Night Kills

by John Lutz

  “You believe her story?”

  “It’s all we’ve got.” Now Renz did look up from his food. “What’s your gut tell you?”

  Quinn didn’t take the question lightly. “Tells me it’s probably true.”

  A soprano warbled up the scale to improbably high notes. Renz sat for a while considering everything Quinn had told him, including political ramifications. Maybe especially political ramifications. Quinn sipped the Heineken he’d ordered and didn’t disturb Renz until what felt like five minutes had passed. Possibly Renz had zoned out with his eyes open.

  “Harley?”

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  “Leaving him out of it,” Quinn said, “I need for you to check and see who’s obviously disappeared or gone into deep cover the past year or so. People the law might be interested in. It has to be done without raising any curious eyebrows. We can’t afford to spook E-Bliss.”

  “I can do that,” Renz said. “E-Bliss. I hate this high-tech bullshit, especially when it mixes with serial murder.”

  “Clark said it was a New York–based company. We’ll check it out carefully.”

  “What about Clark? We can’t leave her hanging out there. If she goes down with us knowing this and keeping it from the media, I’ll never do anything but pound a beat someplace where I’ll probably get shot, not to mention that poor young woman.”

  “Not to mention,” Quinn said. He took a long pull of beer. “What I think, Harley, is that Jill Clark needs a new friend living right in the same apartment building.”

  Renz smiled, catching right on. “A woman friend. A close one who’ll keep an eye on her, and who’d sure as hell know if one day she was a few inches taller or shorter or her eyes were a different color. Pearl?”

  Quinn nodded. “We’ll call her something else, though. Pearl’s photo’s never been in the papers in connection with this case, but her name has a few times.”

  “Call her what?”

  “I dunno. I’d better ask her about it.”

  “Make sure you do. If we choose something she’s sure to bitch about it.”

  “This is gonna be a dangerous assignment,” Quinn said.

  “Pearl’s a pain in the ass,” Renz said, “but she doesn’t lack for guts.”

  “It isn’t that,” Quinn said. “Pearl will be watching over Jill Clark. I want Pearl watched over, too.”

  Renz began forking in his rigatoni as if he’d just rediscovered it and didn’t want it to get cold.

  “Goesh without shaying,” he said with his mouth full.

  Quinn wasn’t so sure.

  34

  It was easy enough to find the brick-and-mortar address of E-Bliss.org, though it wasn’t on the matchmaking business’s website. Links led to links, and within half an hour on her computer, Pearl had the location of the company’s headquarters. She was fast becoming the computer whiz of the detective team.

  The business name E-Bliss.org was properly registered with the state’s Division of Corporations. The principals were Palmer F. Stone and Victor and Gloria Lamping. Besides the business address, Stone and the Lampings had listed three different New York addresses of residence. When Pearl checked, she found that they had all moved and left no forwarding addresses. The office of E-Bliss.org, on West Forty-fourth Street, had remained constant.

  While Pearl did more computer homework on E-Bliss.org, Quinn and Fedderman went to check out the West Forty-fourth Street address. The day had stayed warm and grown more humid as it had turned gray. Now a mist hung in the air, too fine to require a raincoat or umbrella, but thick enough so that the Lincoln’s wipers thwacked intermittently to smear the wide windshield. Quinn realized Pearl was right: in the dense, damp air, the car’s interior did smell too strongly of cigar smoke. The odor did cling. Maybe he should get one of those little deodorizers that looked like miniature pine trees to hang from the rearview mirror. He put it low on his list of to-dos.

  The E-Bliss.org offices turned out to be in an office building not far from the theater district. Letters engraved in stone above the entrance said it was the Western Commerce Building. Quinn guessed that was because it was on the West Side. He and Fedderman left the car parked by a fire hydrant on the opposite side of the street, then crossed over. Quinn’s bum leg, from when he’d been shot in a holdup, was bothering him slightly, maybe because of the rain. He was careful not to slip on the wet pavement. They entered the lobby.

