Night Kills (36 page)

So much for no guns in the house.

As he entered the tiny, unoccupied kitchen, he smelled it.

He relaxed and holstered his gun.

The coffee was on, but Cathy Lee was gone.

Sometimes love was grand.

Linda had brought some take-out Chinese to Quinn's apartment, and they were eating lunch at the tiny table in the kitchen. It was comfortably cool despite the outside temperature of almost ninety. Quinn was having orange-flavored chicken; Linda, moo goo gai pan. They shared egg rolls and a large foam container of white rice. Quinn had gotten some bottled water from the refrigerator to drink and put it in tumblers with ice so it would stay plenty cold..

The kitchen smelled good with the aroma of food and soy seasoning. Quinn thought it remarkable that he didn't feel strange sitting here sharing a meal in this kitchen, at this table, with a woman other than May or their daughter, Lauri. So many years in the apartment with May, with Lauri growing up. Then the divorce, and Lauri coming back to live briefly with Quinn, while May stayed in California with her new husband.

Now they were both in California, May and Lauri, and here was Quinn in the apartment with a woman named Linda. A stranger to them, and sometimes to him.

It was almost as if the apartment and its contents were different in some strange, unidentifiable way. Quinn remembered the comedian who'd claimed someone had stolen everything in his apartment and replaced it with identical duplicates. That was how Quinn felt, as if he were playing himself in a dream of his life. And in that context, everything seemed normal.
Pass the rice, please, whoever you are.
Quinn wondered if Linda ever felt the same strange detachment and alienation. Would it ever pass?

They ate for a while in slow silence while the world moved at its own pace outside the kitchen.

“Nift's got a bean up his nose about something,” Linda said, dipping her egg roll into sweet-and-sour sauce.

“Could be my fault,” Quinn said. He took a sip of water. “I'm afraid I made him aware that Renz knows he's had someone in the medical examiner's office sitting on postmortem information.”

“That gonna be looked into? An official investigation?”

“It's unlikely, but Nift doesn't know that.”

“No wonder he's been nervous lately.” Linda chewed and swallowed her bite of egg roll. Quinn loved to watch her throat work. “The little twit deserves whatever they do to him.”

“He's not the only informer in the medical examiner's office.”

Linda looked alarmed, then smiled. “Well, sure, there's me. But that's different.”

“Because you're on the side of the good guys?”

“Damned right.”

Quinn grinned at her. “You are
so
different from Nift.”

“God, I hope so!”

He sipped from his condensation-slippery glass of water and appraised her. “When we're finished with lunch—”

“I'll go back to work,” she interrupted. “And aren't you supposed to be out trying to catch the bad guys?”

“Haven't you heard? The Torso Murderer was shot to death down South.”

“Must have hurt like hell, being shot down south.”

Did she believe me?

“You sound skeptical,” he said.

“More like realistic. How long do you think that farfetched Tom Coulter story's gonna hold up?”

“Maybe Coulter really
was
the Torso Murderer. Now and then we get lucky.”

“The cops down in Dixie are gonna start tracing his actions over the past few weeks, and when they try to square times and places with him being here in New York committing murders and dismembering the bodies, it isn't going to work.”

“They won't be very eager to backtrack on Coulter,” Quinn said, “considering he's dead.” He reached across the table and touched the back of her hand. “Everything's gonna be okay.”

“Sure it is. You only need to fool the media. Media wolves are relentless, Quinn, and the E-Bliss folks strike me as smart and have sure as hell known all along that Thomas Coulter wasn't the Torso Murderer. Assuming we've got this figured right.”

“We do,” he said.

“And you think it's gonna all hold up?”

“I didn't exactly say that.”

“I love confidence in a man.”

Linda finished her iced water, then picked up her purse from the floor and stood up. She was wearing a brown pantsuit with a white blouse, low-heeled brown shoes, no jewelry other than a silver bracelet. All very demure and businesslike, yet somehow sexy as hell in a way he didn't quite understand. She wasn't his type, really, so how could this have happened? A month ago, Quinn wouldn't have dreamed he could fall in love again. If that had happened, what other surprises might life throw at him?

“You're going?”

“Back to the morgue,” she said. “Nift needs me.”

“So do I.”

She came around the table and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I hope you always feel that way. Sometimes I'm bad luck for men.”

“Not this time.”

“We have no control over that.” She realized that if Wes Nobbler knew Renz and Quinn had been aware of Nift hiding or delaying information, Nobbler also knew somebody must have ratted Nift out. Renz must have his own informer in the medical examiner's office. It shouldn't take Nobbler and his cronies long to figure out it might be Quinn's lover.

