Urge to Kill fq-4

by John Lutz

  “Well, Quinn, I don’t know, either. About the killer gene.”

  She sat farther back. He sat back. They regarded each other.

  “Life’s so goddamned short,” she said.

  “For some of us. Usually the wrong ones.”

  “Has this conversation been a help?” she asked.

  “Has it helped you?”

  She swallowed. “I suppose it has. It hasn’t brought George back, though.”

  “It might help to catch his killer,” Quinn said. “There’s no way to know for sure at this point.”

  “If you really think you and I getting together might help,” she said, “maybe we should do it again.”

  Quinn felt surprised and oddly embarrassed. He couldn’t contain his smile. “I thought you psychoanalysts were supposed to be obscure.”

  “That was me being obscure,” she said. “What I really meant is that you intrigue me. Your methods, who you are. Maybe it’s because you’re trying to track my brother’s killer. Maybe when you catch him, or kill him, you’ll no longer intrigue me.”

  “That was direct enough,” Quinn said.

  “Often being direct is wise. Life offers only so many opportunities, it’s a shame not to explore them. Believe me, I’m not being impulsive. I’d tell you I hardly ever do this kind of thing, only you already know that.”

  “I do know it,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t take very many chances.”

  Oh, yes you do. Was your brother a gambler like you? A risk taker? Some people say that’s in the genes.

  “Neither do I,” he said.

  She crossed her arms, cocked her head to the side, and stared at him with hope and a certain vulnerability. He knew what courage it must take. But at the same time, the lady seemed to get off on risk. Quinn understood that; he often fought the same instinct in himself.

  And sometimes he didn’t fight it.

  What the hell, since we’re being direct: “How about dinner, then maybe later…?”

  “How about sooner,” she said “then maybe dinner?”

  Later that night Quinn wondered, is there a victim gene?

  23

  It was almost like watching a wary exotic fish considering a variety of lures. The man in the unmarked blue baseball cap had watched her yesterday from across Broadway as she meandered from shop to shop, looking in windows, regarding the bait. He knew she’d finally see something that interested her and enter one of the shops. She would finally bite.

  Men and women thought quite differently. He understood how women thought, had made a study of it. Certain women, for certain reasons, he studied individually and closely.

  That was because only certain women would do. It would be wrong to call them all the same physical type. It was more something about their bearing, the way they held themselves and moved. The way they thought. The look in their eyes.

  That was something he hadn’t yet seen. He hadn’t looked into this one’s eyes.

  She was certainly attractive, he thought, as he slowed and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring across the street. She was medium height, with long dark hair, long legs encased in tight jeans, long and graceful arms that nonetheless looked strong. Even her neck was long and slender. What interested him most was her ballet dancer’s tightly sprung body. It hinted at physical strength as well as grace, reminiscent of a wild and lovely animal that might bolt and be up to speed in seconds. A prey animal, like an elegant gazelle. Every slight movement she made was unconscious art.

  She went into a mid-price fashion shop and, after about fifteen minutes, emerged carrying a small white shopping bag. From outside the shop he followed her back the way she’d come, along Broadway. She was walking now with a firm destination in mind, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her long, graceful strides.

  Finally she took the concrete steps down a shadowed stairwell to a subway platform. Even descending the steps, had she wanted to, she could have balanced a book on her head.

  Though the train was crowded, she managed to find a seat. He stood halfway down the car, holding on to a vertical steel bar, unobtrusively watching her.

  They didn’t ride far before exiting the subway and surfacing back into the bright sun. Like moles, he thought, blinking at the light. He was sure she still hadn’t noticed him as he fell in behind her at a prudent distance.

  He had to find out as much as possible about her, and where she lived was essential information.

  It turned out to be a West Side apartment in an old brick building with phony green shutters and fancy grillwork on the ground-floor windows. He’d watched, but it was impossible to know which unit she’d entered. It was probably useless to cross the street and look at the mailboxes, and he might attract suspicion.

  He’d be back tomorrow, though. And if things worked out as he suspected, he’d return here often. At least for a while. He’d find out what he needed to know. He always did.

  He thought about the woman with the strong and elegant ballerina’s body, the way her hair flipped with each step as she strode with her long legs. So delicate and precise, with a grace one had to be blessed with at birth. He replayed the image over and over in his mind, studying it for meaning and vulnerability.

  He was learning. He was stalking.

  The next morning he found out where she worked.

  He’d been waiting less than half an hour when she appeared outside her building, wearing jeans again (though these weren’t as tight) and a T-shirt with some sort of lettering across the back. He was too far away to read what it said. Her graceful stride lengthened as she headed in the direction of the subway stop where they’d emerged last night. He fell in behind her as he’d done yesterday.

  He followed her to an Office Tech, one of the big-box chain stores that retailed office supplies and electronics. It wasn’t far from where she’d been shopping early yesterday evening.

  Now he followed her into the store, along the aisles of electronics, seeing nothing in focus but her. Without hesitating she strode toward the rear of the store, occasionally nodding a good morning to some of her fellow employees. Closer

  to her now, he could read the lettering on the back of her T-shirt: PRACTICE RANDOM ACTS OF KINKINESS.

