John Lutz - Urge to Kill

“Same as the others,” Fedderman said. He’d been closer and reached the scene ahead of Quinn and Pearl.

They were standing near the dead body that had been found beside the Antonian Hotel. Julius Nift, from the medical examiner’s office, was over by his black city car parked among the NYPD radio cars, peeling off his latex gloves. The CSU techs were still gathering evidence in the blocked-off passageway. Nift glanced over at Quinn, smiled, and nodded.

Quinn nodded back, thinking, Asshole.

He thought about going over and talking to Nift, but the arrogant little ME was already climbing into his car, pulling the door closed. Quinn figured it didn’t matter. As Fedderman had said, this one would be like the others. Cause of death: a small-caliber (which would later turn out to be a. 25) bullet to the head. Nift might have a time-of-death estimate, but it would be only that-an estimate. Quinn could wait until tomorrow for the postmortem report.

He almost spat a foul taste and odor from the edges of his tongue, then remembered this was a crime scene and swallowed instead. He was pretty sure most of the stench was coming from the black plastic trash bags, but the dead man was contributing.

Quinn looked back down at him. The man was in his late forties or early fifties, dressed conservatively in neatly pressed Dockers and a blue checked shirt, wearing a black sport jacket that was twisted around his body because of the way he was lying. He actually didn’t look too bad except for the way his eyes had sunk back in his skull, and of course the hole in his forehead.

Fedderman had already searched the man’s pockets and found nothing other than a hotel key card. Galin had been the only victim who hadn’t had one of those on him. Galin, in fact, was the odd piece in this puzzle, linked by method and not much else.

“Looks like our killer shot this guy, then concealed the body back against the brick wall under the trash bags so it wouldn’t be found right away,” Fedderman said. “That guy”-he pointed toward a ragged, bearded man yammering and gesticulating wildly at a uniform from one of the radio cars-“happened to notice a human hand protruding from the trash while he was back here getting ready to sack out for a while with his bottle of wine. That sent him screaming out into the street, where he scared the shit out of people and snarled up traffic. An ex-cop from Denver dragged him back up on the sidewalk where he’d be safe and called us on his cell, saying there was a crazy man running wild and yelling about a dead body. Right on both counts.” Fedderman grinned at Pearl. “Why don’t you go over and get Riley’s statement?”

“Riley the crazy guy?” Pearl asked.

“He’s not the one with the uniform.”

“Why don’t you go?” Pearl said. “You’re more likely to connect with him.”

“I’ll do it,” Quinn said, to shut them up. This wasn’t the time or place for one of their pissant quarrels. He pointed to a gray door set in the brick wall. “Where’s that lead?”

“Into the hotel, I would imagine,” Fedderman said, making Quinn wonder if Fedderman was messing with him. But then, it hadn’t been the brightest of questions. “I tried it after I made sure the CSU people had dusted the knob for prints. It’s locked.”

“Lock automatically when it closes?”

“I don’t know,” Fedderman said. “Nobody’s been in there yet.”

“You go check out what’s on the other side of that door,” Quinn told Pearl. “Feds, let’s the two of us go over and see what Mr. Riley has to say.”

Pearl flashed a grin at Fedderman as she hurried away.

When Riley saw Quinn and Fedderman approach, he lost interest in the uniform. He was more than happy to confirm the story he’d told the first cops on the scene. Trouble was, he wouldn’t stop confirming it.

“Should have given Pearl the job,” Fedderman said, managing to get in a word that wasn’t Riley’s.

Quinn nodded.

“Pearl the lady with the big bazooms?” Riley asked, indicating big bazooms with both hands. His breath was terrible and might have been flammable.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Quinn said.

“Those, you mean,” Riley corrected.

“Those,” Quinn said, thinking if Fedderman laughed he was going to kick his ass all the way back into retirement.

“They’re genuine, all right,” Riley said.

Pearl was back within ten minutes, telling them the door led to a corridor and she’d found blood on the carpet. It looked like the dead man had been shot inside the hotel, then dragged outside and dumped behind the trash bags.

Riley’s bleary eyes widened in alarm. “Shot? Blood? Holy, bejesus, bejesus, bejesus! I been told it’s the End of Days. I been told.”

“The dead man would agree with whoever told you,” Pearl said, stepping to the side to avoid Riley’s breath. To Quinn she said: “I’ve got the bloodstain cordoned off and a uniform posted to protect it.”

Quinn nodded, not doubting that the blood would belong to the corpse lying next to the mound of stuffed trash bags. This one is different. The other. 25-Caliber Killer victims died where they were shot, or at least were never moved after death.

Not exactly a break in the case, but something about it suggested to Quinn that it was important.

“Holy bejesus!” Riley said again.

Pearl said, “What the hell are you looking at?”

“Let’s check inside,” Quinn said. “Thanks for your help, Mr. Riley.”

“The End of Days,” Riley said.

“That’s a good thing for you to be thinking about,” Quinn said.

“I don’t like that old jerk-off,” Pearl said, as they were walking toward the front of the hotel.

“He seemed to like you okay,” Fedderman said.

It didn’t take long to learn which door in the Antonian the key card unlocked. After Quinn checked at the desk in the lobby, they took the elevator to the third floor.

The room was furnished like thousands of others in New York, an armchair that reclined, desk and matching chair, bed flanked by nightstands with lamps, an entertainment hutch, most of it in matching dark maple.

On a collapsible luggage stand was a suitcase with three changes of clothing. There was no luggage tag on the suitcase. The clothes were expensive casual and included a pair of designer jeans. There were three baseball caps, three different colors, each from a different team.

“Fickle fan,” Pearl said.

Quinn looked in the tiny bathroom. There was a shaving kit and lineup of containers on the vanity. Also a coffee brewer that hadn’t been used. The soap hadn’t been unwrapped. No tissues, nothing, in the plastic-lined waste basket. The dead man hadn’t been a hotel guest long enough to leave any stamp of personality.

Quinn took a wary look at himself in the vanity mirror and went back into the main room.

“A wallet,” Fedderman said, standing at the open desk drawer. He thumbed through it. “We got us a Floyd Becker, SoHo address, fifty-one years old and will be forever.” He riffled the money like a skilled bank teller. “Three hundred even.”

“That’s not the name he used when he checked in with cash at the front desk,” Quinn said.

“ Jones,’ I’ll bet,” Fedderman said. “And he used his initial for his phony first name.”

“ Smith,’” Pearl said, “and no same initial.”

Quinn shook his head. “You’re both wrong. Answer’s ‘Bob Green.’”

“Shit!” Pearl said.

Fedderman chuckled nastily. “I was sure you said ‘Smith.’ ”

There was something unusual about this one, Quinn thought, despite Becker’s lack of imagination in choosing a pseudonym. Something that deviated from the pattern in a meaningful way. Maybe it had to do with the body being dragged outside. Or maybe it was something else.