by John Lutz
75
Quinn and Fedderman saw the door to Jill’s apartment hanging open. There was no way to know what was going on inside, or how many people were involved. Victor had probably been alone, but there was no way to be sure.
They entered cautiously, guns drawn.
Jill was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, her face blank. She was obviously in shock. Pearl was slumped on the sofa. Her right eye was tightly closed and there was blood all over that side of her face and in spatter marks down her right arm.
She squinted at Quinn with her left eye.
“More blood than anything else,” she said. “Bullet hit a picture on the wall. Blew it all to hell. Glass in my eye.”
She seemed only mildly annoyed, rather than enraged or in any great pain. Must be in shock, like Jill, Quinn figured.
He turned to instruct Fedderman to call for EMS for both Pearl and Jill. Fedderman was already standing off to the side with his cell phone making the call.
“Don’t need an ambulance,” Pearl said. “You or Feds can drive me to the hospital. Or I can take a cab.”
“Call Renz when you’re done with that call,” Quinn said to Fedderman. “Let him know what happened.”
Then he sat down beside Pearl on the sofa and held her close.
As soon as Renz hung up after Fedderman’s call, he phoned Cindy Sellers. She’d hear it and publish it first, even if the news hit TV before the next edition of City Beat.
Sellers was print media and should be used to getting scooped by TV or the Internet. But she’d get the jump on all the major New York papers. A deal was a deal. Besides, Renz would rather have Sellers as an ally than an enemy.
Her questions were brief and to the point. Renz’s answers were the same. They both knew the rules. Renz kind of enjoyed the conversation. They were two ruthless and expert players who by chance and opportunity found themselves on the same side of the board.
When the conversation was over, Renz went to his office door and locked it. He was smiling.
Quinn had come through again. The Torso Murderer—the real one—lay dead on the sidewalk, and Renz’s career was alive and well.
As planned.
He returned to his desk and fired up a celebratory cigar.
Pearl had done her job. Jill Clark was mentally shaken but otherwise unharmed. The paramedics tried to load Pearl onto a gurney to carry her to the ambulance. She was having none of it. The glass wasn’t actually in her eye, so she demanded to be stitched up then and there. The paramedics said the best they could do on the spot were butterfly bandages to temporarily hold the deepest cuts together and stop the bleeding. Pearl told them that would do. Tough Pearl. Thought she was staying on the job, going with Quinn and Fedderman.
“Not a chance,” Quinn told her when he realized she expected to stay in the hunt. “You’ve done enough, Pearl. If you won’t go to a hospital, stay here and rest. Or go up to your own apartment. Jewel’s.”
“That place is a rat hole,” Pearl said.
“For a rodent that’s lucky to be alive.”
“You calling me a rat, Quinn?”
Quinn said, “Stay, Pearl!” As if she were a dog he was disciplining and taking no more shit from. Well, better than a rodent.
Pearl didn’t like it, but she knew when not to argue. Stubborn bastard! She slumped down on the sofa, slouching so she was sitting on her spine. Like a spoiled brat unfairly denied.
Quinn was unmoved. He turned to Fedderman.
“Let’s go see if Palmer Stone’s working late tonight,” he said, not looking back at Pearl as he moved toward the door.
Fedderman slid a fresh clip into his 9mm, glanced at Pearl, grinned, and said, “Hard ass.” He hurried to catch up with Quinn.
Pearl stayed behind and fumed.
Quin and Fedderman commandeered one of the unmarked city cars that had arrived at the scene. Quinn drove it fast but not recklessly, staring straight ahead, thinking about Pearl and what had happened to Victor Lamping, and what he, Quinn, would like to do to Palmer Stone.
He double-parked outside Stone’s office building and flipped down the sun visor to display the NYPD placard. Quinn and Fedderman were the only ones in the elevator as it rose to the floor where E-Bliss.org’s offices were located.
Quinn knew Renz had probably tipped Cindy Sellers by now. All secrets were known. The news of Victor’s death might already be on TV and radio.
As they entered the suite of offices, Quinn signaled Fedderman, and both men drew their weapons and held them tight against their thighs.
The small anteroom was empty. It had a still and desolate air about it. After enough years, cops could sense unoccupied premises. After enough years, they learned not to entirely trust their instincts.
Weapons raised and at the ready now, Quinn led the way, and they pushed through to Stone’s office.
The offices of E-Bliss.org were occupied—in a way. Palmer Stone was at his desk, appropriately dressed in a dark business suit with white shirt and red silk tie. He was slumped forward with both arms and his head on the desk, as if he were taking a nap. There was a dark-rimmed, perfectly round hole in his temple. The gun that had created it was in his right hand. The bullet hadn’t exited his head, so the desk had only a small pool of blood on it. Near Stone’s left hand was a precisely folded suicide note. Everything about the scene was neat and orderly, considering. The live Palmer Stone would have approved.
The note was computer generated and had been printed out. It said simply, “I know when business hours are over.” It was signed in blue ink, no doubt from the Montblanc pen lying uncapped on the desk.
Quinn replaced the note where he’d found it. He used his cell to contact Renz and tell him what had happened.
