by John Lutz
Coulter felt his confidence returning. Maybe all he’d heard was some guy going out to his car because he’d forgotten his cigarettes. Something like that. Nervous as Coulter was, maybe he’d gotten himself all in a dither over nothing.
Maybe not.
Either way, I ain’t goin’ back to sleep. I’m outta here.
He stepped all the way outside, moving cautiously in his cowboy boots. His crunching footfalls were barely audible in the still night as he made his way toward the truck. The ignition key was tight between his fingers, ready to insert and twist. He was squeezing it so hard he felt it cutting into his flesh. In his left hand, he still carried the gun.
Maybe I should switch. Can’t shoot good left-handed.
Too late for that.
He made it to within ten feet of the truck, then used the key fob to unlock the doors. A dim light came on inside the truck’s cab. He straightened up and moved faster, not worrying now about the noise, and opened the driver’s-side door and swung himself up behind the steering wheel.
Wham!
A blinding light hit him in the face like something solid. He reeled back even as he reached forward. Amazingly, the ignition key found its slot. Red and blue flashing lights were all around him now, and sirens began to yowl.
Ignoring the maelstrom of light and noise, he slammed the shift selector into reverse, twisted the steering wheel as he stomped on the gas. Gravel flew as the truck did a 180-degree spin. The truck had stopped, but was still rocking as he rammed the selector into drive, and headed hell for leather for the driveway leading to the state road.
The truck’s big engine roared with power as Coulter laid the gun on the seat beside him and hunched over the steering wheel. He was gripping the wheel with both slippery hands. Something made a loud crack behind his right ear. Glass breaking. Like a rock had been hurled through it. Only he knew it hadn’t been a rock.
Shooting at me! Jesus!
His right foot mashed down on the accelerator even harder. Gravel, dirt, large rocks were hurled into the air off the knobby tires as the truck lurched forward. Sonuvabitch has got power, he thought, as he felt himself pressed backward in his seat. There was a bump that made him rise off the seat cushion, and the steering wheel writhed in his hand. The truck leaned left and he yanked the wheel right.
Then he was out of the motel’s parking lot and picking up speed on the paved road. The flashing colored lights, the yowling sirens, were still there, flitting this way and that in the darkness, but they were behind him now. There was nothing ahead but black road, and a faint yellow line snaking away into the night, leading toward freedom.
The truck cab got brighter. He glanced in his right outside mirror and was almost blinded by headlights that had slid in close behind him. The mirror exploded as a bullet caught it. He mashed down harder on the accelerator, putting distance between him and the headlights.
Coulter thought he should shoot back. He owed it to himself. And maybe it’d make the State Patrol or whoever the hell they were let up some on the gas. Gripping the wheel tight with his left hand, he picked up the gun with his right.
Shootin’ hand. Look out now!
This was going to be awkward. He made sure the truck was aimed straight ahead, held on to the steering wheel with his left hand, and twisted his body so he could get his right arm out the window and shoot behind him.
The gun worked okay. He managed to get off a shot but had no way of knowing if it had hit anything. The car hit a bump just as he was about to squeeze the trigger again, and the sudden jolt made him bump his wrist against the hard window frame, knocking the gun from his grasp. It dropped down and away onto the pavement.
In the shitpot now!
He turned back so he was sitting straight, staring out through the windshield and steering with both hands. Whoever was chasing him had gotten close again. The lights in the rearview mirror were blinding, even though the mirror was set for nighttime vision. He reached up and twisted it so the light was deflected. No need to look behind him. He knew they were there.
Just drive, goddamnit. Forget about the gun. You wasn’t gonna hit anything anyway.
Drive!
Coulter saw a county road intersecting with the state road, made up his mind in an instant, and swung left. This road was narrower than the one he’d been on, and bumpier. He knew what he had to find. The kind of turnoff where the big four-wheel-drive truck could go and low-slung police cars made for highway pursuit couldn’t follow. That was his only real chance to escape the shitstorm his bad luck had put him in.
