Urge to Kill fq-4

by John Lutz

Alley?

  He began to remember and was afraid. His mind searched for light and found none.

  The fear remained. Held on to him like a lost lover dying along with him.

  Dying?

  Without meaning to, he said loudly and in a clear voice, “Hawk.”

  The word meant nothing to him.

  Then Galin saw nothing, became totally blind. He could no longer remember what he couldn’t see. Could no longer smell the leather and tarnished copper or anything else, could hear nothing, feel nothing…

  Nothing.

  The phone chirping by the bed pulled Quinn out of deep sleep. His mouth and throat were dry. There was grit beneath his eyelids. He glanced at his watch to see the time. It was…dark. Why the hell didn’t luminous hands work at the same brightness all the time?

  He found the phone in the dark, lifted the receiver, and mashed it against his ear.

  Damned chirping’s stopped, anyway. Like a nattering bird.

  “Quinn?”

  Renz’s voice. Great.

  “Quinn,” he confirmed. He reached out and switched on the reading lamp on the table alongside the bed. Saw the face of his watch. A few minutes past five o’clock.

  “You were sleeping, right?” Renz said, as if he’d been asked to answer some kind of riddle.

  “You guessed it. That why you called? To wake me up?”

  “Yeah, but there’s a deeper reason. Remember our conversation from a week ago?”

  Quinn was almost all the way awake now. “I remember. We got another one?”

  “’Fraid so. Remember Joe Galin?”

  Quinn searched his memory. Found a stocky, gray-haired plainclothes cop with an easy smile that could turn hard. “Detective Joe Galin? Narcotics? Manhattan South?”

  “The very one,” Renz said.

  “Galin’s dead?”

  “Or putting on a hell of an act.”

  Quinn was having difficulty processing this. “Our killer did a cop?”

  “Sure did. Single small-caliber bullet to the head. Ex-cop, by the way. He was retired, like you.”

  “Like I was,” Quinn said.

  Despite the hour, Quinn phoned Pearl and Fedderman. Then he got dressed, went outside to where his car was parked, and in the glimmering dawn drove across town and over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge into Queens.

  It was a gray but bright morning when Quinn pulled the Lincoln to the curb and braked to a halt behind a parked radio car. There was another patrol car and what looked like an unmarked city car parked directly in front of a take-out pizza

  joint with PIZZA-RIO painted on its window. Beneath the name in smaller letters was PIZZA WITH A SPANISH KICK.

  Might be good, Quinn thought, as he climbed out of the Lincoln. But not now. Not here. What he wanted was coffee. He knew he should have taken the time to swing by the Lotus Diner and get a go cup. It would have taken only a few more minutes. Several uniformed cops and two plainclothes detectives were standing around on the sidewalk in a circle. They were holding white foam cups, some of which had steam rising from them, and at least two were eating doughnuts.

  As Quinn walked toward the mouth of an alley where, according to Renz on the phone, the shooting had taken place, one of the plainclothes guys-the shorter of the two, with a gray buzz cut and a broad, florid face, spotted Quinn and walked toward him. He smiled. “Captain Quinn?”

  Quinn nodded, noticing the man was holding two cups of coffee.

  “I’m Detective Charlton Lewellyn. I’ve been with Commissioner Renz on the phone. He said this one was yours.” He held out one of the foam cups for Quinn to take, as if he’d been referring to it and not to what had happened in the alley.

  Quinn accepted the cup, which had a white plastic lid on it to keep in the heat, and thanked Lewellyn. He sipped. Good coffee, cream, no sugar. Had Lewellyn checked with someone to see how Quinn drank his coffee?

  “I hope that’s okay,” Lewellyn said, as if he didn’t want Quinn to think he was too clever.

  Quinn took another sip. “Fine.”

  “We kept the scene frozen for you,” Lewellyn said. He led the way toward the alley. The uniforms had moved away and taken up position to keep any passersby clear. One of them was seated in a radio car with the door hanging open, working on some kind of form on a metal clipboard. The other plainclothes cop was standing nearby, as if the one filling out the form might need help. It occurred to Quinn that there wasn’t much of a turnout here considering an ex-cop had been shot. But maybe that was Renz keeping a low profile. Or maybe Galin had been gone too long. About five years, Renz had said.

