Night Kills

by John Lutz

  Maria’s heart was hammering as she drew her cell phone from her purse and called upstairs.

  After breaking the brief connection, she kept her eyes trained on the lobby, and a few minutes later there was Jorge. He must have passed the men in the elevators, descending in a different car as they were going up. He was hurriedly making his way through the lobby, his shirt untucked, his hair uncombed. He didn’t glance toward her as he passed the coffee shop entrance and walked faster toward the street exit.

  Quickly he passed from her sight.

  Almost immediately she heard gunshots and screaming. She watched through the window as the figure with the half-tucked shirt came into view and began to run. His pace faltered, and red splotches appeared on the broad back of his white shirt.

  Then he stopped, raised both hands, and collapsed dying on the sidewalk.

  People in the hotel and out in the street were rising from where they’d sought shelter and moving around now. Some of them were running. People were hurrying from across the street, weaving between the stopped cars. All were moving faster and faster toward the scene of the shooting.

  Maria rose from her table, hurried to the lobby, and joined the throng of people rushing to see what had happened. Car horns were honking. There was much shouting. The wailing of sirens drifted over the city.

  Like banshees, she thought. They sound like banshees mourning for Jorge.

  But she knew the sirens meant only more police closing in to help establish and maintain order.

  Out on the sidewalk, she avoided elbows and shoulders, pushed her way against the flow of the crowd, and slipped away.

  19

  New York, the present

  One of those days.

  Quinn sat at his desk, leaning far back in his swivel chair, and watched the rain fall outside the window of the office on West Seventy-ninth Street. It must have been cool where the rain fell from, because steam was rising when the angled drops struck the warmed street and concrete sidewalk.

  Pearl was, for a change, in her chair, rather than perched on the edge of her desk. Fedderman was slouched in his desk chair nursing a mug of coffee. They were looking at the rain, too, aware of the constant trickling noise from a ledge above the window, and the occasional rattle of the loose pane when the summer wind kicked up. The city had slowed perceptibly, unaccustomed to such a gray morning in midsummer. This was somehow more depressing than the relentless heat they’d been enduring. The mood from outside had penetrated inside to the office.

  Fedderman lifted his coffee mug and observed it carefully, as if he suspected a leak.

  “We’re not,” he said, “getting a helluva lot done this morning.”

  “I am,” Pearl said.

  Quinn adjusted his chair slightly so he could look at her. She seemed small in the black vinyl swivel chair that was identical to his. Small and unproductive. Was she serious?

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  “Oh, Christ!” Fedderman said. “Let’s hope it hasn’t borne fruit.”

  Pearl looked at him as if he were an insect. “But it has. It’s a big juicy theory.”

  “Like with relativity?”

  “Let’s hear her out, Feds,” Quinn said. He leaned farther back in his chair, as if to gain distance from Pearl and her theory.

  “You’re going to fall on your ass,” Pearl told him.

  “Is that your theory?”

  “No, it’s about our killer.”

  “I assumed,” Quinn said, with a smile.

  They all listened to the patter of rain for a moment. Then Pearl sat up higher and leaned forward with her elbows on her desk. “It’s possible that the victims’ unidentifiable torsos are left where they’re sure to be found not as the killer’s calling card, or simply because they’re deemed untraceable, or even to taunt authorities, but so the police will assume the women were victims of a serial killer.”

  Quinn and Fedderman stared at her.

  “I hate to point out the obvious,” Fedderman said, “but whoever killed those women is by definition a serial killer.”

  “But maybe one who kills with a logical purpose,” Pearl said, “who might have a real and practical motive.”

  “They all think they have a real and practical motive,” Fedderman said. “It always turns out to be psycho squirrel shit.”

  “Maybe not this time, though. Our guy might be pretending to be a psychosexual killer so that’s what we’ll be hunting.”

  “The old serial killer diversion,” Fedderman said. “While we’re searching for a killer, our perp might actually have a bunch of unpaid traffic tickets.”

  Quinn thought, You seldom hear people say perp anymore. Where did it go?

  “If it’s an act,” Fedderman said, “it’s sure as hell a convincing one.”

  “So why’s our perp leaving the torsos and concealing the rest of the bodies?” Quinn asked, thinking it felt odd to say perp.

  “I’m not sure. All I’m saying is, it might really be a kind of diversion, so we’re looking for a nutcase killer and not for whatever else he is,” Pearl said.

  “The weather’s getting to you,” Fedderman said.

  “Screw you and the weather,” Pearl said.

  Quinn was silent. He knew this was the kind of thinking that made Pearl such a talented detective. He also knew she wouldn’t easily turn loose of the idea.

  “Are you convinced of this?” he asked her.

  “Of course not. I told you it was a theory.”

  “Did you say crackpot theory?” Fedderman asked.

  Pearl ignored him and pointedly addressed only Quinn: “Here’s where we are, spinning our wheels: We check the mental hospitals and psycho wards in New York and surrounding states, and there’s no one missing who likes to carve up people or animals. No one with those characteristics has been released from prison lately. We check with other cities and there are no similar cases. We use Helen’s profile as our guide and it gets us nowhere. That’s because her profile’s wrong. He’s not a nutcase in the conventional sense, and thinking he is throws us off the scent. That’s the object of his game.”