  It smelled musty and had a lot of cracked marble and a yellowed tile floor. The walls had been recently painted a tinted cream color that leaned toward brown. There were pillars ending in a lot of scrollwork at a high ceiling bordered by fancy crown molding that was painted a shade darker than the walls. Light tumbling through a clear leaded-glass window kept the lobby from being depressingly dim. The Western Commerce Building was still respectable and had hung on long enough that it was becoming prime real estate, thanks to the vast improvement that had been made in the nearby theater district.

  Quinn and Fedderman were the only ones in the lobby. They went to a glassed-over directory near the elevators and saw that there were in fact two theatrical agents in the building, along with law offices, a real estate agency, an insurance firm, a dental clinic, and more of the kinds of offices you’d expect to find in such a building. There were also several ambiguously named businesses, among which was E-Bliss.org. It shared the sixth floor with Cagely Imports and E. Rupert Hall, Investments.

  “Think we should go up and have a talk with Palmer F. Stone?” Fedderman asked. “If there is a Palmer F. Stone. Sounds like a name made up by somebody running a con.”

  “With a name like that, you either go into politics or run a con,” Quinn said.

  “There’s a difference?”

  “I don’t think we should show ourselves yet,” Quinn said. “We spook these people and they might be out of here before we can turn around twice. You wait here while I go up to the sixth floor and scope things out. If somebody notices me I’ll duck into E. Rupert Hall and invest some money.”

  “Commodities,” Fedderman said. “I saw on the financial channel that commodities are hot.”

  “They won’t be if I invest in them,” Quinn said and headed for the elevators. Their doors were framed with fancy plaster scrollwork that probably matched the clutter around the tops of the pillars, but he didn’t feel like looking up and checking.

  The sixth floor was quiet. Quinn had stepped from the elevator into a small alcove and taken half a dozen steps to where the thinly carpeted hall ran in both directions. A small sign mounted on the wall featured an arrow pointing to the left, where E. Rupert Hall and Cagely Imports had offices. There was no arrow indicating anything was to the right.

  Quinn decided that if anyone asked he was trying to find the dental office on the fifth floor. He turned right and walked down the narrow but well-lighted hall.

  A single new-looking wood door near the end of the hall was lettered E-Bliss.org in fancy painted gold script edged in pink. Very artistic. There was no way to see what was inside. Apparently the dating service’s office was conveniently isolated from the other two businesses on the sixth floor. Quinn smiled. Romance flourished best in privacy.

  He stopped about five feet from the door and briefly thought about opening it.

  Not yet, he told himself.

  But someday soon.

  He turned around and walked back the way he’d come, then passed the elevators and entered the office of E. Rupert Hall. He asked a gray-haired receptionist who’d been reading a book about fingernail art where the dental offices were. Just to cover himself in case someone in E-Bliss.org had somehow been observing him.

  The woman directed him to the fifth floor and went back to her book. Quinn thanked her and left, thinking the book was about five hundred pages and it didn’t seem there’d be that much to write about fingernail art. He guessed it must have a lot of illustrations.

  When he got back to the lobby, he and Fedderman returned to the car and dro
ve toward Jill Clark’s apartment.

  It was time to explain to her that she had a new friend in the building.

  When Pearl and Jill first saw each other, Quinn introduced Pearl as Jewel. They wanted to get Jill thinking of her as Jewel right away.

  “She’ll be right above you, on the eighth floor,” Quinn said. It was one of three vacant apartments in the building—the nearest to Jill’s. Quinn had told the disinterested landlord the NYPD wanted to rent it for a few weeks to observe someone in the building across the street. They gave him a voucher and he gave them the key.

  Jill nodded, still obviously trying to get used to the idea, and still obviously glad someone would be nearby to protect her. She couldn’t believe what might be the truth about Tony. On the other hand, it was impossible for her to dismiss the possibility from her mind. And even now that she’d gone to Quinn and found help, she hadn’t escaped her fear. It was like a malicious live thing in her stomach gnawing on her whenever she dared to forget about it.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not to her.

