Night Kills (39 page)

As Pearl moved toward the bedroom door, she heard her cell phone faintly playing
Dragnet
in her purse on the bed but ignored it. She knew it couldn't be heard from the living room.

She inched the door open. She could see across the living room to the small foyer and the hall door.

Tony, all right.

Jill was facing him, with her head raised as if expecting a kiss, playing her role.

As Tony pecked her cheek, he drew a small semiautomatic handgun from behind his back. It had a sound suppressor attached, dull gray and about six inches long with baffles. He began bending his elbow awkwardly so he could point the gun at Jill.

He's going to shoot her low in the side, to wound, and then…

Pearl didn't hesitate. She had her Glock out within seconds and snapped off a shot she knew would be wide of Tony but would certainly miss Jill. It wouldn't take him down, but it might startle him into forgetting for a few seconds about Jill.

Tony reacted fast. He shoved Jill away and swung the gun toward the sound of Pearl's shot, instantly saw her advancing down the hall toward him.

Pearl had a clear shot at him now. As she steadied her gun she saw a dulled muzzle flash and heard the silenced pistol spit at her. Tony's shot missed. So did her return shot. She knew he had a twenty-two. It was his weapon of choice, and even silenced it had sounded like a small-caliber gun. Pearl figured it would probably take several shots to stop her. Her powerful 9mm Glock could put Tony down with one shot.

If it hit home.

Pearl kept advancing down the hall, the Glock bucking and crashing in her hand. Tony wasn't retreating.
Grade A for guts. Kill the bastard!
She expected any moment to feel the sting of a bullet.

One of Tony's wild shots glanced off a framed print hanging in the hall just as Pearl came alongside it. Less than a foot from her face, the frame swung and dropped to the floor as the glass exploded into thin fragments. Pearl felt the right side of her face catch fire. She suddenly couldn't see from her right eye, realized it was closed, tried to open it but couldn't because of the pain.

Shit!

It only made her enraged. No time or room now for fear.

Through her watery left eye she took shaky aim and squeezed off another shot, knowing it would hit nothing but wall.

She saw a blurred figure dart to the side, turn, and disappear out the door to the hall.

Pearl staggered all the way into the living room and became aware that she wasn't headed toward the door. She was dizzy and had lost her bearings. She aimed her left eye at a huddled figure pressed back in a corner.

Jill.

Pearl started toward her and was suddenly nauseated. She looked down at her right arm and saw blood splatters on it.

There was something else wrong. Pain was taking her over, making it difficult to breathe.
Am I going into shock?

No, damn it!

She took two steps backward and fell slumping into the sofa.

The figure huddled in the corner wasn't there anymore. Then she saw it. Jill was crawling across the room toward her.

“Jewel?”

Jill's voice sounded as if it had come from the next room. Only it hadn't. Jill, standing up now, was only a few feet in front of Pearl.

“Jewel? Jewel? My God! You okay?”

“My cell,” Pearl said. “Go get my cell phone. In my purse in the bedroom.”

“Jewel?”

“My cell, goddamnit!”

 

On foot, Quinn dashed against the traffic signal through speeding, blaring traffic. He didn't slow down once he set foot on the opposite curb.

He'd reached Jill's block and was almost to her building, running flat out now, heart pumping so fast and hard it hurt.

Maybe he'd make it.

Maybe he'd get there in time.

A horn blared close to him, startling him. A cab veered to the curb about twenty feet in front of him. A voice:

“Quinn! Quinn!”

Quinn stopped and saw Fedderman shouting out the lowered side window in the back of the cab.

“Quinn!”

The cab's rear door swung open wide, looking as if it might spring off its hinges. Fedderman was leaning out waving at him.

“Get in, Quinn! Get in!”

Quinn knew they could make better time than he was making on foot as long as traffic didn't bog down again. He ran toward the cab, stumbling and almost falling as he stepped off the curb. His ankle felt sprained, but not enough to slow him down.

Getting too old for this…

No, not yet!

 

Victor understood it now—Jewel was a cop. They'd been waiting for him to come after Jill.

And the bitch had shot him!

He knew it wasn't serious, but a bullet had grazed the side of his neck, fortunately missing that carotid artery. Still, blood was flowing down inside his collar, and he could feel the warm wetness down his back.