Linda understood how it worked. Nobbler would need her on his side, and he'd squeeze hard. She'd be forced to choose between her career and Quinn.

“You're trying to tell me something,” Quinn said.

She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Her lips were cool and dry.

“Telling you to be careful,” she said and moved toward the door.

“Because you love me?”

“Because I love you,” she said, and then left the apartment.

Quinn finished his orange-flavored chicken and started in on some of what was left of Linda's white rice. It needed seasoning, but he decided not to bother.

He knew Linda was right about the Coulter story unraveling soon. That was pretty much all he knew about what she thought. She was a mystery.

Maybe that was the thing about her that made him hers.

 

Palmer Stone's desk was clear, its surface polished. The cleaning woman hadn't been in for a while; Stone was responsible for the strong scent of Lemon Pledge in his office. Everything, in fact, was gleamingly clean, squared away, and in its proper place. Business profits, Stone sometimes said, were often the result of appearances. Perception had a way of becoming reality. Sometimes there was opportunity in perception. Like now.

“While the law thinks the Torso Murderer is dead,” Stone said, “maybe we should get back to business.”

Victor appeared surprised. “But Gloria—”

“How is she?” Stone asked.

“The same. Now and then you can see her pupils moving under her closed eyelids, but that's all that moves.” The muscles in his face tightened and his eyes became moist. “I tell you, Palmer, it tears your heart out.”

“I do sympathize,” Stone said. “I wish there were something I could do.”

“I know…. It's so goddamned rough.”

“It is,” Stone said. “Nevertheless, we'll have to tend to business without Gloria. She would approve of that, I'm sure.”

Victor looked over at him. “We talking about deleting Maria Sanchez?”

“No, we decided there was too much risk in deleting her. But we should be able to delete Jill Clark, despite the almost constant presence of her friend Jewel. If Jill disappears leaving a note saying she's left New York, who's there to question it?”

“Jewel.”

“Jewel will ask Tony Lake about it. He'll be heartbroken, unable to understand why Jill left him.”

“I can play that role,” Victor said. “I have before. But Jewel's no dumb bimbo.”

“I know, Victor. But I'm sure Jewel will buy into it, especially since she has no choice.”

“What about our special client?” Victor asked. “The one waiting to become Jill Clark?”

“We can't leave a torso to be found as a signal that she can take over Jill's identity and move in. That would let the police know Coulter wasn't the Torso Murderer. We'll simply alter procedure and talk to her, make it clear it will be the only contact—ever—between us. She can be Jill for a while somewhere else, and then move back to New York, if that's where she wants to be.”

Victor ran his fingers lightly over a chin that Stone was glad to see cleanly shaven today. “I don't know, Palmer. Jewel's a persistent pain in the ass. She might not accept my story. She might go to the police.”

Stone made a dismissive motion with his manicured right hand. “If she does, so what? Jill decided to leave New York, like countless other young women who grew tired of the struggle. And there's always the note.” Stone sat forward. “You
can
persuade Jill to write the good-bye note, can't you?”

“Of course. She's no problem. I can persuade her to do anything.” Victor began rubbing his chin harder, as if trying to sand it smooth. “Once I—”

“Never mind that.”

“Weak stomach?”

“My stomach doesn't factor into it,” Stone said. “You're tasked to do something, you do it, and I handle my end of the business. We decided early that, in everyone's best interests, compartmentalization would be our business model.”

“Yeah, we did.” Victor thought he might have to remind Palmer of that in the near future.

“Listen, Victor, I know Jewel's a hindrance, but Jill must be deleted because of her link to the old Madeline Scott. And don't forget she's gotten at least a glimpse of the new Madeline.”

Victor stopped with the chin rubbing. It had become so vigorous that it had left a red mark. “Okay, Palmer. It makes sense. You're right, as usual.”

Just the kind of talk Stone wanted to hear. “It's a business decision, Victor, pure and simple. It best serves our select client, and it best serves the company. Think of it that way, and it's our only reasonable option. It's important, of course, that Jill Clark never be found.”

“There's a place in New Jersey.”

“I don't want to know about it. That's your department, and I trust you can manage it as well as you always have.”

Stone deliberately hadn't mentioned Gloria again. Victor would be acting on his own.

“When do you want it done?” Victor asked.

“Soon,” Stone said.

“How?”

“That's totally up to you.”

Victor smiled.

The old man behind the desk at the Tumble Onn Inn watched the Louisiana state patrol car pull into the lot with its lights out. That made four cars.

“What're you waiting for?” he asked one of the troopers in the motel office.