If I can just make it into the swamp I can…think of something….
The headlights were still back there. The road began to wind. A bullet sparked off the already damaged outside mirror, startling Coulter. But he didn’t lose control of the truck. He kept his head. He was learning all about himself, and he liked it. He had the balls for more than breaking and entering. He was a goddamned Jesse James.
As the truck roared and sped along, the swamp seemed to move in closer on either side. Within half a mile he saw what he needed, a crude wooden sign indicating a turnoff ahead. As he flashed past it, he couldn’t even read what it said, but he put light pressure on the brake pedal, getting ready.
Then there it was on his left, an opening in the swamp. It wasn’t much more than flattened grass, but enough of a road to provide access for the big truck. Just enough.
Luck from shit to gold!
As Coulter yanked the steering wheel to the left, the truck leaned hard and went up on two wheels. Then it dropped back and tracked perfectly onto the narrow, grassy road. As soon as he straightened it out, it flew up in the air, and Coulter felt the top of his head hit the headliner. As he plopped back down in his seat, he fumbled and found a firm grip on the steering wheel. He clenched his teeth and followed the truck’s headlight beams into the swamp.
This was goddamned working. This was what he wanted. There was another, smaller bump, then rooster tails of water rose high and away from the front wheels and the truck rocked to a dead stop.
Coulter’s heart stopped with it.
Here was his lousy luck again. He should have expected it. It was his role in life to have the rug yanked out from under him. God had had it in for him from the beginning.
He jammed the selector into a lower gear and played the gas pedal. Mud and rocks slammed against the insides of the fenders, but the truck didn’t budge. Wasn’t this thing supposed to have four-wheel drive?
Don’t let me down now! Please! C’mon! C’mon!
If God wouldn’t help him, maybe the devil would. Or the all-powerful God of Trucks and Fools. The big engine roared. The oversized tires spun free and threw more mud, found traction, and the truck lurched forward and picked up speed.
Coulter gleefully stomped the accelerator. The truck responded as if it were alive and born for the challenge.
Small branches whipped and scratched against the truck’s steel sides. Welcome sounds. They meant the swamp was opening its arms for him and freedom could be had. He drove like a maniac. More dark water splashed from time to time, some of it splattering on the windshield.
Coulter used the truck’s wipers and forged on. The road had become a narrow, muddy tunnel through the swamp. That was fine with him. The bumpier and muddier the better. This was exactly the kind of place that would soon bog down a low-slung car.
After a while, Coulter chanced a glance in the rearview mirror and saw through the trees a glimmer of headlights, far behind. A few seconds later he looked again and saw only blackness.
He backed off a bit on the accelerator, driving more carefully. His breathing was ragged and his heart was pounding as if it might break a rib. He knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet, literally, but he couldn’t help letting out a loud whoop. He’d shaken them.
Desperado on the run!
Goddamn he was something! He’d shaken them!
For now.
49
Wes Nobbler and Greeve had g
otten to Ruth Malpass’s apartment first and confiscated her notebook computer. After that, it was seconds for Quinn and his team. When they requested the laptop, they were informed that Nobbler and Greeve were the real NYPD, but that they’d share.
Quinn informed Renz of this, and Renz promptly phoned and gave Nobbler one of his better ass-chewings and made it clear who was working the Torso Murders case.
It wasn’t Nobbler.
Nobbler had reluctantly given Quinn’s team a copy of the hard drive of Malpass’s computer’s, made after Pearl and an NYPD computer whiz observed the transfer of the files to make sure it was complete.
The drive revealed no sign of E-Bliss.org. Pearl had gone over it and found some e-mail messages and addresses to follow up on, but nothing promising. The computer’s Internet history was also unrevealing. Ruth had read several newspapers online and regularly visited a few show-business sites and gossip blogs. Pearl had reported that Ruth had bought lots of shoes over the Internet. That meant nothing other than that Pearl had new sources of shoes.