He couldn't be sure if he'd hit Jewel; he'd been was firing small-caliber rounds at a distance. Almost surely she was coming after him.

No time to wait for the elevator. He threw himself down the steps, managing to stay on his feet by gripping the banister and shoving off the walls at the landings. He thought he could hear Jewel's footsteps on the stairs above and made himself move faster. She might have a clear shot at him any second. And she'd probably called for backup. He had to get out of the building, reach the streets before more police came.

He was in the lobby, almost slipping and falling on the slick tiles. Still holding the silenced handgun, he thought about turning around and firing a snap shot up the stairwell to at least slow down Jewel if she was pursuing him.

No time even for that.

He bolted toward the heavy door to the street, hit it hard with his shoulder, and spun as he lurched outside.

 

The cab pulled to the curb. Fedderman shoved a wad of bills at the driver as Quinn, on the right side in back, opened the door and started to climb out.

“Hell is that?” he heard Fedderman say.

Stooped over and with one foot still in the cab, one on the curb, Quinn looked up and saw a man burst from the doorway of Jill's apartment building. He must have hit the door hard on the inside because he was spinning as he broke outside. Quinn saw something in his right hand. Identified it immediately.

“That's Victor!” Fedderman shouted.

Quinn very calmly but loudly shouted, “Gun!” He gripped the butt of his old police positive special and pulled the revolver smoothly from its leather shoulder holster.

The cab's window behind him starred as a bullet smacked into it. Victor was standing with his feet spread wide facing Quinn. He was holding his weapon with both hands aiming carefully. Quinn noticed it hadn't made any noise and saw the bulky silencer on the barrel.

No time even to seek shelter!

Quinn lowered himself to a kneeling position to present a smaller target and fired a shot at Victor. Another shot barked nearby. He glanced back across the interior of the cab and saw Fedderman's ample stomach paunch and wrinkled tie mashed against the outside of the opposite side window. Fedderman was standing and firing across the cab's roof.

Another shot, and a bullet snapped past over Quinn's head.

Outgoing.

Victor had decided to make his stand. He made no attempt to escape. A bullet zinged off the cab's hood. The cabbie had had enough. Quinn heard the engine roar and felt rather than saw the cab pull away fast from the curb.

Exposed now, Fedderman moved up so he was standing directly behind Quinn. Both men fired over and over at Victor. Quinn's ears rang from the din and he could smell cordite, see brass casings from Fedderman's 9mm bouncing around like loose coins on the sidewalk.

Victor seemed almost to melt as he fell.

He lay motionless with one leg twisted beneath him.

Quinn and Fedderman separated and approached the still body from different angles. Fedderman, his white shirt cuff flapping above his gun hand, reached it first and kicked the silenced .22 away from where it lay next to Victor's dead hand.

He stooped low and touched the base of Victor's neck lightly, feeling for a pulse, and then looked up at Quinn. “Gone.”

“Let's get upstairs,” Quinn said, breathing hard. “See how Pearl is.”

Quinn and Fedderman saw the door to Jill's apartment hanging open. There was no way to know what was going on inside, or how many people were involved. Victor had probably been alone, but there was no way to be sure.

They entered cautiously, guns drawn.

Jill was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, her face blank. She was obviously in shock. Pearl was slumped on the sofa. Her right eye was tightly closed and there was blood all over that side of her face and in spatter marks down her right arm.

She squinted at Quinn with her left eye.

“More blood than anything else,” she said. “Bullet hit a picture on the wall. Blew it all to hell. Glass in my eye.”

She seemed only mildly annoyed, rather than enraged or in any great pain. Must be in shock, like Jill, Quinn figured.

He turned to instruct Fedderman to call for EMS for both Pearl and Jill. Fedderman was already standing off to the side with his cell phone making the call.

“Don't need an ambulance,” Pearl said. “You or Feds can drive me to the hospital. Or I can take a cab.”

“Call Renz when you're done with that call,” Quinn said to Fedderman. “Let him know what happened.”

Then he sat down beside Pearl on the sofa and held her close.

 

As soon as Renz hung up after Fedderman's call, he phoned Cindy Sellers. She'd hear it and publish it first, even if the news hit TV before the next edition of
City Beat.

