John Lutz - Darker Than Night

“The assumption is that the source is a former New York cop,” Quinn said.

“Genuine anonymous sources,” Pearl said, “usually try staying as anonymous as possible.”

Quinn sat and watched her drive. “Meaning?”

“Maybe the source isn’t NYPD. The informer might have wanted Kay Kemper to think so because it would lend credibility to his lies.”

A white work van cut off Pearl as she slowed to take a corner. She honked the horn and the driver glared at her and raised his middle finger. Pearl sat quietly, as if she hadn’t seen.

It was a possibility, Quinn thought. “The most likely source would be the Night Prowler himself.”

“Sure. You’re getting under his skin. He had to do something to get back at you, so he used Kay Kemper. It all fits. And it’s the way assholes like that operate.”

“The Night Prowler-”

“I meant Kemper. She probably knows the story’s bullshit, but she’ll do anything for ratings.”

“He must be getting frustrated, to pull something like this.”

“That’s the idea, isn’t it?” Pearl said. “We want him frustrated. We break the fucker so he messes up, and we nail him.”

The white van hadn’t moved after cutting off Pearl. She leaned on the horn and the driver, a guy in a dark shirt with a cap set way back on his head, repeated his obscene gesture.

Pearl lowered her window and waved her shield around. “I’m a cop! Move that van now, shit for brains, or I’ll arrest you for vehicular stupidity!”

Watching the van driver maneuver his big vehicle out of the way by putting two wheels up on the sidewalk, Quinn thought again that Pearl was some item.

“He has a lotta nerve, that stewhead!” The car shot forward and Quinn noticed his foot was mashing down again on his nonexistent brake pedal.

“Guy’s probably tired and on his way home from work,” he said.

“Not the van driver, the Night Prowler.”

Quinn sat back and closed his eyes. Pearl…

“I’m staying over with you tonight,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“You need me, so it’s settled.”

She was so right. And she still hadn’t asked if the rumors about him were true.

Pearl.

There was still enough daylight to see to shoot. The setting sun had turned the horizon, barely visible beyond a dark row of trees and distant buildings, a vivid burned orange threaded with gray.

The Night Prowler was standing on the slope of an abandoned quarry outside Newark, New Jersey, where many amateur target shooters, not to mention rat hunters, went to sharpen their aim. He was the only one left in the orange-tinted, failing light, but still he sighted in carefully on bent tin cans or beer or wine bottles protruding from the landfill near the base of the quarry.

He stared intently over the sight of his handgun, squeezed the trigger gently, and saw a slight puff of dust as the bullet struck a yard to the side of what looked from this distant like a pound coffee can.

Not good enough!

He had to improve! Had to learn to shoot for distance. And he was lucky enough to have the handgun; he couldn’t risk buying or stealing a rifle, as difficult as they were to conceal. And using one would be a problem, anyway. Long guns were, let’s face it, noticeable. New York wasn’t Wyoming.

It amazed the Night Prowler how swiftly Quinn had struck back. Tit for tat, this for that, death for that. He squeezed off another shot. Closer. It seemed that Kay Kemper had no sooner mentioned on TV the rumors of more child molestations by Quinn, than Victory called and told the Night Prowler he’d learned of a woman cop-Detective Pearl, no doubt-asking about key reproductions. The hardware store where she’d been making her inquiries was not only in Victory’s neighborhood, it was also in the Night Prowler’s, and only a few blocks from his apartment.

Drab gray officialdom in my personal territory! Intolerable!

So, the law was concentrating now on who might have had keys to the murder apartments. No problem, so far. But it was only a matter of time before they learned he had a portable machine for setting locks and cutting keys. And he’d done work in all the apartments where the murders occurred.

Only a matter of time. In-fucking-tolerable!

Another shot.

Another miss.

At least the phone call to Kay Kemper had gone as the Night Prowler expected. She’d been interested and tried to pump him for more information about himself. But he’d sold her on the idea that he was a former cop, and he was afraid for his life if it became known he’d turned snitch on the NYPD. He had a pension and a sick wife to consider. Kay Kemper had bought it, true blue, probably because she wanted so much to believe him, wanted the story.

And as the Night Prowler had suspected, Quinn’s enemies in the NYPD took the opportunity to stick more barbs into him. Yes, they’d heard the rumors, they said anonymously. No fire, but a sky full of smoke. No proof, but then there hadn’t been any lock-tight proof in the Anna Caruso case, and everyone in the NYPD knew who’d committed that crime. Everyone in the city.

The Night Prowler smiled, aimed, shot.

Another miss.

Smile became frown.

Is Quinn impossible to kill? Is that what the message is here? Is Quinn being favored by fate?

There! Something!

The Night Prowler had glimpsed movement about twenty feet away, where there was a low mound of what looked like cinders and assorted trash someone had dumped. It had been there awhile. The labels on cans and bottles were faded, and even in the dying light swarms of flies were visible droning around the base of the mound.

But something other than insects had moved. The Night Prowler was sure of it.

He crept closer, holding the gun before him in both hands, like cops on countless TV shows.

And there was the movement again!

A rat?

No, an ordinary squirrel.

The Night Prowler aimed, fired, and the squirrel leaped into the air violently as if electrified, then dropped to the trash pile dead.

Blood makes the difference! Shooting for real. The blood!

He walked over and looked down at the gray and the red that was the squirrel, the glimpse of white that was the purity of bone. Most of the animal’s head was missing.

Fate was no longer something to fear. Neither was time. Death was an ally. The Night Prowler’s luck had changed.

And Quinn’s.

“Bad luck, I’m afraid,” said the voice in Jubal Day’s ear.

Jubal was in the living room, on his cell phone. He’d just returned from reading for the role in West Side Buddies at a small studio on West Forty-fourth Street. He and the producer and Jubal’s agent had gone out for drinks afterward. There were two more auditions to be held, they said, two more candidates for the role. If neither of them made the grade, then Jubal looked good for the part. His world was opening before him. His career was about to be launched big time. If only-

“Jubal, did you hear?”

The caller was Don Henson, the director of As Thy Love Thyself, in Chicago.

“Yeah, Don, so what’s going on?”

“Astin’s come down with some kind of bug that’s got him flat on his back with a hundred and three temperature. We’re lucky the theater’s black tonight, but we have to have you back here.”

“How soon?”

“Yesterday. Tonight. Early tomorrow morning at the latest. We’ve made some revisions, and you’re going to have to run through them before going on tomorrow evening.”

Jubal’s mind was bouncing around in his skull. Would it hurt his chances for the TV series if he cut and ran out of New York? Probably not. He’d already read for the part, and it was doubtful they’d want him back for another reading.

Unless one of the other two candidates for the role came through big and made the decision difficult.