by John Lutz
“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?” Quinn 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 any
thing 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 peering 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.
Damned patch!
But she was afraid to tear the patch off now, afraid of sudden brilliance and pain that might be worse than vision with one eye.
She remembered a tacky glass vase on the table near the sofa, swiveled her head so she could see it through her left eye. Fixed its image in her mind. When the man charged her again with the knife, she avoided the blade and dodged left, toward the table.
He whirled and came at her low, using the knife underhand this time. It would be harder to avoid his upward slashes, more difficult to see them coming from below eye level. Pearl felt for the cheap vase, a florist’s pressed-glass giveaway designed to hold one rose. She fumbled it, feeling it slide from her fingers.
Then she lowered her hand and caught the vase as it toppled. She got a good grip on it and slammed it into the man’s face.
It didn’t shatter. She swung it again and felt it make solid contact with the man’s head.
The force of the blow made her lose her grip on the vase. It bounced on the floor and passed from her range of vision.
She no longer had the vase as a weapon, but it had bought her precious seconds. She knew how to use them. She bolted for the door.
Had her fingers wrapped around the knob.
Was pulling the door open.
But she knew she wouldn’t be fast enough. She was trapped in one of those horrible slow-motion nightmares.
She was aware of the knife suddenly protruding from the door frame, near her face, where it had penetrated enameled wood after the man’s desperate throw, his attempt to cut her on the run.
At least he isn’t armed now.
Gunfire exploded behind her.
Oh, shit!
He’s got a gun, too! And he’s determined!
So was Pearl. She had the door open and was almost in the hall. If she could get around the corner, out of sight, she might make it to the stairs. Screw the elevator. No time.
She felt the familiar smoothness and grit of the hall’s tile floor under the sole of her left shoe.
Gonna make it!
A truck slammed into her back.
She knew she’d been shot. She stumbled forward, then seemed to strike an invisible wall and bounce off it. Her balance shifted, as if the floor tilted.
Pearl felt herself moving backward, back, back into the apartment on numbed legs. Exactly where she didn’t want to go.
The impact of the second bullet was greater than that of the first. It flung her against the door, slamming it shut and trapping her inside with her assailant. Everything around her began to whirl, making her dizzy.
She was looking up at the door. It was square in her one-eyed vision and moving farther and farther away, getting smaller.
Odd…Am I floating…?
She realized she was on the floor, her upper body on soft carpet, hardwood floor solid beneath her bare heels. Had the force of the shots knocked her out of her shoes? She’d seen it happen.
She looked again and found the door. It was standing wide open. There was more noise, banging sounds, but she could barely hear them, as if they were coming from far away.
Gunfire?
There was Quinn, crouched in the doorway in shooting stance, filling the doorway, blasting away with that antique revolver of his.
Quinn.
It was strange how calm she was now.
Quinn. Looking so serious. A serious man, Quinn. So simple and complex. A good man. Hard to find, hard to lose. She was going to miss him so….
She thought she might have smiled at him.
78
“You with me, Pearl?
Quinn’s voice. There was a horrible taste in Pearl’s mouth, and her lips were glued together with dried mucus.
Yuk!
“Pearl?”
She didn’t want to open her eyes, but she did.
There was Quinn, standing over her, looking serious.
It came back to her in a rush, the man in Jill’s apartment, the struggle, the gunfire.
Jesus, I’ve been shot!
“Don’t try to move, Pearl.”
She felt her lips rip apart. “Wha’ happened?”
“You were shot and spent five hours on the operating table. You’ve been unconscious for a while, and now you’re back.”
Mingled scents came to her: pine disinfectant, peppermint, fresh linen. She let her gaze roam, painfully and with one eye. Her
vision was slightly blurred more than a few feet out, beyond a tray on which sat a green plastic glass and pitcher, a box of tissues. She was in a hospital bed.
“Unconscious? A while?”
“Three days,” Quinn said.
Three days! Serious. Maybe critical.
“That qualify as a coma?”
“Sure,” Quinn said.
“I’m gonna live?”
“Yeah, if from now on you do everything I say.”
“Quinn…”
“I’m sorry. You’re gonna be okay, Pearl. You’re in Roosevelt Hospital. You were shot twice. One bullet broke your collarbone. Another entered your back near the shoulder blade and deflected downward and lodged near your liver. They’ve both been removed. You’re gonna be fine.”
“So I really will live?”
“You will.” His smile came and went like a ghost. “You’ve got a lot of physical therapy ahead of you.”
Pearl tried to move but found she was too weak. “My back, nothing hurts. Everything’s numb.”
“It’s the drugs. It’ll hurt later, Pearl.”
“Good old Quinn, giving it to me straight.”
“Few enough people will, in this screwed-up world.”
“Don’t I know it? When can I get out of here?”
“Maybe in two or three more days. They’re gonna evaluate you again.”
“Jill okay?”
“Fine.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Feds and I caught up with Palmer Stone on the stairs of Jill’s building, and he admitted faking his suicide, killing the man who had become his double and thought he was going to become Stone after the real Stone disappeared. We tried to get more out of him, but he went silent and asked for an attorney.”
“He decided to lawyer up after admitting to murder?”
“Yeah. That’s what struck Feds and me as wrong. We figured he had a reason, that he was maybe trying to delay us. And we could think of only one reason why he’d want to keep us in the stairwell as long as possible.”
“He didn’t want you to go to Jill’s apartment. He wanted you to think any danger to her was over.”
“Right. He knew what was going to happen up there, because he knew who was waiting. But you went to see Jill. You found Jorge Sanchez instead.”