  Their drinks arrived. She took a cautious sip of hers, remembering it was her second. If they stayed for a while here, he’d be a drink behind her. Dangerous.

  “Boots and a sword,” she said. “Are you a little kinky, Richard Crane?”

  “Only if you want me to be.” He tasted his scotch. “What turns me on is you. Just you.”

  They drank silently for a while, studying each other.

  He said softly, “Take a chance, Terri Gaddis.”

  She felt her heart race.

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said.

  “Is that taking a chance?”

  “Depends on where we eat.”

  She smiled. “That eye patch thing is growing on me. Trouble is, I don’t have one.”

  “We could make believe,” he said. “Or you could keep one eye closed. That’d be enough for me.”

  Take a chance, Terri Gaddis.

  “Let’s finish our drinks,” she said, “then go to my ship, and I’ll make dinner in the galley.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll buy the wine on the way there.”

  He wants to keep me drinking.

  “Maybe we can have a treasure hunt,” he said.

  “I think it’d be better if we sailed around a bit first.”

  He wounded her with a smile, then sipped his scotch. “You’re the pirate.” He lowered his glass and regarded her. “If you’re worried about the rape and plunder part,” he said, “don’t.”

  Terri smiled and rested a hand on his arm. “I would never plunder you,” she said.

  He downed his scotch and said, “Damn it!”

  John Riley had finally drunk enough wine that the voices were stilled. An hour after it got dark, he made his shambling way into the passageway between the Honeysuckle Restaurant and the Antonian Hotel. There were some black plastic trash bags piled against the hotel’s brick wall. Riley was pretty sure there wouldn’t be much of value in them, but they might make a comfortable enough bed for the night.

  He still had half a bottle of the cheap wine he’d bought with what he’d been able to beg on the street. Breakfast had been half a cheeseburger he’d seen someone throw away in the trash receptacle at the busy corner down the block, and he hadn’t eaten since. The truth was, he wasn’t hungry. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe the spot on his lung, the one that doctor had told him about last year, had developed into some kind of disease that was making him thin. Or maybe it was old age. Riley was what…sixty-three? Or four? Whatever, anything over fifty was old for the streets.

  Riley stopped halfway down the passageway and grinned. This was good. It looked as if more plastic trash bags had been added since he’d cut through here yesterday. Or was it the day before? Time was losing its traction in John Riley’s life. Why wouldn’t it? Night was often day in this city.

  Being in the passageway, the bags probably weren’t part of the regular trash pickup, and the hotel would call now and then to have them taken away. Meanwhile, Riley could make good use of them.

  He kicked with his right foot, chasing away two rats. Kicked at the bags again to make sure there weren’t more of the rodents there, out of sight. He didn’t kick so hard that the plastic would split, though, and release fluids or some foul odor that even he couldn’t abide. Carefully, to accommodate arthritic knees, he lowered his aching body and lay back on the mounds of black plastic. He wriggled around
so he wasn’t in contact with anything hard, then uncapped his wine bottle and sighed. He was tired. If he was lucky, he wouldn’t dream. He wouldn’t hear the voices again until morning.

  Riley took a deep draw on the bottle and felt the acidic liquid course down his throat. There’d been a time when he’d have sent this one back in a restaurant and ordered another vintage. In another life.

  Some of the wine dribbled from his mouth and ran down his unshaven chin. Quickly he raised the bottle upright so he wouldn’t lose more of its precious contents, and lowered it to his side. He shrugged a shoulder to wipe his chin against it and looked down at the bottle, about to raise it for another sip.

  That’s when he saw the hand.

  At first he thought it might be a joke, someone hiding in among the trash bags. Or a fake hand. A mannequin’s, maybe. Something like that.

  But he knew it was human, even though it didn’t look quite right.

  Then he knew why it didn’t look right. It was dead.

  The voices screamed.

  37

  There were floodlights set up in the street and at each end of the passageway, so it was like day, only the glare was surrounded by darkness. Moths fluttered in and out of the brightness in warm night air so humid they might have been swimming.

