John Lutz - Night kills

"There might come a time," Stone said, "when we simply might have to take the risk."

"If it weren't such a risk," Victor said, "it would be a pleasure."

"We're not in this for pleasure, Victor. We're in it for profit."

"Yeah. You're right, Palmer. I was just ruminating. No harm in that."

"None," Stone agreed. "I do it myself." He sat back and opened a drawer, then laid some file folders on his desk. "I hate to cut our visit short, Victor, but I've got to get to these." He picked up a ballpoint pen from where it lay on the desk. "Keep me apprised of Gloria's condition."

"Of course I will," Victor said, standing up from the sofa. He shook his head. "Problems always come in bunches."

"They can be solved in bunches, too," Stone said.

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

Stone wasn't sure if Victor was being sarcastic. That was what made Stone uneasy about him, the recent unevenness that seemed to have seeped into his personality. It made him unpredictable.

Stone watched him walk from the office and softly close the door behind him. Victor had missed a patch of stubble when he shaved this morning, and his expensive dress boots didn't glisten with the usual shine. It was difficult for Stone not to be concerned. Maybe the changes in Victor could be attributed to Gloria's condition. On the other hand, Victor had begun to worry Stone well before Gloria was struck by a cab.

Stone laid the pen back on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He ruminated.

It seemed that things were coming unraveled. Maybe it was time for him to disappear. He had an exit plan that Gloria and Victor didn't know about. He thought of it simply as Plan B. Gloria and Victor were friends as well as business associates, and he owed them some loyalty, but a man had to take care of himself. He wasn't quite ready to act on his plan, but he'd continue giving it some thought.

After a few minutes, he went over and picked up the morning Times from where it lay on a table near the sofa. The paper was still folded. Stone hadn't so much as glanced at it.

When he opened the paper and saw the headline, he had to smile: TORSO MURDERER FOUND DEAD IN LOUISIANA.

This would certainly reduce the pressure. However it figured in the mix, it was a plus for the company and a minus for the police.

Stone felt relief move through him, easing a tension in his stomach he hadn't even realized was there. For now, all thoughts of Plan B faded away.

Still smiling, he carried the paper over to his desk and sat back down to read the details.

Making sure the devil wasn't in them.

"We've lost our decoy," Renz said, in a voice that suggested a close relative had died.

Quinn and Renz were in Renz's office. Renz looked terrible in the harsh morning sunlight. His bloodhound eyes were encircled by saggy flesh that was even darker than usual. Before him on his desk lay this morning's Times. Quinn thought that was enough to explain Renz's appearance.

"Not quite yet," Quinn said. He'd read the paper over breakfast and given the Coulter story some thought. "As far as the media are concerned, Coulter's still the Torso Murderer."

"Until another torso turns up and the shit hits the fan again, and then us."

Quinn knew that by "us" Renz meant "me."

"Look at the bright side, Harley."

"I am. I see a fire about to consume us."

"You have a point about the real killer taking another victim, and establishing that Coulter wasn't our man. But the killer's probably thinking right along with you. He stays pretty much in the clear until he murders again. That might make him wait a while. Meanwhile, Coulter's dead and can't provide alibis for the times of some of the Torso Murders."

That last seemed to cheer Renz somewhat. His bleary eyes opened wider and he looked thoughtful. "That's true enough."

"What about Nobbler?"

It took Renz a few seconds to understand what Quinn meant. "Yeah, it might settle him down, too. Far as we know he bought the story about Coulter being our prime suspect. Maybe he'll pull in his horns."

Quinn didn't disagree. But he knew that when Nobbler saw that Renz wasn't pulling in any horns, he'd realize Coulter had only been a decoy. That was if he didn't realize it already. Nobbler was smart and had his sources within the NYPD.

"The other thing Coulter's death does for us," Quinn said, "is put E-Bliss off their guard. They're thinking the pressure's off them, as long as everyone's assuming the Torso Murderer died when Coulter died."

Renz bit on his flabby lower lip and nodded. "It might make them careless."

"When you hold your press conference," Quinn said, "emphasize that the case against Coulter is still being made, even though he's dead. We aren't jumping to any conclusions. We want to be absolutely sure of his guilt."

"I like that," Renz said. "Cover our asses for when the real killer leaves us another grisly present."

"The idea is to nail the killer before then," Quinn said. "We do that, and none of the stuff about Coulter will matter."

"You got that right," Renz said. "The public wants this prick stopped, and whoever does it will be a hero. Or heroes." He placed his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair, stretched, and stared up at the ceiling while flexing his muscles so that his biceps jumped around beneath the taut material of his shirt. "Who do you suppose shotgunned Coulter? I mean, nobody's stepped forward to take a bow and be an instant celebrity."

"Let the Louisiana cops worry about it," Quinn said. "We've got our own worries."

Renz sat forward, picked up the Times, and tossed it to the side of his desk.

"Fill me in on some of those worries," he said, "so I can worry some more."

Maria Sanchez absently scratched at her arms, paced five steps this way, five steps back. This was getting unbearable. She had to get out and risk scoring some coke. It was either that or go mad.

She walked to the window and glanced outside.

It was still morning. Not even goddamned noon. It felt as though she'd been awake for ten hours after finally dropping into an uneasy sleep about dawn. New York was bright and hot out there. A city strange to her. And ominous. It wouldn't work, trying to make a buy during daylight. She needed the night. She needed the people who came out at night.

She needed.

She would have to wait for darkness. Then she would act.

She needed.

The evening brought showers, lightning flashes, and thunder rolling like artillery volleys above the stone and glass towers along the avenues. Then, with a humid hot breeze off the East River, the rain stopped falling, the lightning ceased, and night dropped like a curtain in a darkened theater over the city.

The new Madeline, Maria Sanchez, stood before the cracked full-length mirror mounted on the bedroom door and gave her image a final appraisal. Teased-out blond hair, tight red sleeveless T-shirt that emphasized her breasts, form-fitting black skirt that hugged her lean hips and came to just above her knees, fishnet black stockings, and killer four-inch red high heels. Makeup definitely on the heavy side, with black false eyelashes, too much eyeliner, and bright wet-look lip gloss. Lots of paste jewelry that looked as cheap as she wanted to look. She winked at herself and ran her tongue along her lower lip. She was satisfied. She looked like a whore.

To make the kind of buy she had in mind, she had to pass for a poor dumb working girl who needed a fix and had recently turned enough tricks to afford one. She had to be trusted by people who had trust in nothing other than money or power. Dressed as obviously as she was, there was always the chance they might think she was an undercover narc; but she could sense when that might happen and do something even an undercover cop wouldn't do to prove her dishonest intentions. When it came to survival, the new Madeline was like her preceding persona and had few inhibitions.