  “He has the earmarks of a genuine psychosexual serial killer,” Quinn said. “He kills each time in the same manner, ritualistically dismembers his victims and leaves grisly calling cards we’re sure to find, uses the same gun we’re sure to match with the bullets, does the sexual mutilation and penetration with the sharpened wooden broomstick—”

  “The goddamned furniture oil,” Fedderman interrupted.

  “It all might be part of his plan,” Pearl said calmly. “Don’t you see? He’s creating a profile for our profiler.”

  “Jesus,” Fedderman said.

  “It might be part of a plan,” Quinn said, “but so far there isn’t any evidence that it is. So we have to proceed on that basis.”

  “Consider the way everything is too damned pat,” Pearl said. “That’s its own kind of evidence.”

  “If it is,” Quinn said, “what are we gonna do with it?”

  “There’s a good question,” Fedderman said.

  Pearl sighed, knowing they were both right. “Yeah,” she said. “What can we do?”

  “Keep it in mind, is what,” Quinn said. “That’s the kind of evidence it is, the kind you keep in mind.”

  “Sure,” Pearl said. “I’ll do that.”

  Quinn knew she would.

  Fedderman stood up and wandered over to the coffee brewer. He glanced back at Pearl. It was obvious that he felt he might have been too hard on her.

  “It’s the weather,” he said. “You want some coffee, Pearl?”

  “Up your ass with your coffee,” she said.

  He poured her a cup anyway, then reconsidered, staring at the way it was steaming. It was scalding. She shouldn’t have it right now.

  He poured it back in the pot and returned to his desk.

  “Let’s go back to where we found the last one, by the Dumpster, and reinterview anyone who might have see
n or heard something,” Quinn said.

  “In the rain?” Fedderman asked.

  Quinn was already putting on his light overcoat.

  “In the rain.”

  “Most of them will probably be at work,” Fedderman said.

  “So will we,” Quinn said.

  It wasn’t just that Quinn kept Pearl’s theory in mind the rest of that day; he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Sometimes sitting around drinking coffee, or talking while it was raining outside a precinct house or stakeout car, there’d be a breakthrough in a case.

  Maybe today in the office had been one of those times.

  20

  By early evening the rain had stopped and a cooling breeze wafted in from the east. The city looked and smelled fresh, disconnected from any sordid past or questionable future.

  Quinn and Linda Chavesky met again for coffee and then went for a walk. They were on Broadway, near Columbus Circle. Traffic was heavy, mostly with cabs taking people shopping or to early dinners before the theater. Quinn was on Linda’s right, between her and the street. They were strolling casually, taking their time, stringing out the experience of being together. When the lights temporarily stopped traffic on their side of the street, they could hear their footfalls on the damp sidewalk.

  “Wanna talk shop?” Quinn asked.

  Linda shrugged, bumping her hip against him, maybe accidentally. “You’re always a cop, I’m always an M.E.”

  Quinn told her about Pearl’s theory.

  “Doesn’t sound likely,” Linda said after listening closely.

  “Pearl’s an original thinker.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Quinn hoped he’d detected a note of jealousy.

  They both veered left automatically to let a couple of chattering kids in gangsta pants bounce past.

  “Not being critical,” Linda said, “just asking, how the hell do they keep those pants up?”

  “I dunno. I guess they enjoy the suspense.”

  She laughed.

  They’d walked another fifty feet before she said, “You run Pearl’s theory past Renz?”

  “No. I think we should wait till we have something more.”

  “There might not be any more.”

  “Might not.”

  Another five measured steps. Ten. Quinn could sense that Linda hadn’t let go of what he’d told her. She was toying with it in her mind, like a cat with a ball of yarn. Here was something about her that intrigued him, and for some reason immensely pleased him.

  And something else, he realized; they were comfortable in their silence.

  “Maybe you should try it on the profiler, Helen Iman,” Linda said.

  “According to Pearl, Helen’s the one being conned.”

  “Well, she might at least want to be aware of the possibility.”

  “Also,” Quinn said, “it might be a mistake to plant the idea in Helen’s head. Might throw her off her game.”

  “Uh-huh.” They walked a bit farther. “That’s one for you to decide.”

  “I know,” Quinn said. “You just examine what’s left of the victims.”

  “Not anymore,” Linda said.

  They stopped walking and Quinn looked at her.

  “Dr. Nift has taken over all duties connected with the Torso Murders.”

  “He give a reason?”

  “To maintain continuity, he said.”

  “He’s a continual asshole,” Quinn said.

  “He’s my boss.”

  “Which is why I can say it and you can’t,” Quinn said.

  Linda didn’t disagree.

  Jill and Tony met at Has Beans again. He’d suggested a genuine night out, dinner at an expensive restaurant, maybe a show. Who could tell what might come after? She wasn’t ready for that. She’d let him know and he’d smoothly backed off.

  They were in the same booth where they’d first met. He was sipping a Honduras again. She’d taken a chance and ordered a Nicaragua.