  There was yellow crime scene tape strung across the mouth of the alley. Lewellyn lifted it high so Quinn could stoop and move beneath it, like a corner man helping a boxer into the ring.

  A late-model red Buick was parked in the alley. Beyond it, Quinn saw three kids peering down the alley from the block at the opposite end. There was no crime scene tape, but there was at least one uniform posted there, keeping anyone from cutting through. He came into view and talked to the kids, and they all looked down the alley toward Quinn and hurriedly moved along.

  As Quinn got closer to the car he saw a figure hunched over the steering wheel. “CSU been here?”

  “Nobody,” Lewellyn said. “We were keeping it fresh for you.”

  Quinn set his coffee cup on the ground out of the way, then got some crime scene gloves from a pocket and worked them onto his hands. He moved in closer to the Buick. All of the car’s windows were up. The doors appeared to be unlocked.

  “The engine and air conditioner were off,” Lewellyn said.

  “Ignition key in the off position?”

  “Yes, sir. It wasn’t all that hot last night. The victim might have sat a while with the windows up and still not gotten warm enough to lower them or turn the engine and AC back on.”

  “Or he might have just arrived and been about to get out of the car,” Quinn said.

  Lewellyn nodded.

  “I like it your way, though,” Quinn said, making friends. “He didn’t park here in an alley for nothing.”

  Lewellyn nodded again, same way, same expression, not giving away much or taking much. Quinn liked that about him.

  Quinn leaned closer and peered into the lightly tinted front-side window, across the wide seat, at the dead man behind the steering wheel. He saw no sign of a bullet hole. The heavyset man with the wavy gray hair might have been taking a nap.

  Not touching the car, Quinn moved around to the driver’s side. Through the window he could see the dark bullet hole in Galin’s temple.

  Making as little contact with the handle as possible, he opened the door.

  The wound looked nastier up close and without tinted glass filtering out the details.

  “He wasn’t wearing his seat belt,” Lewellyn said. He’d moved in so he was standing just behind Quinn.

  Quinn saw that that was true.

  There was no sign of a gun, but they might still be looking at suicide. Then Quinn noticed the butt of what looked like a nine-millimeter handgun protruding from a belt holster beneath the victim’s suit coat. The position of the holster, the way the gun butt was turned, indicated Galin was right handed.

  Left temple wound. Small-caliber bullet. Not likely a suicide, even if the gun that fired the bullet was around, under the seat or something. And why would somebody serious about suicide favor a small-caliber weapon when he had a large-caliber one in his holster? If you really do go through with it and shoot yourself, you want to make sure.

  Quinn noticed the right-hand jacket pocket in Galin’s gray suit coat was turned inside out.

  “No sign of a note,” Lewellyn said.

  “Sometimes they put them in the mail beforehand,” Quinn said.

  Lewellyn sipped his coffee, holding the cup with both hands as if it were a cold morning instead of seventy degrees.

  “You know him personally?” Quinn asked.

  Lewellyn shook his head no. “He worked o
ut of Manhattan. You?”

  “Didn’t exactly know him. I recall seeing him around. He was Narcotics. Worked undercover sometimes.”

  “Think that might have anything to do with him being shot?”

  “It usually does,” Quinn said. “But probably not this time.”

  “Guy walks some mean streets for years, then doesn’t bother wearing his seat belt and something like this happens to him.”

  “Goes to show you,” Quinn said, “but I’m not sure what.”

  Lewellyn silently sipped some more coffee, not knowing what, either.

  Quinn wished he could help him, but couldn’t.

  10

  Quinn wished he could take his eyes off Pearl.

  He was behind his big cherrywood desk in his combination office and den. Pearl was slouched in the small armchair on the left, angled toward the desk. She was wearing a white blouse, black slacks, a gray blazer, and comfortable-looking black shoes with thick, slightly built-up heels. Not a sexy outfit, but she turned it into one. Her black hair was slightly mussed this morning, her full lips glossed a red that wasn’t brilliant but looked so on her. Her dark eyes with the long dark lashes…

  “Quinn, you concentrating?”