Sellers was print media and should be used to getting scooped by TV or the Internet. But she'd get the jump on all the major New York papers. A deal was a deal. Besides, Renz would rather have Sellers as an ally than an enemy.

Her questions were brief and to the point. Renz's answers were the same. They both knew the rules. Renz kind of enjoyed the conversation. They were two ruthless and expert players who by chance and opportunity found themselves on the same side of the board.

When the conversation was over, Renz went to his office door and locked it. He was smiling.

Quinn had come through again. The Torso Murderer—the real one—lay dead on the sidewalk, and Renz's career was alive and well.

As planned.

He returned to his desk and fired up a celebratory cigar.

 

Pearl had done her job. Jill Clark was mentally shaken but otherwise unharmed. The paramedics tried to load Pearl onto a gurney to carry her to the ambulance. She was having none of it. The glass wasn't actually
in
her eye, so she demanded to be stitched up then and there. The paramedics said the best they could do on the spot were butterfly bandages to temporarily hold the deepest cuts together and stop the bleeding. Pearl told them that would do. Tough Pearl. Thought she was staying on the job, going with Quinn and Fedderman.

“Not a chance,” Quinn told her when he realized she expected to stay in the hunt. “You've done enough, Pearl. If you won't go to a hospital, stay here and rest. Or go up to your own apartment. Jewel's.”

“That place is a rat hole,” Pearl said.

“For a rodent that's lucky to be alive.”

“You calling me a rat, Quinn?”

Quinn said, “Stay, Pearl!” As if she were a dog he was disciplining and taking no more shit from. Well, better than a rodent.

Pearl didn't like it, but she knew when not to argue.
Stubborn bastard!
She slumped down on the sofa, slouching so she was sitting on her spine. Like a spoiled brat unfairly denied.

Quinn was unmoved. He turned to Fedderman.

“Let's go see if Palmer Stone's working late tonight,” he said, not looking back at Pearl as he moved toward the door.

Fedderman slid a fresh clip into his 9mm, glanced at Pearl, grinned, and said, “Hard ass.” He hurried to catch up with Quinn.

Pearl stayed behind and fumed.

 

Quin and Fedderman commandeered one of the unmarked city cars that had arrived at the scene. Quinn drove it fast but not recklessly, staring straight ahead, thinking about Pearl and what had happened to Victor Lamping, and what he, Quinn, would like to do to Palmer Stone.

He double-parked outside Stone's office building and flipped down the sun visor to display the NYPD placard. Quinn and Fedderman were the only ones in the elevator as it rose to the floor where E-Bliss.org's offices were located.

Quinn knew Renz had probably tipped Cindy Sellers by now. All secrets were known. The news of Victor's death might already be on TV and radio.

As they entered the suite of offices, Quinn signaled Fedderman, and both men drew their weapons and held them tight against their thighs.

The small anteroom was empty. It had a still and desolate air about it. After enough years, cops could sense unoccupied premises. After enough years, they learned not to entirely trust their instincts.

Weapons raised and at the ready now, Quinn led the way, and they pushed through to Stone's office.

The offices of E-Bliss.org were occupied—in a way. Palmer Stone was at his desk, appropriately dressed in a dark business suit with white shirt and red silk tie. He was slumped forward with both arms and his head on the desk, as if he were taking a nap. There was a dark-rimmed, perfectly round hole in his temple. The gun that had created it was in his right hand. The bullet hadn't exited his head, so the desk had only a small pool of blood on it. Near Stone's left hand was a precisely folded suicide note. Everything about the scene was neat and orderly, considering. The live Palmer Stone would have approved.

The note was computer generated and had been printed out. It said simply, “I know when business hours are over.” It was signed in blue ink, no doubt from the Montblanc pen lying uncapped on the desk.

Quinn replaced the note where he'd found it. He used his cell to contact Renz and tell him what had happened.

While they were waiting for the army of CSU techs and the M.E. and EMS, Quinn and Fedderman slipped evidence gloves on and began a cursory examination of Palmer Stone's files and the contents of his desk drawers.

Unsurprisingly, there was nothing incriminating. Merely the expected business letters and signed correspondence with suppliers and satisfied clients. Maybe the computers would yield more later.

Fedderman, who was near the office window, glanced outside and down at the street.

He turned to Quinn. “Troops're arriving.”