  A joke. She thinks.

  Her regal elegance was incongruous and somehow stimulating as she brushed through a swinging door into what must be a storage area. Apparently she didn’t work on the sales floor.

  Not quite ready to be disappointed, he decided to hang around for a while. He browsed about, pretending to study notebook computers, printers, various computer supplies. Twice he had to assure salespeople that he didn’t need or want help. There were about half a dozen of them in the spacious store, all of them wearing identical pin-on green buttons with identical fake ink stains on them that, if you looked closely, resembled desktop computers. The Office Tech logo.

  Ten minutes, and she hadn’t come out of the storage area. He was becoming impatient. Close behind her, he’d been able to pick up her scent, the harbinger of her fear. Of her excitement.

  Almost immediately they know without knowing.

  He heard one of the salespeople, an older woman, ask a young clerk if “Terri” had come in yet.

  “Few minutes ago,” the clerk said. He was a skinny teenager with a wannabe mustache. “She’s in back moving stock.”

  “I figured you’d notice,” the woman said, and they both smiled.

  The older woman, apparently a supervisor, walked toward the back of the store.

  Going to check on Terri? Make sure she’s working?

  A small message board was mounted on the wall next to the door to the storeroom. It was one of those erasable ones of the sort you saw outside hospital rooms. The name “Terri Gaddis” was written on it, along with several other names. The woman used a writing instrument hanging on a string beside the board and put a checkmark next to Terri’s name.

  In his mind, the man in the blue baseball cap put a checkmar
k next to Terri’s name.

  Terri Gaddis.

  He was about ready to give up for the morning and leave Office Tech when Terri emerged from the storeroom. She was wearing one of the green buttons with the logo ink stain.

  So she did work on the sales floor.

  It was still early, so there weren’t many shoppers in the gadget-lined aisles. She walked over and stood near a display of notebook computers, all with their screens glowing, and looked beautifully bored.

  Well, he enjoyed shopping for computers, talking about them, learning. He enjoyed learning about almost anything. Who knew when any bit of knowledge might prove useful? So he wouldn’t completely tune out what Terri was going to tell him while he was primarily learning about her. Studying her from only a few feet away. Looking into her eyes as he must so he could see in them the commitment they would make to each other on a deeper level than her conscious knowledge. Those who were prey always recognized the predators, always accepted what would surely occur. Often the premeditation in what the courts called premeditated murder took two.

  He walked toward her, smiling.

  Terri Gaddis didn’t know it, but she was ready for her close-up.

  24

  “If I’d known it was going to be like this,” Quinn said, “I’d have seen a shrink sooner.”

  They were in Zoe’s bedroom, in her king-sized bed. The window treatments were white-stick blinds that were halfway down. Diaphanous white sheer curtains over them admitted soft morning light.

  Her apartment was also on Park Avenue, two buildings down from her office. It was on a high floor in a pre-war brick and stone tower that admitted very little sound from outside. Not a large apartment, it was well and eclectically decorated. Zoe’s dresser was a marble-topped French provincial work of art, while a large walnut wardrobe that supplemented her closet was an almost plain period piece. A chair near the bed was upholstered in maroon and had artfully turned wooden arms. The carpet that covered most of the polished hardwood floor was a multicolored Persian with an intricate design and variegated shading. Quinn knew a little about carpets and thought it was authentic. Everything looked expensive and should have appeared mismatched, but somehow it all went together.

  “You had a great decorator,” he said.

  He thought she’d tell him she’d decorated the place herself, but she said, “It looks all right. You live in a place, you get used to anything.”

  She had a point. And he knew she hadn’t grown up in professionally decorated rooms.

  “You’ll have to see my place,” he said, figuring she’d laugh. She didn’t disappoint him. “I did it myself,” he said.

  “Very good. It’ll reflect you. ”

  She shifted her weight on the mattress so she could see him better, causing a fold of white sheet to drop and expose her right breast. He couldn’t swear she didn’t do it on purpose. Women moved so easily through the world of convenient chance. He leaned forward and kissed her nipple, feeling her fingers run through the hair on the back of his head, gently at first, then roughly, pulling him closer.

  When after a few minutes he leaned back, she said, “I’m glad we took the chance.”

  “It’s unanimous.”

  He was about to get up when he heard the opening notes of “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.”

  “My cell phone,” he said, sitting up. The sheet fell away as he stood. He was aware of her watching him as he went to his pants folded on the maroon chair and fished the phone out of a pocket. He flipped open the lid, staring at the caller’s number on the tiny screen.

  Pearl.

  Just what I need.

  “Yeah, Pearl.”

  “I called your apartment and didn’t get an answer, so I figured you’d already left.”

  “On my way in,” he said.

  “Oh.” He knew she wouldn’t miss the fact that there were no traffic sounds in the background.

  “Stopped for a bagel,” he said.

  “Ah.”

  Oh and Ah. It didn’t take much for Pearl’s antennae to pick up the slightest reason for suspicion. Or was Quinn simply feeling guilty and reading things into her tone?