There were two troopers in the office, making it feel half as big as it was. It seemed the only space to move around a little was behind the desk. That was where the old man, whose name was Ike, sat on a high stool that had a low but rigid bentwood back. He hauled his scrawny body up onto the stool now and then to ease his perpetually aching spine. It was better than standing and trying to make nice with the guests. Or with the cops. Ike had suffered in his life at the hands of the police and was wary of them.

Neither of the troopers bothered answering Ike. They were polite enough when they chose to speak. It was just that they didn't seem to think of him as someone worth answering.

Ike had misplaced his glasses, which made the two troopers look almost exactly alike. Burly six-footers with dark, flat-topped military haircuts and aggressive chins. One of the troopers had on some kind of cologne or aftershave that made Ike feel like sneezing.

Ike persisted. “She's just one woman alone, an' she probably ain't the one you're lookin' for anyways.”

“
You
called
us
,” one of the troopers reminded Ike.

“Well, I figured she wasn't right somehow, the way she flew off the handle when I told her no.”

The other trooper smiled.

“Imagine a woman like that,” Ike said, “offerin' to sell sex to an old guy like me. Hell, testosterwhatever's just a memory to me. These days, the only part of me that
ain't
stiff—”

“Don't tell us,” the trooper who'd smiled said.

“You might not believe it to look at me, but I'm eighty-six years old. And she just up an' bold as you please said she didn't have the money to pay for her room these past two days, an' would I take a—”

“We don't need to know that part,” the same trooper said. “We only need to know if it's the woman we're looking for. The description you gave on the phone makes us suspect she is.”

“Lookin' for her for what?” Ike asked, raising his thick gray eyebrows, making his cadaverous face seem even thinner. “You two guys want a—”

“Hey!” the other trooper said, raising a cautioning forefinger.

“I don't understand you guys,” Ike said. “Hell, I just thought a patrol car'd swing by here and you'd take her in for vagrancy or tryin' to peddle her ass. Who is she, Bonnie Parker?” He fixed his bleary eyes on them. “You two even know who Bonnie Parker was?”

“Owned a diner outside Slidell, if memory serves,” the trooper on the right said. “Big redheaded woman, loud voice.”

“Different Bonnie Parker,” Ike said, eyeing the trooper with contempt. “I guess you ain't heard of Bonnie and Clyde.”

“We know a lot of Clydes,” the other trooper said.

“John Dillinger?”

“He had something to do with Enron, right?”

“Christ on a stick! You call yourselves law enforcement officers?”

The troopers were both grinning. Ike, knowing he'd been had, glared at them and shifted position on his stool. “They stayed here once, the real Bonnie and Clyde. Room number eighteen.”

Both troopers were staring dead eyed at him, not buying it.

One of them turned at the soft sound of gravel crunching out in the driveway. Another car arriving. This one had its lights off, too, but Ike could see it out the window and it wasn't a state police car. It was a sheriff's department car from nearby Pool County.

“That's him,” one of the troopers said.

“Who?” Ike asked.

He didn't think they were going to answer him. Then the nearest trooper said, “The only one of us here other'n you who's seen Mary Smith.”

“An' she offered me a—”

“Forget that part of it,” said the trooper farthest away.

The other trooper winked. “Excuse my partner. He's kind of a prude. And we don't think the woman really is Mary Smith.”

“Don't make me no never mind,” Ike said. “That's the name she signed in under. Said her husband'd be here the end of the week with some money, an' she'd pay me cash when she checked out.”

“That before or after you got that offer of sex?”

“After. She went to cryin' when I turned her down. Then she gave me the husband story.”

“And you believed her, even though she signed in as Mary Smith?”

“I pretended to. She's a sweetie. An' she seemed all frazzled an' I felt sorry for her. Thought she might have some kinda mental or drug problem an' she should be in the hands of the authorities. Anyways, I seen more Smiths sign in here than you can imagine.”

“I can imagine a lot of Smiths,” said the trooper farthest from the desk.

“Let's go,” said his partner. To Ike: “Just sit tight here, old fella, and we'll finish our business and you can go back to that girlie magazine you've been reading.”

Ike started. He'd thought he'd concealed
Bizarre Desires
under
People
on the table behind the desk. Now he saw that
People
had been knocked sideways and
Bizarre Desires
was plainly visible. He must have brushed up against the table.

“Hell, I got no idea where that came from. I used to read
Playboy
years ago.”

But the troopers were gone. It was amazing how quickly and quietly they'd moved, for such big men. They hadn't let the screen door slam behind them. Ike hadn't even heard the stretched-out spring squeal the way it usually did when the door opened and closed. They were here; they were gone.

Ike went back to his magazine, but he couldn't read it or even focus on the photographs.

Too much going on outside.