John Lutz - Darker Than Night

“But I’m all you’ve got, Harley, and we both know I’m getting closer. Old cops like us can feel it when a case is coming to a head. The Night Prowler can feel it, too. That’s why he shot at the car.”

“Shot at you, you mean.”

“Probably. Are you warning me to be more careful?”

“I’m remembering what you said about being all I’ve got.”

“I still don’t see why Egan would spout off to me at the hospital, then go to the banquet and stay mum.” Quinn had decided not to mention to Renz that Pearl whispered something in Egan’s ear that almost made him launch like a rocket.

“Obviously, he changed his mind. But he might not keep it changed for long. Here’s another piece of information for you, one Egan doesn’t have and won’t for another two or three hours. I had my contact in ballistics run another quick comparison for me. The bullet that was dug out of Fedderman’s arm isn’t from the gun that was used to take a shot at you outside the florist shop on First Avenue.”

“So Lunt watches cop shows on TV and knows about ballistics tests, so he ditched the First Avenue gun. He’s not stupid.”

“He’s not that.”

Quinn watched a small cockroach wander into a patch of morning sunlight on the kitchen floor near the window and stagger toward the wooden molding. It reminded him of Egan. It reminded him of his life the last few years-trying to escape the light.

“You still there, Quinn?”

“Yeah.” The roach flattened itself and disappeared in the shadowed space between molding and floor. With the rehabbing and so many vacant apartments in the building, it was impossible to get rid of all the roaches, no matter how much insecticide was sprayed around.

“Quinn?”

“Fedderman’s okay, by the way. I tell you because I’m sure you were going to ask.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Renz said. “I already called the hospital this morning and they let me talk to Fedderman. He’s gonna be released this afternoon with his arm in a cast. And he wants to keep working the case.”

“He shouldn’t.”

“That’s what Alice says.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said, sure he could work the case, no matter what his wife says. Let the two of ’em fight it out.”

Quinn started to tell Renz what a jerk-off he was, but he realized Renz had hung up.

Quinn did the same, and looked over and saw Pearl standing in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were puffy, her hair was a mess, and she was wearing only Quinn’s oversize T-shirt that she’d slept in. He thought she looked beautiful in the morning sun that illuminated her half of the kitchen. He forgot about the cockroach and how bad life had seemed a few minutes ago.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“The hospital. Fedderman’s being released this afternoon.”

“Great! He can go home and sit on his ass and eat chicken soup for a while.”

“He’s gonna keep working the case, unless Alice wraps him in duct tape to stop him.”

“Duct tape. We haven’t tried that.”

“Pearl, get dressed.”

“Like you are?”

Quinn realized he was sitting at the kitchen table in nothing but his Jockey shorts.

“We don’t have to meet Fedderman at the bench this morning,” Pearl reminded him.

“True. Let’s go out and get some breakfast, read the paper.”

“I’m not hungry. And we pretty much know what’s in the paper.”

“Pearl-”

“There’s no reason we can’t go back to bed for a while. We’re undressed for it.”

She had him there.

Claire woke up craving chocolate.

Her unreasonable and overwhelming physical cravings during pregnancy made her uneasy. They were so unnatural, so unlike her, that they reminded her of the profundity of what must be happening inside her body and mind. To be so at the mercy of one’s nature, one’s hormones, was unnerving. If she had to, no matter what, have chocolate on waking in the morning, what other irresistible urges might compel her?

She climbed out of bed, pulled her nightgown off over her head, and examined her nude body in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She was still able to disguise her pregnancy with the right clothes, the right costuming in Hail to the Chef, but she knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d have to remove herself from the cast. She wanted to do it herself, and not force Fred Perry, the director, or Chris Jackson, the playwright, to inform her when it was time.

She decided again that she enjoyed being pregnant, despite the many complications. Stretch marks-who cares? Morning sickness-so what? She smiled in the mirror and patted herself on the belly before padding barefoot into the bathroom to shower.

Claire was careful climbing into the high-sided porcelain tub. Lifting one leg high and balancing on the other was becoming noticeably more difficult every day, and a fall could be disastrous for the baby.

She pulled the plastic curtain closed, adjusted the water to warm, and luxuriated in the shower. All her senses seemed more alive these days.

Back in the bedroom, after drying off with a fresh towel, then combing her wet hair, Claire opened the third dresser drawer to find a pair of panties, and her eye fell on a glint of silver.

She pulled the drawer open farther, nudged lingerie aside, and saw what looked like a silver clasp for a chain, maybe to a necklace or bracelet. When she moved a bra at the back of the drawer, there behind it was a beautiful ruby necklace.

Claire was astounded, and after her initial surprise, pleased.

The necklace had to be a gift from Jubal, one he hadn’t had time to present to her properly, so he’d hidden it in the drawer for later. Odd, though, that he’d chosen her lingerie drawer. But he knew she was dressing casually these days and seldom wearing a bra, and the necklace had been in the very back of the drawer.

Or maybe he’d intended for her to find it. A surprise. Like some of the other surprise gifts he’d engineered lately.

She glanced at the bedside clock radio. It was almost nine-thirty, eight-thirty in Chicago. Jubal would be awake, not yet at the theater but possibly at breakfast.

Claire was chilly after her shower, so after holding up the necklace to admire it, she slipped on a pair of panties, then her robe and slippers, and went into the kitchen to put on some decaffeinated, doctor-approved coffee. She realized she was still holding the necklace. Her craving for chocolate had suddenly abated. She smiled. Jewelry could have that effect on a woman, even pregnant.

She got the coffee brewing, then put on the necklace and fastened its clasp behind her neck. It felt cool against her flesh. She checked her reflection in the dark, mirrored door of the microwave oven and approved.

When there was about an inch of coffee in the glass pot, she interrupted its flow from the brewer to pour a warm but too-strong quarter of a cup. Then she sat at the table with what she thought of as an espresso and used her cell phone to call Jubal’s.

Jubal was kissing Dalia’s left nipple when he heard the opening notes of the William Tell Overture.

“What the hell was that?” Dalia asked, pushing his head away.

It took Jubal a few seconds to refocus his mind and give her an answer. “Cell phone.”

“I thought it was the fucking Lone Ranger.”

Jubal scooted away from her on the mattress, rolled heavily onto his side, and reached for his sport jacket draped over a nearby chair. Locating the phone and digging it out of an inside pocket took more time than he wanted, more overture.

“Yeah?” he said into the phone. Too early for manners, and his sleepy mind couldn’t quite shake thoughts of Dalia. Thoughts and possibilities.

“Jubal?”