John Lutz - Urge to Kill

Quinn searched his memory. Found a stocky, gray-haired plainclothes cop with an easy smile that could turn hard. “Detective Joe Galin? Narcotics? Manhattan South?”

“The very one,” Renz said.

“Galin’s dead?”

“Or putting on a hell of an act.”

Quinn was having difficulty processing this. “Our killer did a cop?”

“Sure did. Single small-caliber bullet to the head. Ex-cop, by the way. He was retired, like you.”

“Like I was,” Quinn said.

Despite the hour, Quinn phoned Pearl and Fedderman. Then he got dressed, went outside to where his car was parked, and in the glimmering dawn drove across town and over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge into Queens.

It was a gray but bright morning when Quinn pulled the Lincoln to the curb and braked to a halt behind a parked radio car. There was another patrol car and what looked like an unmarked city car parked directly in front of a take-out pizza

joint with PIZZA-RIO painted on its window. Beneath the name in smaller letters was PIZZA WITH A SPANISH KICK.

Might be good, Quinn thought, as he climbed out of the Lincoln. But not now. Not here. What he wanted was coffee. He knew he should have taken the time to swing by the Lotus Diner and get a go cup. It would have taken only a few more minutes. Several uniformed cops and two plainclothes detectives were standing around on the sidewalk in a circle. They were holding white foam cups, some of which had steam rising from them, and at least two were eating doughnuts.

As Quinn walked toward the mouth of an alley where, according to Renz on the phone, the shooting had taken place, one of the plainclothes guys-the shorter of the two, with a gray buzz cut and a broad, florid face, spotted Quinn and walked toward him. He smiled. “Captain Quinn?”

Quinn nodded, noticing the man was holding two cups of coffee.

“I’m Detective Charlton Lewellyn. I’ve been with Commissioner Renz on the phone. He said this one was yours.” He held out one of the foam cups for Quinn to take, as if he’d been referring to it and not to what had happened in the alley.

Quinn accepted the cup, which had a white plastic lid on it to keep in the heat, and thanked Lewellyn. He sipped. Good coffee, cream, no sugar. Had Lewellyn checked with someone to see how Quinn drank his coffee?

“I hope that’s okay,” Lewellyn said, as if he didn’t want Quinn to think he was too clever.

Quinn took another sip. “Fine.”

“We kept the scene frozen for you,” Lewellyn said. He led the way toward the alley. The uniforms had moved away and taken up position to keep any passersby clear. One of them was seated in a radio car with the door hanging open, working on some kind of form on a metal clipboard. The other plainclothes cop was standing nearby, as if the one filling out the form might need help. It occurred to Quinn that there wasn’t much of a turnout here considering an ex-cop had been shot. But maybe that was Renz keeping a low profile. Or maybe Galin had been gone too long. About five years, Renz had said.

There was yellow crime scene tape strung across the mouth of the alley. Lewellyn lifted it high so Quinn could stoop and move beneath it, like a corner man helping a boxer into the ring.

A late-model red Buick was parked in the alley. Beyond it, Quinn saw three kids peering down the alley from the block at the opposite end. There was no crime scene tape, but there was at least one uniform posted there, keeping anyone from cutting through. He came into view and talked to the kids, and they all looked down the alley toward Quinn and hurriedly moved along.

As Quinn got closer to the car he saw a figure hunched over the steering wheel. “CSU been here?”

“Nobody,” Lewellyn said. “We were keeping it fresh for you.”

Quinn set his coffee cup on the ground out of the way, then got some crime scene gloves from a pocket and worked them onto his hands. He moved in closer to the Buick. All of the car’s windows were up. The doors appeared to be unlocked.

“The engine and air conditioner were off,” Lewellyn said.

“Ignition key in the off position?”

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t all that hot last night. The victim might have sat a while with the windows up and still not gotten warm enough to lower them or turn the engine and AC back on.”

“Or he might have just arrived and been about to get out of the car,” Quinn said.

Lewellyn nodded.

“I like it your way, though,” Quinn said, making friends. “He didn’t park here in an alley for nothing.”

Lewellyn nodded again, same way, same expression, not giving away much or taking much. Quinn liked that about him.

Quinn leaned closer and peered into the lightly tinted front-side window, across the wide seat, at the dead man behind the steering wheel. He saw no sign of a bullet hole. The heavyset man with the wavy gray hair might have been taking a nap.

Not touching the car, Quinn moved around to the driver’s side. Through the window he could see the dark bullet hole in Galin’s temple.

Making as little contact with the handle as possible, he opened the door.

The wound looked nastier up close and without tinted glass filtering out the details.

“He wasn’t wearing his seat belt,” Lewellyn said. He’d moved in so he was standing just behind Quinn.

Quinn saw that that was true.

There was no sign of a gun, but they might still be looking at suicide. Then Quinn noticed the butt of what looked like a nine-millimeter handgun protruding from a belt holster beneath the victim’s suit coat. The position of the holster, the way the gun butt was turned, indicated Galin was right handed.

Left temple wound. Small-caliber bullet. Not likely a suicide, even if the gun that fired the bullet was around, under the seat or something. And why would somebody serious about suicide favor a small-caliber weapon when he had a large-caliber one in his holster? If you really do go through with it and shoot yourself, you want to make sure.

Quinn noticed the right-hand jacket pocket in Galin’s gray suit coat was turned inside out.

“No sign of a note,” Lewellyn said.

“Sometimes they put them in the mail beforehand,” Quinn said.

Lewellyn sipped his coffee, holding the cup with both hands as if it were a cold morning instead of seventy degrees.

“You know him personally?” Quinn asked.

Lewellyn shook his head no. “He worked out of Manhattan. You?”

“Didn’t exactly know him. I recall seeing him around. He was Narcotics. Worked undercover sometimes.”

“Think that might have anything to do with him being shot?”

“It usually does,” Quinn said. “But probably not this time.”

“Guy walks some mean streets for years, then doesn’t bother wearing his seat belt and something like this happens to him.”

“Goes to show you,” Quinn said, “but I’m not sure what.”

Lewellyn silently sipped some more coffee, not knowing what, either.

Quinn wished he could help him, but couldn’t.

Quinn wished he could take his eyes off Pearl.

He was behind his big cherrywood desk in his combination office and den. Pearl was slouched in the small armchair on the left, angled toward the desk. She was wearing a white blouse, black slacks, a gray blazer, and comfortable-looking black shoes with thick, slightly built-up heels. Not a sexy outfit, but she turned it into one. Her black hair was slightly mussed this morning, her full lips glossed a red that wasn’t brilliant but looked so on her. Her dark eyes with the long dark lashes…

“Quinn, you concentrating?”

Fedderman’s voice. Feds was seated in the large brown leather chair where Quinn often sat when he was alone and wanted to read.