Quinn took a deep breath, released it, and looked around the spare, neat office, then at the still body behind the desk.

“They can have it,” he said and moved toward the door.

And stopped. Something made him not want to leave. Not just yet.

He walked over to the desk and stared at the shocked expression on Palmer Stone's face.

“We ever seen Stone before in the flesh?” he asked.

Fedderman shook his head no. “Seen his photo on the Internet. What's left here in his desk chair looks like the photo.”

Quinn continued to stare at the dead man. He simply couldn't tell for sure, but he had to allow for possibilities.

“You notice anything about those files we went through?” he asked Fedderman.

“Nothing I wanted to notice.”

“The signatures on the documents and the suicide note aren't the same.”

Fedderman took a moment to think about that. “And Stone's business
was
providing doubles with new identities.” He wiped his wrist across his mouth, then looked doubtful. “But if the dead guy at the desk isn't Stone, and the note's a phony, why wouldn't Stone have signed it?”

“He might have wanted only the dead man's prints on the pen and paper in case they might be lifted. He could've held the gun to the man's head and made him sign the note. I'll bet the gun's been wiped clean except for the dead man's prints. I'll bet the office has been wiped clean. And Stone's been clean, never been arrested or in the military. His prints aren't on file.”

Fedderman leaned forward and stared hard at the dead man's face. “It sure looks like Stone.”

“What if it isn't?” Quinn asked.

But he already knew the answer.

If Stone was alive but officially dead, what did he have to lose by murdering the woman who'd destroyed his business and brought about his downfall?

Or women?

Jill Clark, who'd already barely escaped. And Pearl.

By cell phone, Quinn tried to contact Pearl, who was still having her injuries tended.

She'd managed to browbeat a second paramedic, who'd come for Jill, into applying stitches rather than the butterfly bandages. The grumpy paramedic answered her phone. Quinn told him the situation.

Pearl, listening to one side of the conversation, told the paramedic to tell Quinn that Weaver was with Jill, who was unhurt and had refused medical attention.

“She says to tell you—”

“Never mind,” Quinn said. “Just take care of her. Make sure she's okay.”

“What we do,” the grumpy paramedic said.

“And tell her to get the hell out of there. Out of the building.”

“With this one, telling her's not the same as her doing it.”

“I know,” Quinn said. “I'm an expert on the subject.”

He broke the connection, then immediately called Renz and told him the situation at E-Bliss.org.

Renz didn't say anything for almost a minute, thinking about all the ramifications of maybe looking foolish if Quinn was wrong about Stone not being Stone. The consequences could be even worse than simply looking foolish. There were deep wells to fall into here. Even tiger pits.

But Renz was still more cop than bureaucrat or politician.

“Could be,” he said. “Not likely, but could be.” He paused. “You're on your own with this hypothesis, though. It's gotta be that way, Quinn.”
Well, almost more cop than bureaucrat or politician.

The Two Palmer Stones was Quinn's theory, Quinn's game, Quinn's risk—and if Quinn just happened to be right, Renz's glory. And if it turned out Quinn was wrong, no harm to Renz. Win-win.

“We're on our way to Jill's apartment,” Quinn said.

“I'll call Weaver,” Renz said, “and make sure she takes Jill somewhere safe.”
No political risk there. Only upside.

While Quinn was stuffing the cell phone back in his pocket, Fedderman said, “Pearl okay?”

“For Pearl,” Quinn said. “For now.”

They took the elevator down and Quinn gave directions to the CSU crew that had just entered the lobby. Then they were back in the unmarked bucking traffic and retracing their route. Ignoring potholes and blaring horns and angry shouts and traffic laws and traffic lights. Driving hard toward Jill Clark's apartment.

“Think he'll go there?” Fedderman asked.

Quinn concentrated on threading his way through traffic. “I think he might. That's enough.”

“Should still be plenty of law there. Maybe they haven't even taken away Victor's body.”

“That'll all be out in the street,” Quinn said. “And if there's something going on there, all the better for Stone. It'll be easier for him to enter the building without attracting suspicion and confront Jill and Pearl.”

“He's not stupid,” Fedderman said. “He might think we could be on to him and he's got that figured in his plans.”

Quinn smiled a smile Fedderman had seen before. It would never prompt anyone to smile back.

“We have our own plans,” Quinn said.