  Zoe was sitting up in bed, looking at him with one of her eyebrows arched. He shrugged helplessly. Damned Pearl!

  “I talked to Jorge, the handsome pizza biker,” Pearl said. “Shook something loose.” She told him what Jorge had revealed about Joe Galin and his business relationship with the drug dealer Vernon Lake.

  “We need to find out what hospital Lake’s in,” Quinn said

  “That’s what I was up all night doing. He’s in Roosevelt, room six-twenty. I told them I was police, but since I wasn’t there in person to flash my shield, the nurse I was talking to clammed up. I called back later and got a different nurse, told her I was Lake’s sister Veronica. She told me the name was familiar, that she must have heard Lake talking about me.”

  “He’s liable to rabbit outta there if he hears about your call.”

  “Lake’s not going anywhere. He’s got two bullet holes in him and he’s on painkillers.”

  “He gonna die on us?”

  “Might. The nurse that thought I was his sister sounded somber, but she wouldn’t tell me much about Lake’s condition over the phone. He’s listed as critical but stable.”

  “Stable for now,” Quinn said.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve gotta get over there.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Leave now, and I’ll be at the hospital waiting for you.”

  He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. Pearl would know he wasn’t on his way to work if he was closer to Roosevelt than she was.

  “I’ll be there soon as I can,” she said. “You take your time. Finish your doughnut.”

  “Bagel,” Quinn said.

  “Whatever. They both have holes in the middle.”

  She broke the connection.

  Sarcasm?

  “Work?” Zoe asked from the bed.

  “ ’Fraid so. A policeman’s lot.” He padded barefoot over to the bed and kissed her. “Sorry. I was looking forward to us going out and having breakfast.”

  “I understand,” she said, maneuvering her body so she was seated on the edge of the mattress. She tossed the wadded sheets behind her toward the center of the bed as she stood up. “You go ahead and get dressed, and I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “I won’t. Just a bagel.”

  25

  When Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman asked at the nurses’ station for Vernon Lake’s room number, they soon found themselves face-to-face with a uniformed cop named Butterfield who knew Fedderman from his NYPD days. Butterfield had bad symmetry; he was built square and had a round, angelic face. The crow’s-feet at the corners of his blue eyes and a head of thinning gray hair suggested he had to be near retirement age.

  After exchanging pleasantries with Fedderman, he said, “You wanna see Lake, I’ll have to take you to him. He’s been charged and read his rights, but maybe it’s his last rites he needs.” A nearby nurse behind the counter had overheard and glared at him, then continued bustling about.

  “We heard he’d been shot,” Quinn said. “Bad?”

  “Depends on whose point of view.”

  “Lake’s.”

  “He’ll get over the two bullet holes in him. What he hasn’t been told yet is he’s got pancreatic cancer and won’t live more’n three months.”

  “Jesus,” Pearl said.

  Butterfield shrugged. “It’d be easier to feel sorry for him if he hadn’t been living off kids’ drug money for years.”

  “He in any condition to have a conversation?” Quinn asked.

  “Sure. I wouldn’t say he’s eager to leap outta bed, or even able, but he’s conscious and not in a lot of pain.”

  Butterfield led them to Room 620 and then told them to go on in and he’d wait out in the hall.

  It was a small room with only one v
isitor’s chair, and that with a stack of folded linens on it. Sunlight sneaked in through slatted blinds. It smelled as if someone had been hanging around there chewing spearmint gum.

  The three detectives stood close to Vernon Lake’s bed as he regarded them with rheumy brown eyes. He was an African American man in his thirties, with a powerful upper body and a sharply defined face of ebony planes made darker by black stubble. The bed was cranked up so he was almost in a sitting position. His midsection was swathed in white gauze, as was his right bicep. An IV unit with two plastic packets of medication hanging from its metal stand was feeding clear liquids into a vein on the back of his left hand. His wrists were handcuffed to the steel bedrails.

  He didn’t smile as he looked up at them. “You ain’t doctors.” He sounded tired, but didn’t slur his words, obviously not too drugged up with painkillers to know what he was saying.

  “Healers of society,” Quinn said, flashing his shield.

  “Not my society.”

  “We got some questions for you,” Pearl said.

  “Then maybe I oughta have my lawyer here.”

  “You got one?” Fedderman asked.

  “Public defender. Name of Sophie Murray.”

  “She’s a tough one,” Quinn said. “You might wanna call her at a certain point. All we want from you are a few answers about Joseph Galin.”

  “Don’ know him.”

  “He’s the guy you paid for protection while you were dealing. Back when he was a cop and we were all younger and better looking.”

  Lake pressed his head back into his pillow and said nothing.

  “We can offer you a deal,” Quinn said, “if you give us some answers and don’t play the hard ass. You know Galin’s been shot and killed. Maybe you even did it.”

  “Talk that way,” Lake said, “an’ I want my lawyer.”

  “Hear me out before you decide. We’re not interested in pinning Galin on you. We know you’re innocent. You know you’re going up for a long time on the drug charges, not to mention trading shots with another dealer. He’s gonna be okay, by the way, just like you.”