Today Pearl and Fedderman were getting follow-up statements from Ruth’s neighbors, who were telling them what a fine woman Ruth was. That had been the report from two of the actors and the producer of Major Mary, the musical she’d been costuming.
Quinn got a key from the super and entered Ruth’s apartment. It was pretty much what he expected except for the scent; there was a sachet or something like one somewhere giving off a faint whiff of cinnamon. The apartment was a functionally furnished loft, with a southern exposure and shelves of art books and pottery and sculpture. There was a shiny steel framework on one wall that held clothes. At first Quinn thought they were Ruth’s and simply didn’t fit in the big oak wardrobe, but then he realized they must be part of her work.
Near a window was a wooden drafting board with a large pad of paper on it. The top sheet was curled back over the high end of the slanted board. There was no chair nearby. Ruth must have stood while she worked.
“Hello?”
Quinn was startled by the voice. He turned and saw a short woman with no waist and a lot of frizzy blond hair. She was wearing loosely cut jeans and a sleeveless white blouse. Her incredibly large blue eyes were the sort that didn’t blink much. They looked frightened.
“I’m Hettie Crane from downstairs,” she said, “a neighbor and good friend of Ruth’s. When I heard what happened to her…”
Whatever else she’d been about to say was choked off by emotion.
“I know,” Quinn told her gently. He introduced himself, showing her his shield.
Hettie only glanced at it, but wouldn’t have been able to see it well anyway from as far away as she was. She stood stiff legged where she’d stopped just inside the door, as if she might be invading Ruth’s privacy if she ventured farther into the apartment. The way her friend died had obviously shaken Hettie’s world.
“You all right, dear?”
Hettie nodded. She lifted her chin slightly and tried to smile, but her facial muscles wouldn’t cooperate.
“It always smelled so good in here,” she said. “Ruth burned scented candles.” Her eyes became moist. She swallowed.
Quinn smiled at her and decided to give her time to wrestle some more with her new reality. Her juicy blue gaze followed him as he walked over to the drafting board.
The top sheet of paper was filled with skillfully rendered sketches of what looked like military uniforms, male and female. Quinn flipped the raised sheet of paper and saw more of the same.
“These mean anything to you?” he asked Hettie, keeping his tone casual.
She reluctantly came over to stand next to him where she could see Ruth’s drawings.
“They’re costume concepts for Major Mary,” she said. “I know because I’m directing the play. It was set to open in a couple of months.” She moved closer and looked again at the sketches. “It’ll still open. We’ll use Ruth’s costuming ideas. These sketches. They’re far enough along, and she would have wanted it that way.” She looked up at Quinn. Her eyes were still teary. “It’ll be at the Marlborough Theater in the Village. It’s a musical comedy.”
“Good luck with it,” Quinn said, and meant it. “Did you know Ruth well?”
“Very well. She’s the one who recommended me for my apartment. This building rents to a lot of theater people.”
“So you had mutual friends.”
“Quite a few,” Hettie said.
“Was Ruth involved with anyone?”
“Romantically? Sexually?”
“Either one,” Quinn said, smiling.
“She broke off about four months ago with this guy she’d been seeing. Buddy Erb. He’s an actor.”
“Know where he can be found?”
“In L.A. He does the voice-over in that commercial where the frog recommends an insurance company and then drives an SUV off a cliff. You know the one?”
“Sure.”
“Buddy does a great frog.”
“Got that kinda voice,” Quinn said. “They fight or anything when they broke up?”
“No, they just got tired of each other. It was pretty much over when Buddy got the job offer.”
“The frog?”
“Yeah. Which meant he had to move to the West Coast.”
“Yuck,” Quinn said. “All that sun and surf.”
Hettie gave him a look. She knew what he was doing, loosening her up, getting her to talk so maybe she’d yield a nugget of information. It was okay with her. She wanted the big, homely-handsome cop to catch the animal who had killed her friend.