  But the creature in Jill’s stomach reminded her that it was indeed happening. And to her.

  Jill knew Madeline must have thought the same thing once.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not to me.

  Not-so-mad Madeline in the morgue.

  “Do you have a date coming up with Tony?” Quinn asked.

  “Not for a while. He’s out of town for the next few days and will call me when he gets back. He’ll probably want to go out right away. That’s the way it usually is.” She looked as if she wanted to say something else, then stuttered, “I can’t believe—I mean, Tony—”

  “I know,” Quinn said. “That’s the reason deceptions having to do with the heart usually work so well. They’re based on undeserved trust. People are susceptible.”

  Pearl knew he was right. The heart was a fool.

  “Invite him over when he calls,” Quinn said. “Make sure Jewel is there. Or meet him someplace for lunch and bring Jewel along and introduce her. We want it to seem like you and she are fast becoming thick with each other. A close friend of the intended victim will present a real obstacle to E-Bliss.”

  “The intended victim…,” Jill said. “That’s me. That’s what I’m having such a hard time believing.”

  “Madeline didn’t believe it at first either. And you didn’t believe Madeline.”

  Jill started chewing her lower lip and looked as if she might begin to cry. Maybe she was reliving her visit to the morgue.

  “My suitcase is upstairs,” Pearl said, to get Jill’s mind on something else, “but I think I’d better stay here with you for an hour or so.” She smiled. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t actually become friends, so we don’t have to pretend.”

  “Just remember to do what Jewel tells you,” Quinn said to Jill. “Jewel is very good at what she does, and she has your best interest at heart. She’s here to preserve your life.”

  “I know that. She’s here to save me from Tony.”

  “From anyone, dear. Jewel doesn’t discriminate.”

  Pearl wished he’d get the hell out of there. “Where’s Feds?” she asked. Maybe hurry him along.

  “He’s watching the new Madeline’s apartment. We don’t want to approach her yet. We don’t want to approach anyone prematurely and see a lot of people and evidence scatter and disappear.”

  Quinn glanced at his watch and stood up from the sofa. “Speaking of disappeared people, I’d better go see if Renz has found any.” He smiled. “So to speak.” He supposed that would be progress. But learning the identities of people who’d supposedly gone to ground wouldn’t reveal whose identities they’d assumed, or that they’d assumed any other identities at all.

  But then, sometimes progress was made when it didn’t seem so. Sometimes progress fell into your lap. If your lap was in the right place.

  “You’ll be fine,” he assured Jill, as he moved toward the door.

  To Pearl: “Leave your cell on, Jewel.”

  “Always, these days,” Pearl said.

  35

  Quinn and Renz met for lunch at Tavern on the Green, where Renz ate at least once a week, because he was in love with the crème brûlée. They had a table with a view out a window onto Central Park and an array of topiary. A tall shrub that Quinn assumed had been trimmed to resemble King Kong loomed over people negotiating a narrow walkway from a paved area where cabs were dropping off and picking up passengers. Quinn watched a woman in a thin summer dress hold the arm of a very old man in a brown suit as they approached the restaurant’s entrance. They resembled each other enough that he figured they were father and daughter, and he wondered what his own daughter, Lauri, was doing right now in California.

  “Four people in this area seem to have gone to ground, and for good reason,” Renz said. “Of course there must be more, but these four are obvious.”

  “E-Bliss would want them obvious.”

  Renz drew a folded sheet of paper from his suit coat pocket. He smoothed it out and propped it on his water glass, keeping his distance so he could read it without his glasses. “Velma Grocci, the wife of mob boss Vin Grocci, cleaned out his bank accounts and ran out on him. Left him a note saying she was never coming back. Not that it would matter much. Vin’s facing several life sentences for ordering various murders, including a hit on an undercover FBI agent. Velma’s life wouldn’t be worth much once hubby went behind the walls.”

  “Sounds right,” Quinn said.

  “Iris Klinger, suspected of embezzling half a million dollars from the insurance firm she worked for. She skipped bail and disappeared.”