  “Same as the others,” Fedderman said. He’d been closer and reached the scene ahead of Quinn and Pearl.

  They were standing near the dead body that had been found beside the Antonian Hotel. Julius Nift, from the medical examiner’s office, was over by his black city car parked among the NYPD radio cars, peeling off his latex gloves. The CSU techs were still gathering evidence in the blocked-off passageway. Nift glanced over at Quinn, smiled, and nodded.

  Quinn nodded back, thinking, Asshole.

  He thought about going over and talking to Nift, but the arrogant little ME was already climbing into his car, pulling the door closed. Quinn figured it didn’t matter. As Fedderman had said, this one would be like the others. Cause of death: a small-caliber (which would later turn out to be a. 25) bullet to the head. Nift might have a time-of-death estimate, but it would be only that-an estimate. Quinn could wait until tomorrow for the postmortem report.

  He almost spat a foul taste and odor from the edges of his tongue, then remembered this was a crime scene and swallowed instead. He was pretty sure most of the stench was coming from the black plastic trash bags, but the dead man was contributing.

  Quinn looked back down at him. The man was in his late forties or early fifties, dressed conservatively in neatly pressed Dockers and a blue checked shirt, wearing a black sport jacket that was twisted around his body because of the way he was lying. He actually didn’t look too bad except for the way his eyes had sunk back in his skull, and of course the hole in his forehead.

  Fedderman had already searched the man’s pockets and found nothing other than a hotel key card. Galin had been the only victim who hadn’t had one of those on him. Galin, in fact, was the odd piece in this puzzle, linked by method and not much else.

  “Looks like our killer shot this guy, then concealed the body back against the brick wall under the trash bags so it wouldn’t be found right away,” Fedderman said. “That guy”-he pointed toward a ragged, bearded man yammering and gesticulating wildly at a uniform from one of the radio cars-“happened to notice a human hand protruding from the trash while he was back here getting ready to sack out for a while with his bottle of wine. That sent him screaming out into the street, where he scared the shit out of people and snarled up traffic. An ex-cop from Denver dragged him back up on the sidewalk where he’d be safe and called us on his cell, saying there was a crazy man running wild and yelling about a dead body. Right on both counts.” Fedderman grinned at Pearl. “Why don’t you go over and get Riley’s statement?”

  “Riley the crazy guy?” Pearl asked.

  “He’s not the one with the uniform.”

  “Why don’t you go?” Pearl said. “You’re more likely to connect with him.”

  “I’ll do it,” Quinn said, to shut them up. This wasn’t the time or place for one of their pissant quarrels. He pointed to a gray door set in the brick wall. “Where’s that lead?”

  “Into the hotel, I would imagine,” Fedderman said, making Quinn wonder if Fedderman was messing with him. But then, it hadn’t been the brightest of questions. “I tried it after I made sure the CSU people had dusted the knob for prints. It’s locked.”

  “Lock automatically when it closes?”

  “I don’t know,” Fedderman said. “Nobody’s been in there yet.”

  “You go check out what’s on the other side of that door,” Quinn told Pearl. “Feds, let’s the two of us go over and see what Mr. Riley has to say.”

  Pearl flashed a grin at Fedderman as she hurried away.

  When Riley saw Quinn and Fedderman approach, he lost interest in the uniform. He was more than happy to confirm the story he’d told the first cops on the scene. Trouble was, he wouldn’t stop confirming it.

  “Should have given Pearl the job,” Fedderman said, managing to get in a word that wasn’t Riley’s.

  Quinn nodded.

  “Pearl the lady with the big bazooms?” Riley asked, indicating big bazooms with both hands. His breath was terrible and might have been flammable.

  “Let’s not talk about that,” Quinn said.

  “Those, you mean,” Riley corrected.

  “Those,” Quinn said, thinking if Fedderman laughed he was going to kick his ass all the way back into retirement.

  “They’re genuine, all right,” Riley said.

  Pearl was back within ten minutes, telling them the door led to a corridor and she’d found blood on the carpet. It looked like the dead man had been shot inside the hotel, then dragged outside and dumped behind the trash bags.