  Fedderman’s voice. Feds was seated in the large brown leather chair where Quinn often sat when he was alone and wanted to read.

  “Concentrating,” Quinn said.

  Fedderman looked at him and shook his head slightly. He had antennae, did Feds.

  “Something I’m missing?” Pearl asked.

  “Not a chance,” Fedderman said.

  Pearl didn’t answer. Gave him a look. Quinn could feel the old chemistry returning to the team of detectives. There was tension here, almost all the time, but it tended to lead to results.

  “What we have is a dead ex-cop,” Quinn said.

  “There’s no such thing as an ex-cop,” Fedderman said.

  “Me,” Pearl said. “From time to time.”

  “We still have a dead ex-cop,” Quinn said. “For him, time’s over.” He looked at Fedderman. “You know Galin when he was on the job?”

  “Knew of him,” Fedderman said. He was wearing a gray suit like Galin’s, only Galin’s fit him better, even dead.

  Gangly, paunchy Fedderman was one of those people who mystified tailors. Not that Fedderman ever went to one. He always looked as if he’d just shaken straw out of his sleeves and come from scaring away crows in a cornfield. His body parts didn’t quite match, and nothing fit him well. Often one of his shirt cuffs was unbuttoned and flapping as he walked. Quinn wondered how that happened. It was usually after Fedderman had written something down. Quinn thought it might be because he dragged his hand a certain way when he used a pen or pencil and it worked the cuff button loose.

  Fedderman ran his long, pianist’s fingers through what was left of his light-colored hair. That seemed to remind him he was getting balder by the day. He lowered his hand and glanced at it as if he might find errant hair. “Galin was a guy kinda kept to himself,” he said. “Seemed friendly enough, just…I dunno, private.”

  “I was in the two-oh doing a report a long time ago,” Pearl said. “Galin walked past and pretended he’d pinched me on the ass. Made a big thing of it. It got him some laughs.”

  “Sure,” Fedderman said.

  “But he didn’t really pinch you?” Quinn asked.

  “I said he didn’t.”

  “What’d you do?” Fedderman asked.

  “Shoved him into a desk anyway. He had to wave his arms around to keep from falling. That got the biggest laugh. I heard the two-oh guys called him ‘Windmill Galin’ for a while after that.”

  “I take it you didn’t like him,” Quinn said.

  Pearl shrugged. “He was no worse than most. They get kinda wild sometimes, the guys doing undercover. No way some of that shit doesn’t rub off on you. You do that kinda work, you better have some…”

  “Moral equilibrium,” Fedderman suggested.

  Pearl looked at him as if he were a lesser primate that had spoken. “That’s exactly right, Feds. Good boy!”

  She sat up straighter, making her large breasts strain the fabric of her white blouse. She clapped once, as if to suggest they return to business, then rubbed her hands together as if to warm them. “I guess we rule out suicide.”

  “No gun in the car,” Quinn said, “other than the nine-millimeter in Galin’s holster, and it hadn’t been fired.”

  “Holster strap wasn’t even unsnapped,” Fedderman said. “Galin either knew who shot him, or he was taken completely by surprise.”

  “Our guy do this?” Pearl asked Quinn.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Quinn said. “Nothing seems to have been stolen from Galin. His wallet had over ninety dollars in it and wasn’t touched. He was still wearing his wristwatch.”

  “Piece of crap,” Fedderman said. “Galin liked to shop down on Canal Street, buy imitation name-brand watches. His watch said Movado, but it was probably worth about ten bucks.”

  “Free to the shooter,” Quinn said “and he still left it.” He leaned back in his desk chair, swiveled an inch or two this way and that. The chair’s mechanism made a tiny squeak each time it moved clockwise. “That inside-out pocket in his suit coat. Something was snatched out of that pocket fast, probably after Galin was dead.”

  The desk phone jangled. The sudden noise made Fedderman jump. Pearl didn’t move. Both detectives watched Quinn as he picked up the receiver, then said “yeah” six times and hung up.

  “That was Renz,” he said. “They got the slug out of Galin’s head. Twenty-five caliber. Ballistics said it doesn’t match either of the bullets removed from the two previous victims.”