  “With the money?”

  “Looks that way. Then there’s Marti Ogden, recently of the Upper East Side. Marti’s a woman. Thirty-year-old daughter of Hart Ogden. She and dad fenced stolen diamonds. Somebody tried to double-cross dad and dad killed him. He’s doing twenty-five to life at Elmira. The guy he killed had dangerous friends. We were about to close in on Marti and arrest her for handling stolen property, maybe save her life, when she flew off to Buenos Aires on a chartered flight. No way to know where she went from there, though, if anywhere. We found it odd that she used her real name for the charter. Not smart.”

  “Maybe,” Quinn said.

  “Number four is Jocko Lucci. Swindled millions from New Jersey casinos and washed the money here with a chain of pizza joints. Another bail jumper.”

  “A guy like that made bond?”

  “He could afford it. His wife put it up. She died four days after he ran out on her and his bail bondsman. Jocko left a note saying he was leaving the country.”

  “The wife died how?”

  “A bus ran over her on Second Avenue. Thing is, she had time after finding hubby’s note to call the law and stop him from leaving, but she waited a whole day and he was gone.”

  “Or became somebody else,” Quinn said.

  “That would be the somebody we’ve got in the morgue, minus head, arms, and legs, and plus a broomstick.”

  The waiter arrived with crustless, quarter-cut tuna salad sandwiches, but Quinn knew they were only an unimportant prelude to the crème brûlée.

  Renz dutifully took a bite of his sandwich. “There’ve gotta be dozens, maybe hundreds, of other people who’ve disappeared voluntarily, and the law doesn’t get involved,” he said, around a mouthful of tuna salad. “Why should it? Nothing illegal’s been done. Private detectives are sometimes hired to find these folks, but not with much success. If you know what you’re doing or have connections, and the whole wide world to get lost in, you can usually stay lost.”

  “Yeah, but the runners in this case would figure to be not only in trouble, but high profile, at least to the police or whoever else might search for them.”

  “We won’t stop looking for Marti Ogden, and the Feds won’t stop looking for the other three.”

  “Trouble is, they’re somebody else now.”

  “Trouble is,” Renz agreed. He pushed
his plate with the sandwich away. He’d had two bites. The healthy part of his meal was over. Time for dessert, even though Quinn hadn’t had a bite of his sandwich.

  Renz sat up straighter and looked around for their waiter, but didn’t see him. Turning his attention back to Quinn, he said, “We’ve got some information on Victor Lamping. He’s thirty-six years old, was born in Baltimore, served in the army in Special Forces in Afghanistan, and was dishonorably discharged four years ago.”

  “Discharged for what reason?”

  “We’re working on that, but it’s not easy to find out. Special Forces aren’t like other military outfits. They’ve got their own set of rules and it looks like nobody’s up to challenging them. Once we contacted the Military Record Center in St. Louis, everyone in the place clammed up. We couldn’t even find out anything about Lamping from before he joined the military.”

  “Well, we know what he’s doing these days.”

  The sun had tracked to a slightly different position. Renz was almost in silhouette now against the expanse of bright window looking out on the green lawn and King Kong. Quinn wished he’d brought his sunglasses in with him.

  “How do you plan on playing E.Bliss.org?” Renz asked. “Should we shut them down?”

  Quinn was aware that Renz knew better; the politician in Renz needed affirmation that the decision wasn’t his alone.

  “Not in my judgment,” Quinn said. “When we nail them, I want them nailed hard and for good. So far, we don’t have anything approaching actual proof. We’ll keep watching them while we build our case. The last thing we want at this point is to spook them so they roll everything up and disappear themselves. Jill Clark figures to be their next victim, so we can play for time.”

  “Agreed,” Renz said. “But we wouldn’t want the media to discover what we know and when we found out. They’ll think we shoulda broke into E-Bliss’s offices like Eliot Ness and the Untouchables and gunned everybody down. Make sure you keep the media out of it. Cindy Sellers is all over me every day like chiggers.”