While they were waiting for the army of CSU techs and the M.E. and EMS, Quinn and Fedderman slipped evidence gloves on and began a cursory examination of Palmer Stone’s files and the contents of his desk drawers.
Unsurprisingly, there was nothing incriminating. Merely the expected business letters and signed correspondence with suppliers and satisfied clients. Maybe the computers would yield more later.
Fedderman, who was near the office window, glanced outside and down at the street.
He turned to Quinn. “Troops’re arriving.”
Quinn took a deep breath, released it, and looked around the spare, neat office, then at the still body behind the desk.
“They can have it,” he said and moved toward the door.
And stopped. Something made him not want to leave. Not just yet.
He walked over to the desk and stared at the shocked expression on Palmer Stone’s face.
“We ever seen Stone before in the flesh?” he asked.
Fedderman shook his head no. “Seen his photo on the Internet. What’s left here in his desk chair looks like the photo.”
Quinn continued to stare at the dead man. He simply couldn’t tell for sure, but he had to allow for possibilities.
“You notice anything about those files we went through?” he asked Fedderman.
“Nothing I wanted to notice.”
“The signatures on the documents and the suicide note aren’t the same.”
Fedderman took a moment to think about that. “And Stone’s business was providing doubles with new identities.” He wiped his wrist across his mouth, then looked doubtful. “But if the dead guy at the desk isn’t Stone, and the note’s a phony, why wouldn’t Stone have signed it?”
“He might have wanted only the dead man’s prints on the pen and paper in case they might be lifted. He could’ve held the gun to the man’s head and made him sign the note. I’ll bet the gun’s been wiped clean except for the dead man’s prints. I’ll bet the office has been wiped clean. And Stone’s been clean, never been arrested or in the military. His prints aren’t on file.”
Fedderman leaned forward and stared hard at the dead man’s face. “It sure looks like Stone.”
“What if it isn’t?” Qui
nn asked.
But he already knew the answer.
If Stone was alive but officially dead, what did he have to lose by murdering the woman who’d destroyed his business and brought about his downfall?
Or women?
Jill Clark, who’d already barely escaped. And Pearl.
By cell phone, Quinn tried to contact Pearl, who was still having her injuries tended.
She’d managed to browbeat a second paramedic, who’d come for Jill, into applying stitches rather than the butterfly bandages. The grumpy paramedic answered her phone. Quinn told him the situation.
Pearl, listening to one side of the conversation, told the paramedic to tell Quinn that Weaver was with Jill, who was unhurt and had refused medical attention.
“She says to tell you—”
“Never mind,” Quinn said. “Just take care of her. Make sure she’s okay.”
“What we do,” the grumpy paramedic said.
“And tell her to get the hell out of there. Out of the building.”
“With this one, telling her’s not the same as her doing it.”
“I know,” Quinn said. “I’m an expert on the subject.”
He broke the connection, then immediately called Renz and told him the situation at E-Bliss.org.
Renz didn’t say anything for almost a minute, thinking about all the ramifications of maybe looking foolish if Quinn was wrong about Stone not being Stone. The consequences could be even worse than simply looking foolish. There were deep wells to fall into here. Even tiger pits.
But Renz was still more cop than bureaucrat or politician.
“Could be,” he said. “Not likely, but could be.” He paused. “You’re on your own with this hypothesis, though. It’s gotta be that way, Quinn.” Well, almost more cop than bureaucrat or politician.
The Two Palmer Stones was Quinn’s theory, Quinn’s game, Quinn’s risk—and if Quinn just happened to be right, Renz’s glory. And if it turned out Quinn was wrong, no harm to Renz. Win-win.
“We’re on our way to Jill’s apartment,” Quinn said.
“I’ll call Weaver,” Renz said, “and make sure she takes Jill somewhere safe.” No political risk there. Only upside.
While Quinn was stuffing the cell phone back in his pocket, Fedderman said, “Pearl okay?”
“For Pearl,” Quinn said. “For now.”
They took the elevator down and Quinn gave directions to the CSU crew that had just entered the lobby. Then they were back in the unmarked bucking traffic and retracing their route. Ignoring potholes and blaring horns and angry shouts and traffic laws and traffic lights. Driving hard toward Jill Clark’s apartment.
“Think he’ll go there?” Fedderman asked.
Quinn concentrated on threading his way through traffic. “I think he might. That’s enough.”
“Should still be plenty of law there. Maybe they haven’t even taken away Victor’s body.”
“That’ll all be out in the street,” Quinn said. “And if there’s something going on there, all the better for Stone. It’ll be easier for him to enter the building without attracting suspicion and confront Jill and Pearl.”
“He’s not stupid,” Fedderman said. “He might think we could be on to him and he’s got that figured in his plans.”
Quinn smiled a smile Fedderman had seen before. It would never prompt anyone to smile back.
“We have our own plans,” Quinn said.
76
Stone was there.
Quinn and Fedderman knew it almost as soon as they entered the building. They saw him first as a lower leg in richly tailored dress slacks and polished wing tips, for only a second as he rounded the corner and began climbing the stairs.