  “It was a warm night,” Fedderman said, “and with gas high as it is, it costs a bundle to sit in a parked car with the engine idling and the air conditioner running. Lots of retired cops live on the cheap. Galin might have been sitting there with his window down, taking what breeze there was, and the shooter just worked in close and shot him in the head.”

  “Then he raised the window?” Pearl said.

  “Maybe. Before he died.”

  Quinn wasn’t buying it, about the window. “More likely the shooter approached the car, yanked open the door, and shot him. Then slammed the door shut and left.”

  “More likely,” Fedderman admitted. “But who the hell’d walk up on him and shoot him?”

  “Somebody who knew how to move,” Pearl said. “Galin spent time on the streets. It’d take somebody with skill to work in on him unseen and unheard, open his car door, and fire a bullet into his brain. The way the car was parked in that alley, the shooter couldn’t have approached at much of an angle.”

  “Maybe he just walked up to the car,” Fedderman said. “Maybe Galin went there to meet him and didn’t suspect he was gonna get popped. Opened the door to get out of his car, then bang.”

  Pearl nodded. “We don’t know what we’re talking about. Not at this point. We’re just wagging our jaws making noise.”

  “That’s okay,” Quinn said, “as long as we don’t make up our minds about anything important yet.”

  “Galin’s dead” Pearl said. “That’s important.”

  “Not to him,” Fedderman said. “Not anymore.”

  “He had a wife,” Quinn said. “He was important to her. Still is.”

  “Maybe,” Fedderman said.

  “Either way,” Quinn said “we’re gonna talk to her.”

  11

  Her name was June.

  Joe Galin’s widow was in her forties and looked as if she’d had drastic cosmetic surgery done to her eyes. They were dark brown and slanted like a cat’s, and would have been beautiful if she hadn’t been sobbing most of the day. Though short, she had a high-fashion model’s anorexic figure, and even wearing an oversized T-shirt, baggy brown shorts, and flip-flops, it was easy to imagine her strutting along a runway. The widow would have been stunning if she hadn’t had a nose that appeared as though it
belonged on a much larger face.

  Do the nose next, Pearl thought, when she, Quinn, and Fedderman had introduced themselves. She took in the widow’s eyes, the possibly collagened lips, the probably uplifted boobs, and wondered about June’s priorities.

  June invited them all the way into a surprisingly well-furnished and tastefully decorated home that was on a middle-class street of single-story houses with vinyl siding.

  Quinn had noticed that the Galin home was the only brick-fronted house on the block. He also was noticing the way Pearl was sizing up June, figuring that when the interview was over, Pearl would have something to say.

  June offered them tea or coffee, and after the offer was declined motioned for them to sit. She sat down herself in a flower-patterned chair with wooden arms. Pearl took a more comfortable gray leather recliner, thinking it had probably been Joe Galin’s favorite chair, the point from which he’d observed the narrowing world of the retired cop. Quinn and Fedderman remained standing.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, dear,” Quinn began.

  ‘Dear.’ Starting with the phony Irish charm, Pearl thought. So obvious. But that was his talent, how he got people to confide in him. Pearl could see right through Quinn, and wondered why the suspects and witnesses he laid his phony bullshit on couldn’t.

  June didn’t have a wadded tissue, but she nodded her thanks for his condolences and dabbed at her swollen eyes with a dainty knuckle. Pearl caught the flash of a gold wedding ring inlaid with tiny diamonds that might have been as phony as Quinn’s charm, but maybe not.

  “Did you know my husband?” June asked Quinn and Quinn only. He’d captured her full attention. They were players in the same drama; the others might join in if they so chose.

  He nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. You know how it is, dear, I’m sure. All of us on the job are brothers and sisters.”

  Siblings against crime. Pearl tried not to make a face. She caught Fedderman’s eye. He looked quickly away. He was watching, analyzing, as she was.

  The deal was, Quinn was going to handle the interview. Pearl and Fedderman were to make mental notes and, when it seemed wise, occasionally add momentum to the conversation, if any momentum developed. The object was to keep the talk flowing so at some point the tongue might get a little ahead of the brain. A prodding now and then from the sidelines could be very effective, as long as the subject of the questioning didn’t realize he or she was being ganged up on.