John Lutz - Night kills

But somebody wearing too much perfume had been there recently.

Something tugged at his shirt. The guy, the detective, not dead, one hand plucking at the material so Murray would lean closer. The guy's lips were moving as he tried to speak but couldn't. Dying words. Christ! Murray put his ear close to the man's mouth.

What the guy said was soft but distinct: "Whore…"

That was it.

Murray felt for a pulse and found only still flesh.

Quinn entered Renz's office and paused briefly, nothing showing on Quinn's face. He hadn't known Nobbler was in there, but he'd heard loud voices. He wondered why Renz had called him in with Nobbler present. Maybe he wanted a witness, just in case. Or a referee.

Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler's face was crimson as he paced Renz's overheated, humid office. Renz was obviously trying to show some compassion for him; after all, Nobbler's best friend and coconspirator, Ed Greeve, had been knifed to death last night. Quinn wondered how much compassion Renz actually felt. He'd been plenty pissed off on the phone when he'd called and told Quinn how Greeve had gotten himself killed. Pissed off at Nobbler.

Nobbler stopped and whirled to face Renz, who was seated behind his desk and looking calm in a way that portended a storm.

"You've got a hell of a nerve," Nobbler said, "working in goddamned secret and setting up an undercover cop to tail Madeline Scott."

Renz, maybe thinking staying seated would help him remain calm, didn't move. His voice was tight. "Greeve wouldn't even have known about Madeline Scott if he hadn't been following Weaver."

"So what? Greeve's-Greeve was a cop. He was supposed to follow people."

"Not other cops."

"He was following that Scott bitch when he was killed. I know because he phoned me on his cell from outside Billy G's just before he started the tail."

"Following both women, you mean."

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't matter?" Renz rested both palms flat on the desk, as if it might float away on Nobbler's sea of senselessness if he didn't hold it down. "Like hell it doesn't matter. You're interfering in my case. If I've got a cop following my cop following a suspect, I oughta goddamned know about it. What was Greeve doing tailing Weaver, anyway?"

"He thought it might advance the investigation."

"My investigation. And Weaver had lost Scott when Greeve was killed. Greeve was following Weaver, so he probably lost Scott when she did. There's no reason to suspect Scott killed him."

"Who else but Scott?" Nobbler asked. "You knew Greeve. Do you honestly think he was killed by some other, real prostitute he was about to bonk?"

"He had his pants down around his ankles," Renz pointed out. "And according to Officer Murray, Greeve's last word was whore."

"That's all the friggin' media in this town cares about. It's all over the papers and TV-how a police detective was killed by a prostitute. One of the headlines is even COP CAUGHT WITH PANTS DOWN."

"They're usually not so precise."

Nobbler turned a deeper shade of red. "Don't give me that kinda shit. You know Greeve wasn't killed by some ordinary whore who caught him-"

"With his pants down. You can't blame the media. They're saying it because that's where the evidence points."

"Do you believe it?" Nobbler asked, actually vibrating while trying to maintain self-control.

"Frankly, no."

"But we wouldn't believe it if it had actually happened that way," Quinn said.

Both men stared at him, as if noticing him in the room for the first time.

"Fact is," Quinn said, "we don't know it didn't happen that way."

Nobbler glared at him as if he wanted to rip out his throat.

"He's right, Wes," Renz said. He puffed up his saggy cheeks and blew out a long breath. "Nobody likes it, but he's right."

"Everybody's human," Quinn said. "Greeve was vulnerable just like the rest of us. He might have gotten mixed up with a prostitute, and then things got out of control. It could've happened even with Greeve, with the right woman, whether she was a saint or a whore."

"That's right," Renz said. "Remember Bernie-"

"Yeah, yeah!"

Nobbler jammed his fists deep into his pants pockets and strode to stare out the window. Some of his anger seemed to have leached out of him. "Why are you so interested in Madeline Scott?" he asked, not turning around.

"She has the same name as a homeless woman who was killed by a subway train," Quinn said.

If Nobbler was already aware of that, he gave no indication. "So what?"

"Coincidence?" Quinn asked.

"Maybe. They do happen, or the word wouldn't be in the dictionary."

"It's not in my dictionary," Quinn said.

"You think Greeve being knifed while he was following Scott might have something to do with the Torso Murders?" Nobbler asked.

"We don't know. We can't even be sure Greeve was still tailing Scott when he was knifed."

"Coulter's been killed down in Louisiana," Nobbler said. "The Torso Murder case is gonna be shut down. Neither of us solved it," he added almost absently.

"I thought only one of us was trying," Renz said.

Nobbler ignored him, continuing to gaze outside at the summer glare. "The Torso Murderer was already on the run, taking both of us pretty much out of the game. Maybe nobody in law enforcement is gonna get credit for his death. Hell, Coulter mighta been shot so somebody could rob him. Or maybe it was a hunting accident."

"Likely was," Quinn said.

Nobbler turned around. "So Coulter being shot is the kind of coincidence you believe in."

Quinn smiled.

"We're trying to solve crimes here," Nobbler said. "We shouldn't set up separate squads and not share information."

"Information like autopsy reports?" Quinn asked.

A big vein in Nobbler's forehead began throbbing as if it were a fire hose about to burst and start spewing all over the place. He started to reply, then bit down hard on his lower lip and stalked from the office, slamming the door behind him.

"He took that well," Renz said.

"He's got no right to be pissed at us," Quinn said.

"You think it mighta been the new Madeline who knifed Greeve?"

"I don't know. It doesn't sit right."

"So many things about this case don't," Renz said. "It's not gonna be long before the media wolves get on to us. It's hard for me to believe. We set up a killer already on the run as a suspect to divert them, just picked the guy out of a hat, and damned if he isn't shot to death down in Louisiana."

"His photo was all over the country."

"Still…"

"Could actually have been a coincidence."

"Jesus, Quinn."

"Maybe we oughta test it by setting up another wanted killer who's somewhere out there on the wind. We mighta stumbled onto something here."

Renz covered his face with his hands for a moment, then removed them and looked up at Quinn.

"I'm thinking about Ed Greeve," he said solemnly.

"He wasn't a bad guy," Quinn said. "And he was a hell of a cop. He deserved better. When's the funeral?"

"I didn't mean that," Renz said. "I was wondering why anyone would stick him."

"The logical answer is he cheated a whore and she took offense."

"Screw logic. It's caused a lotta trouble in my life."

"Mine, too," Quinn said with genuine sadness. "It's what we live by and love, and it's frightening where it can take us."

"Like real love," Renz said.

"I talked to a neighbor in the same building," Victor said. "She told me she saw Madeline Scott go out alone right after dark dressed like a hooker."

They were in Palmer Stone's cool, ordered office at E-Bliss.org. Victor's shirt was wrinkled and he needed a shave. Possibly he was growing a beard. Stone had never liked beards around a place of business.