John Lutz - Night kills

He'd known about the first female torso being found, and the second dead woman. He hadn't known that, like the first victim, only the torso of the second victim was at the morgue. And he hadn't yet seen the results of the ballistics tests. Commissioner Renz had certainly thrown a blanket of secrecy over the second woman, so it wouldn't be obvious right away that a serial killer was at work. And the thing with the pointed stake or whatever it was-Nobbler hadn't known about that, only that the first woman had been sexually penetrated. He had to admit he admired the way Renz had been able to maintain even partial secrecy over matters like this. Renz wasn't shy about working the levers of power.

Well, neither was Nobbler. And Renz had done something that really pissed him off. Frank Quinn was back on the scene, and on the Torso Murders case, along with his two detectives Kasner and Fedderman. Nobbler wasn't crazy about the three of them, and in his mind they were no longer NYPD. Especially Quinn, who shouldn't be able to get anywhere near the department. They gave him a ton of money and cut him loose, so what the hell else did he want? Nobbler didn't so much resent Quinn because he was bent, more because he was bent in the wrong direction. He turned his thoughts to Kasner and Fedderman, but only briefly. Couple of losers.

What power did Renz have, to call these three retreads in as his private detective squad to solve a case that would benefit him politically?

But Nobbler knew what power-that of position and popularity. No one in or out of city government wanted to cross Renz, and strictly speaking, it wasn't illegal for the NYPD to hire outside contractors or temporarily reactivate former cops. Especially if they were acting under the auspices of the commissioner.

Right now Renz was on a roll and wanted to stay that way. Ambitious bastard. Not that Nobbler could hold that against him.

Disgusted, he tossed the paper on top of the Times and sat back and sipped at his coffee, which was now almost too cool to drink. The information in the City Beat article was probably all over TV and radio news, and late-edition papers would pick it up. Nobbler knew how it would go, now that the media had a hand to play, and he knew how he'd deal with them if he were in charge.

But he wasn't in charge. He didn't like having what he considered his turf trespassed upon. And that was exactly what was happening. He was sure as hell going to do something about it.

For a long time he sat sipping cool coffee and thought about just what it was that he could or would do. There were possibilities, always possibilities. And future opportunities to be seized.

Whatever it took, he'd figure out something so that Renz and company would find themselves in a quagmire.

No, not a quagmire. Quicksand.

"It seems to have hit the fan," Fedderman said, as he claimed the chair he'd sat in last night in Quinn's den. The room was brighter today, with yellow sunlight spilling in between the opened drapes. There were a lot of dust motes swirling softly in the sunlight. Just looking at them made Pearl feel as if she had to sneeze. She figured Quinn didn't clean very often.

Pearl sat in the armchair again but didn't draw up and cross her legs this time. Her sensible black shoes were planted firmly on the floor, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. She was dressed in dark slacks, a white blouse, and a gray blazer with black buttons. She looked like a cop.

Like Fedderman, she was carrying this morning's edition of City Beat. "It'll be all over the TV news, too," she said. "Some of those talking heads read things other than their prompters." She twisted her newspaper into a roll and wielded it as if she wanted to hit someone.

She was right. Quinn had checked New York One TV before going out and walking to the Lotus Diner for an early breakfast. They were already broadcasting from the places where the two torsos had been found. Then, when he'd returned to his apartment, he'd looked in on CNN and Fox News. The story had already gone national. He wasn't surprised that news of the murders had hit so soon and with such impact. It was a sensational story, like one of those TV cop shows, only real. That was why political-and media-savvy Renz had been so desperate to hire them.

"Had time to go over the murder books?" Quinn asked, settling down behind his desk. The unlit Cuban cigar was still in the ashtray. He was smoking less and less these days, like other New Yorkers, being systematically backed into a physical and psychological corner by the mayor and his minions. Quinn reminded himself that the mayor had his health and well-being in mind. It kept him from disliking the mayor.

"Last night and this morning," Fedderman said.

Pearl simply nodded. Quinn thought she looked beautiful in the bright morning light that would expose other women's flaws.

She noticed the way he was looking at her and stared at him until he averted his gaze.

"Nothing jumped out at me that'd crack the case and make me a hero," Fedderman said. "I'm sure the police profiler will have plenty to say about the victims being dismembered. And that impaling business. Phallic symbolism. They're always quick to find that."

"There's a lot of it going around," Pearl said. "Maybe our guy is impotent."

Fedderman shrugged. "Just because some guy shoves something other 'an his dong up some broad doesn't mean he can't get it up."

"How would you know that, Feds?"

"I'm a detective, Pearl."

Quinn was looking at Pearl. "Something bothering you?"

"A niggling doubt." she said. "These two murders were obviously committed by the same psycho, but still there were only two of them. It's possible both women did something that set this guy off, maybe even together, and he doesn't have a grudge against other women, or some kind of fixation and compulsion to kill more. Maybe the two victims and the killer shared some kind of past that led to violence. I mean, do two victims make a serial killer?"

Fedderman said, "It's a good question."

"The media seem to think two's enough," Quinn said.

Pearl said, "It's still a good question."

Quinn leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. "We all know how we'll find out the answer."

The truth of what he'd said sobered all of them.

Pearl sniffed the air. "You been smoking in here?"

"It's a good question," Quinn said.

Jill Clark sat in front of her computer staring at her screen saver of great Impressionist paintings gliding past. There went a Renoir, delicate and graceful in composition and color, so unlike the struggle and ugliness just outside her window.

She watched the painting disappear at the edge of the monitor screen.

She'd been sitting for a long time staring at the screen and had come to the conclusion that it was time to take stock.

The paintings were beautiful, but her own life seemed to be getting uglier and more of a struggle by the day. This was a hard city. Hard and merciless. If it were possible for a city to have a killer instinct, this one did.

Jill was twenty-nine years old with shoulder-length blond hair that often had a way of being enchantingly mussed. Her features were symmetrical, with perhaps too much chin. She had full lips, strong cheekbones, and an undeniably good figure, from jogging almost daily in her neighborhood or in the park. Her eyes were blue and she had a scattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Men seemed to find that an attractive combination.

She had a degree in accounting and a background in sales: office furniture, then insurance policies for antique and collectable cars.

Along with a nice smile, those were her assets.

Then there were her liabilities, mostly credit card debts. Revolving accounts to which she paid only interest while the balances ballooned. From time to time, Files and More, the temporary employment agency that found her part-time work, would land her a decent-paying job, but this was temporary employment. Jill would earn enough to make some headway with the charge accounts, but then there would be periods of inactivity and she'd fall further behind than ever. This seemed to be a cycle she couldn't break.