John Lutz - Urge to Kill

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.

“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.”

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 visitor’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.