  Riley’s bleary eyes widened in alarm. “Shot? Blood? Holy, bejesus, bejesus, bejesus! I been told it’s the End of Days. I been told.”

  “The dead man would agree with whoever told you,” Pearl said, stepping to the side to avoid Riley’s breath. To Quinn she said: “I’ve got the bloodstain cordoned off and a uniform posted to protect it.”

  Quinn nodded, not doubting that the blood would belong to the corpse lying next to the mound of stuffed trash bags. This one is different. The other. 25-Caliber Killer victims died where they were shot, or at least were never moved after death.

  Not exactly a break in the case, but something about it suggested to Quinn that it was important.

  “Holy bejesus!” Riley said again.

  Pearl said, “What the hell are you looking at?”

  “Let’s check inside,” Quinn said. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Riley.”

  “The End of Days,” Riley said.

  “That’s a good thing for you to be thinking about,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t like that old jerk-off,” Pearl said, as they were walking toward the front of the hotel.

  “He seemed to like you okay,” Fedderman said.

  It didn’t take long to learn which door in the Antonian the key card unlocked. After Quinn checked at the desk in the lobby, they took the elevator to the third floor.

  The room was furnished like thousands of others in New York, an armchair that reclined, desk and matching chair, bed flanked by nightstands with lamps, an entertainment hutch, most of it in matching dark maple.

  On a collapsible luggage stand was a suitcase with three changes of clothing. There was no luggage tag on the suitcase. The clothes were expensive casual and included a pair of designer jeans. There were three baseball caps, three different colors, each from a different team.

  “Fickle fan,” Pearl said.

  Quinn looked in the tiny bathroom. There was a shaving kit and lineup of containers on the vanity. Also a coffee brewer that hadn’t been used. The soap hadn’t been unwrapped. No tissues, nothing, in the plastic-lined waste basket. The dead man hadn’t been a hotel guest long enough to leave any stamp of personality.

 
Quinn took a wary look at himself in the vanity mirror and went back into the main room.

  “A wallet,” Fedderman said, standing at the open desk drawer. He thumbed through it. “We got us a Floyd Becker, SoHo address, fifty-one years old and will be forever.” He riffled the money like a skilled bank teller. “Three hundred even.”

  “That’s not the name he used when he checked in with cash at the front desk,” Quinn said.

  “ Jones,’ I’ll bet,” Fedderman said. “And he used his initial for his phony first name.”

  “ Smith,’” Pearl said, “and no same initial.”

  Quinn shook his head. “You’re both wrong. Answer’s ‘Bob Green.’”

  “Shit!” Pearl said.

  Fedderman chuckled nastily. “I was sure you said ‘Smith.’ ”

  There was something unusual about this one, Quinn thought, despite Becker’s lack of imagination in choosing a pseudonym. Something that deviated from the pattern in a meaningful way. Maybe it had to do with the body being dragged outside. Or maybe it was something else.

  Terri Gaddis thought she’d found heaven. Her own Camelot, at least.

  Richard Crane was the most gentle, skillful lover she’d ever experienced. She lay now in her bedroom, hungover and exhausted from the wine and sex, her head resting on Richard’s bare chest. She could hear, could feel, his regular, coursing heartbeat. It must, she thought, be in rhythm with her own.

  The pungent scent of their bodies, of their coupling, was still in the room, and she wished it would never leave. The air conditioner was humming, gradually catching up with the heat the two of them had generated. Soon, Terri knew, the room would return to normal, and so would her life.

  Or would it?

  Surely Richard had felt the same intensity she had, known the same revelation. Yes! Two people can be this gloriously happy!

  He was the kind of man who would feel it. She knew that about him now. It was all she had to know.

  Which reminded her that she didn’t know very much. He’d mentioned that he worked for a Wall Street firm, but he didn’t say which. Obviously he was successful, had money, or he couldn’t dress the way he did, with the tailored suit and expensive gold watch and cuff links. And he took care of himself, judging by his muscularity and-she smiled-his endurance. She absently ran a hand over her right breast, her erect nipple.