John Lutz - Night kills

"Rosacea," she said, smiling at him. She'd noticed him staring.

"Pardon?"

"It's a hereditary affliction that causes a kind of redness in a ring pattern on the face. At times it makes me look something like a raccoon."

"I wasn't thinking raccoon," Quinn assured her, taking a sip of coffee.

"Also makes me look like a drunk, since alcoholics sometimes have the same look from ruptured capillaries."

"Obviously, you're not a drunk."

"Well, I am, but a dry drunk. I intend to stay that way."

"I had my own go-round with the bottle a few years ago," Quinn said. "When I had the problem in the department and my wife left me."

"When things finally worked out at least somewhat for you, did you have trouble quitting?"

"Not really. I don't think it ever became a problem in itself. And I still have a drink now and then."

"There's the difference between you and friends of Bill, like me."

They both knew "friends of Bill" was code for Alcoholics Anonymous.

Linda rotated her coffee cup on the wet saucer ring with both hands and fixed her blue eyes on Quinn. "You have a daughter, right?" The way she looked at him and spoke, her words and eyes boring into him, made it seem as if they were alone in the diner.

"Uh-huh. Lauri. A great kid. Woman. She's living out in L.A. with her true love, a guy named Wormy who fronts a band."

"I married young and divorced, never had kids. Too late now, and the alcohol messed me up when I could have gotten pregnant. Thank God I didn't. An alcohol addiction doesn't leave room for much else, including love or sex. My hell years."

"Over now," Quinn said. "For you and for me. Where's your ex?"

"Back in St. Louis, selling mortgage insurance, last I heard. We don't keep in touch. Not much sense in it." Linda stared down into her cup, then up again at Quinn. "I damned near lost my medical license in St. Louis. Then I quit practicing and fought the booze for a few years, and came to New York for a new start. That was five years ago."

"That's when you started in the NYPD," Quinn said. "In Latent Prints. Wasting your talents and qualifications. Couple of years and you became an assistant M.E. And a good one. I researched you." Best to start off with honesty.

"Sure you did. You're a cop. So am I, in a way. I ran a check on you, too. It's too easy on the computer. I really didn't have to do much bouncing around on NYPD databases to learn about you. You're something of a legend in the department, Quinn. That's why I was so nervous at first when I sat down here."

"You didn't seem nervous."

"I still am, a little bit."

He smiled at her. "We'll have dinner." He'd almost said, "with wine," but caught himself. "A good meal will relax both of us. I'm still a little nervous, too. I remember seeing you at a few other crime scenes. You attract the eye."

She blushed at the compliment. The rosacea made itself evident, as if she'd been wearing a mask and it had left faint marks. Quinn found it somehow attractive, this disorder.

"Your ex-wife, May, is in California, too," she said. "Anywhere near your daughter?"

"Close enough. I'm sure they see each other, but not often. May doesn't like Wormy. Who does?" He felt a little stab of guilt. "Well, tell you the truth, I've become sorta fond of him."

"What about you and May?"

"We get along with each other. She's remarried to an attorney out there. Elliott. Not a bad guy. She and I talk, but only about Lauri. Our marriage ended because May couldn't be a cop's wife."

"Familiar story."

"Yeah. I don't hold it against her. I wouldn't hold it against anyone. Don't worry about May."

"Should I worry about Pearl?"

"That's over," Quinn said, thinking, We're only meeting for coffee, then some dinner. But he knew there was much more going on here than that. They both knew it.

"Pearl know it's over?" Linda asked.

"It's her idea. I accept it."

"You sound as if you're trying to talk yourself into accepting it."

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "But it's over."

"You sure?"

"I think so."

Linda sighed and sat back in the booth. She glanced at the people streaming past out on the sidewalk, so near yet separated by a wall of glass. "So many people in this world. And cops seem able to make it long term only with other cops, or people in the same business."

"I'm not so sure I believe that," Quinn said.

Linda looked back at him with all her somber intelligence. "Sure you do. That's why you're here. That's why we're both here."

"We don't know each other all that well," Quinn said, "but already I hate it when you're right."

Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler sat behind his desk and waited patiently for Greeve to enter his office. He knew "The Ghost" wouldn't have wanted to see him so early in the morning unless he had something interesting to report.

There was a perfunctory knock on the door, and Greeve entered. As he did so, Nobbler absently lowered the file folder he'd just finished reading, placing it out of sight in a partly opened desk drawer.

Greeve looked this morning as he always did, slender and faintly mournful. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and a neatly knotted black and red tie, mostly black. His dark hair was combed straight back, making it obvious that it was receding and thinning. His long face was pale and closely shaven; no dark whiskers to offset his pallor.

"This about the Torso Murders?" Nobbler asked, wanting to get straight to the point.

Greeve gave a somber nod. "I followed Quinn and his team from Renz's office yesterday," he said. He didn't sit down but stood with his hands in his pants pockets, his feet close together. His long body was at a slight forward lean, his narrow shoulders hunched. The man knew how to loom. "Quinn and company hauled ass out of there. There's no way to know what they were discussing, but I know why the meeting broke up."

"The latest Torso victim," Nobbler said. He'd learned about the most recent victim late yesterday afternoon, and it was all over the papers and TV news this morning.

"Yeah. They went to the crime scene, and I figure they'll be back there today canvassing the neighborhood. Probably just Pearl and Fedderman, though."

"You'd be better off staying with Quinn, then."

"That's the way I figure it," Greeve said. "The word I get is that ballistics tests already made the gun as the same one that killed the other victims. Little twenty-two-caliber pest pistol. One to the heart that probably didn't kill the victim right away. Same kind of sexual mutilation." Greeve shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, then settled in again so it was evenly distributed, almost like a macabre dance step. "None of this is confirmed yet."

Nobbler nodded. There was no need to tell Greeve he was way ahead of him on the postmortem information.

"Actually," Greeve said, "I stayed on Quinn last night after he parted company with Pearl and Fedderman. He met the M.E. who examined the victim at the scene of the crime, Dr. Linda Chavesky."

Nobbler sat forward over his desk, interested. "You mean they met someplace other than the crime scene?"

"They had coffee at a diner over on Amsterdam. Then they took a long walk and went to dinner at an Italian restaurant on Broadway. Had antipasto and rigatoni carbonera. Then he put her in a cab. No good-night kiss." Greeve smiled. "Coulda been the garlic."

This fascinated Nobbler. "You saying it was more than a professional meeting?"

"I'm sure it was. Looked like they were more interested in each other than whatever else they were talking about. I was hoping he'd jump her bones. I'm kinda disappointed. But then, I guess Quinn is, too."

Nobbler drummed his fingertips on the desktop and thought for a few minutes, trying to process this and figure out how he could use it.