Neither Quinn nor Fedderman said anything as they quietly gave chase. They didn’t want Stone to know they were there. Ideally, they’d come up behind him before he realized he wasn’t alone and take him down alive. They needed him in court, as a defendant and as a witness.
As Stone began climbing the last flight of stairs to Jill’s floor, he prepared to enter her apartment by drawing a small pearl-handled gun from his suit coat pocket.
As he did so, Quinn made the slightest noise on the creaking stairs.
Stone turned in surprise. It was as if the dead man back in the office had risen up and they’d startled him.
Quinn didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t. There was distance to cover.
He charged.
The wind rushed out of Stone as Quinn leveled a shoulder into his midsection. At the same time, Quinn’s left hand found Stone’s right, forcing the pearl-handled gun to point at the ceiling.
As the two men slid toward the floor, Quinn squeezed hard with his powerful left hand. Flesh and blood vessels compacted against bone as Stone’s right wrist was crushed. The gun dropped like a child’s surrendered toy and clattered onto the floor.
Stone wasn’t the sort to put up a fight.
He sat down winded on the wooden steps, leaning forward and gripping his aching wrist. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He brushed away the drool, working hard to control his breathing, then gave a sad smile and shook his head.
Fedderman read him his rights, then leaned close to him so their faces were only inches apart. He studied Stone. “The dead guy sitting at your desk—”
“Isn’t me,” Stone finished for him. “Obviously.”
“Your double,” Quinn said. “Who thought he was going to move into your life and be well paid for it. Instead he was used to fake your suicide.”
“Things had reached an impasse,” Stone said. “Because of you, I might add.”
“You’re the one who shot the poor bastard,” Quinn said, not posing it as a question. Just making conversation here. The idea was to get Stone to admit it in his own words.
Quinn held his silence. He waited, waited….
“I killed him,” Stone said. “I’m not averse to doing the wet work when I must.” He managed to shrug. “Business is business.”
Quinn whistled out a long breath in relief.
It was over. He and Fedderman exchanged a look. Quinn thought Fedderman might have smiled.
With Stone alive and an admitted killer, and with Jill’s testimony, the case against E-Bliss.org was solid. And when they found the new Madeline Scott, she’d have little choice but to reveal her true identity and testify for the prosecution.
“I think,” Stone said, “I won’t say anything more until my attorney is present.”
Which struck Quinn as odd, considering Stone had just confessed and confirmed that they had the right man.
Very odd.
He cuffed Stone’s uninjured wrist to the banister.
Pearl had reluctantly taken Quinn’s earlier advice and returned to Jewel’s apartment. She wasn’t sure where Jill was. Weaver might have taken her someplace safer.
After cleaning up as best she could, combing her hair without looking closely at the two-inch-square bandage on her right cheek near her eye, she decided to go downstairs and check on Jill, make sure she wasn’t still in her apartment.
As she turned from the bathroom mirror, the light penetrating through the narrow window was like a lance in her right eye. She put on the black eye patch the paramedic had given her and then did assess her appearance carefully in the mirror.
She decided she looked like a pirate after a run-in with the Royal Navy.
Aargh! she almost said softly. Then she decided nothing was funny and looked away from the pathetic face in the mirror.
She went downstairs and knocked on the door to Jill’s apartment.
The light behind the peephole in the door changed and she knew Jill—or someone—was there. Jill, probably, too shaken to immediately open the door to anyone’s knock. After what had happened to her, Jill might not trust anyone for months.
“Me,” Pearl called. “Jewel.” The alias had become a secret password.
The light behind the peephole remained constant.
The man peeri
ng through the peephole sized up the woman at the door. She was small, didn’t look like much of a threat, and seemed to have been in some kind of accident. She was wearing an eye patch and a glob of white bandage on her face.
If he waited her out, she might simply go away. He’d already searched the apartment, looked in all its hiding places, and knew Jill Clark wasn’t home. She must have been placed somewhere else for her protection. This woman—Jewel, she’d said her name was—obviously knew Jill. Maybe she’d know where Jill was. She seemed to be alone.
He decided to make the woman tell him what he needed to know, then kill her. If he could somehow get to Jill, everything might still go as planned.
The cops hadn’t left that long ago. There might still be some around. He’d have to move fast and noiselessly.
He holstered the gun he was holding and drew a knife.
77
The door suddenly opened and a dark-haired man with fierce brown eyes clutched Pearl’s arm painfully and yanked her inside the apartment. She hadn’t had time to think, much less offer any resistance.
I don’t recognize him. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Who the hell is he?
Now what?
He was showing her a knife, slowly revolving the blade in the air. Obviously displaying it for effect.
He grinned meanly as he held up the long-bladed knife, figuring terror would melt the woman into something he could easily handle. It had always amused him that women reacted that way when they saw a knife that might be used on them. Perhaps it was a natural fear of penetration. Something sexual. Whatever, it made them inert and helpless.
Pearl kicked him in the knee.
The man roared with pain and slashed out at her with the knife. Pearl stepped inside the arc of the swing and punched him in the stomach. He grunted and shoved her backward, almost making her lose her balance. When he came at her she sidestepped his charge, barely avoiding the flashing blade. She was terrified that he might slash at her from the other direction, her blind side.