The guy has an interesting face, Hettie thought. Rugged and memorable. And so, so trustworthy. He should have been an actor. Leading man. Not that he wasn’t way too old for her…
Not that he wasn’t an actor, in his own way.
“I know Buddy pretty well,” she said. “He’s an actor, not a killer. And from what I hear, his sexual needs are standard issue. If you check, I’m sure you’ll find he was on the other side of the continent when Ruth was killed.”
“We’ll check. You know how we are.” Quinn ran his fingertips over the sketch pad, as if trying to gain some knowledge about the sketches’ creator. “Ruth date a lot?” he asked.
“Some. She liked men, but she was busy much of the time. Especially lately, what with Major Mary.”
“You recall her mentioning anyone?”
“Since Buddy? No.”
“Since Buddy, did she ever use a dating service?”
“I doubt it. Ruth was great to look at. Men liked her. If she wanted to go out, there was always somebody there.”
“I don’t want to sound like a TV cop—”
“You’d make a great TV cop.”
“But did Ruth have any enemies whom you know of?”
“Everybody loved Ruth.” Hettie gave him a sad grin. “More TV dialogue, but it happens to be true. She was a terrific and talented person. Even the sicko who killed her must have loved her in his own twisted way.”
“How so?”
“He chose her, didn’t he?”
50
Hettie had left, and Quinn was standing in the center of Ruth Malpass’s apartment, slowly looking around, when Pearl came in.
“Anything from the neighbors?” he asked.
“Nothing useful. They all liked Ruth. She’d been seen coming and going with a man now and then. Nobody steady. Nobody lately. She was friendly—I heard the word sweet a lot—but pretty much kept to herself.” Pearl glanced around the apartment. “Anything here?”
“Nothing unusual or helpful. Just like on her computer.”
“Nobbler had it first. You think we saw everything that was on it?”
“You watched the file transfer. The tech whiz seem okay?”
“Yeah. Seemed.”
“Then we probably got it all,” Quinn said. “Nobbler’d be taking a hell of a risk tampering with that kind of evidence. And it’d take somebody who really knew computers to be sure whatever was deleted wa
s really and truly gone from the disk for good. You know how it works.”
“Yeah. E-mail is forever.”
They both turned when they heard the door open.
Fedderman. He looked tired, and his brown suit was even more wrinkled than usual. He’d canvassed the top floors, while Pearl had worked the ones below. He didn’t look happy.
“Any luck?” Quinn asked.
Fedderman shook his head.
“Probably not except maybe for the woman living right in the next unit, a loft apartment just like this one. Name’s Emma McKenna. Real nice. Pretty enough to be an actress.”
“She probably is an actress,” Quinn said. “What did you learn from her.”
“She was a good friend of Ruth’s. According to her, they kind of looked out for one another. She said Ruth phoned her on what must have been the day she died and left a message on her machine. Said it probably wouldn’t happen, but if a guy named Vlad came around looking for her, tell him he just missed her and get his phone number.” Fedderman shrugged. “Emma didn’t know anyone named Vlad and said Ruth never mentioned a Vlad before the phone message. So it probably means nothing.”
Pearl said, “Holy Christ!”
Fedderman looked at her in surprise. “Huh?”
Quinn and Pearl both stared at him.
“What?” Fedderman asked.
Quinn said, “Don’t you watch The History Channel?”
After explaining to Fedderman about Vlad the Impaler, they set to work doing a search of the names Vlad and Vladimir, using phone directories at first, then moving on to their computers.
In the five boroughs of New York City, there were a surprising number of Vlads and Vladimirs. The Vlads who showed up in the various criminal databases were for one reason or another unlikely suspects. One, who’d at first seemed a possibility, was in the Russian Mafia and had been killed last year in New Jersey.
Almost certainly the killer—if Vlad was the killer—wouldn’t have used his real name. Still it was something that should be checked. Every ten years or so, something like this paid off. The drudge work of detection. Renz assigned a young cop named Nevins, fresh out of the academy, to do more extensive checking. He seemed enthusiastic.