  When she sipped the foamy coffee drink, she decided she liked it.

  “Yum,” she said, “but do they even grow coffee in Nicaragua?”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said. “They grow revolutions.” He sipped and smiled. “On the phone you mentioned there was something you wanted to tell me. Something personal?”

  “It’s something that’s got me kind of rattled,” she said. “A little scared.”

  “About me?”

  She rested her hand on his. “God, no!” She didn’t know quite where to begin, not wanting to sound paranoid. “There’s this woman who seems to be…well, following me.”

  He sat forward, interested. She was gratified by his obvious concern for her. “You know who she is?” he asked.

  “I’ve never seen her before. I don’t think. She does look familiar, but maybe she has one of those faces. She’s a street woman, Tony. A homeless person. Dirty clothes, stringy blond hair. And she looks as if she could use a bath and a good meal.”

  “So maybe she’s just panhandling.”

  “No, she’s never asked for anything. It’s just that now and then I turn around or glance to the side, and there she is.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “I wish. She’s usually staring at me. Once she even started toward me.”

  “What do you mean, started toward you? In a way that was threatening?”

  “I…well, I’m not sure.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I ran. I mean, that sounds worse than it is. I had on my sweat suit and jogging shoes anyway, and I was sort of running in place, so I just…jogged away from her.”

  “Good.” With his free hand, he scrunched up his lower lip between thumb and forefinger, looking worried.

  “What are you thinking, Tony?”

  “I don’t know what to think. If you see her again, just avoid her. Do whatever’s necessary to stay away. She might be dangerous.”

  “Whether she is or not, I admit she makes me afraid.”

  “Maybe you know something about her you don’t think you know,” Tony said. “If you know what I mean.”

  Jill didn’t. “There’s something else.” She hesitated. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of nut.”

  Tony gave her hand a squeeze. “I don’t and I won’t.”

  “I get the feeling sometimes that someone’s been in my apartment while I was gone. No, more than a feeling, actually. I’m sure things aren’t exactly as I’ve left them. There’ve been small changes, barely noticeable, but they’re there. Maybe a lamp shade’s crooked, or a sofa cushion’s propped up at a corner when it wasn’t before, or my clothes aren’t hung in the same order in my closet. Things like that.” She looked at him. He must think she was crazy. “I’m sure about these things, Tony. They’re real and not my imagination.”

  “Not necessarily your imagination,” he said. “But maybe your memory. Maybe you’re just spooked and seeing things you hadn’t noticed before.”

  She tried a smile. “Sort of the opposite of déjà vu?”

  “I guess you could put it that way. If you had a sense of humor. You might simply not recall things exactly as they were. We all do that from time to time.”

  “You could be right.” But she wasn’t so sure. These differences in her apartment, however minute, did seem real.

  He sat back and seemed suddenly alarmed. “Jill, you don’t think these two things are connected, do you? I mean the homeless woman and the idea that somebody might have been in your apartment?”

  The possibility had been on the edge of her consciousness. But she said, “I don’t know. I don’t see how they could be, but who knows?”

  Tony abruptly leaned toward her, giving her hand another squeeze. “You have my cell phone number, Jill. Do me a favor. If you see this woman again, give me a call. Wherever I am, I’ll get right there and confront her.”

  “All right. But I could call the police.”

  “If you want.”

  She didn’t and he knew i
t. She wanted him and not the police to come to her rescue. Besides, what could she tell the police, arrest the woman for staring at her?

  “The trouble is,” Jill said, “you’re out of town so often. Your job.”

  “If I’m in town, I’ll come running.”

  She placed her hand on top of the one holding hers and aimed a smile across the table. “I know you will, Tony. But all of it, I mean, it’s all probably nothing. Maybe it is my imagination. I mean, the woman’s real, all right, but she probably does simply want a handout. She might see me as a soft touch.”

  He grinned at her. “Now, that’s possible.”

  They leaned toward each other across the table and kissed lightly.

  “But call me anyway,” he said.

  Jill assured him that she would, but she’d decided not to. These problems she should handle on her own. She didn’t want Tony to think she was some kind of head case.

  One he wouldn’t want to see again.

  21

  He wasn’t there. He was.

  Deputy Chief Nobbler glanced up from what he was reading on his desk, and there stood Greeve. Also standing was the hair on the back of Nobbler’s neck.

  Nobbler had just a moment ago told his assistant in the outer office to send Greeve in, but Greeve had somehow opened the heavy door, entered, and closed the door without making a sound. Living up to his “Ghost” nickname. Nobbler wondered if the silent entry had been deliberate. He was sure that from time to time Greeve played with his mind.

  “Morning,” Greeve said. He made it sound like mourning. Or maybe Nobbler just thought that because of Greeve’s mortician looks and attitude.

  Mourning yourself. “I’ve been thinking about that Quinn and Dr. Chavesky thing,” Nobbler said.

  “It bears thinking about.” Greeve methodically unbuttoned the coat of his dark suit. His idea of getting casual.

  “Word I get is that he’s porking her on a regular basis,” Nobbler said.