John Lutz - Night kills

The note was computer generated and had been printed out. It said simply, "I know when business hours are over." It was signed in blue ink, no doubt from the Montblanc pen lying uncapped on the desk.

Quinn replaced the note where he'd found it. He used his cell to contact Renz and tell him what had happened.

While they were waiting for the army of CSU techs and the M.E. and EMS, Quinn and Fedderman slipped evidence gloves on and began a cursory examination of Palmer Stone's files and the contents of his desk drawers.

Unsurprisingly, there was nothing incriminating. Merely the expected business letters and signed correspondence with suppliers and satisfied clients. Maybe the computers would yield more later.

Fedderman, who was near the office window, glanced outside and down at the street.

He turned to Quinn. "Troops're arriving."

Quinn took a deep breath, released it, and looked around the spare, neat office, then at the still body behind the desk.

"They can have it," he said and moved toward the door.

And stopped. Something made him not want to leave. Not just yet.

He walked over to the desk and stared at the shocked expression on Palmer Stone's face.

"We ever seen Stone before in the flesh?" he asked.

Fedderman shook his head no. "Seen his photo on the Internet. What's left here in his desk chair looks like the photo."

Quinn continued to stare at the dead man. He simply couldn't tell for sure, but he had to allow for possibilities.

"You notice anything about those files we went through?" he asked Fedderman.

"Nothing I wanted to notice."

"The signatures on the documents and the suicide note aren't the same."

Fedderman took a moment to think about that. "And Stone's business was providing doubles with new identities." He wiped his wrist across his mouth, then looked doubtful. "But if the dead guy at the desk isn't Stone, and the note's a phony, why wouldn't Stone have signed it?"

"He might have wanted only the dead man's prints on the pen and paper in case they might be lifted. He could've held the gun to the man's head and made him sign the note. I'll bet the gun's been wiped clean except for the dead man's prints. I'll bet the office has been wiped clean. And Stone's been clean, never been arrested or in the military. His prints aren't on file."

Fedderman leaned forward and stared hard at the dead man's face. "It sure looks like Stone."

"What if it isn't?" Quinn asked.

But he already knew the answer.

If Stone was alive but officially dead, what did he have to lose by murdering the woman who'd destroyed his business and brought about his downfall?

Or women?

Jill Clark, who'd already barely escaped. And Pearl.

By cell phone, Quinn tried to contact Pearl, who was still having her injuries tended.

She'd managed to browbeat a second paramedic, who'd come for Jill, into applying stitches rather than the butterfly bandages. The grumpy paramedic answered her phone. Quinn told him the situation.

Pearl, listening to one side of the conversation, told the paramedic to tell Quinn that Weaver was with Jill, who was unhurt and had refused medical attention.

"She says to tell you-"

"Never mind," Quinn said. "Just take care of her. Make sure she's okay."

"What we do," the grumpy paramedic said.

"And tell her to get the hell out of there. Out of the building."

"With this one, telling her's not the same as her doing it."

"I know," Quinn said. "I'm an expert on the subject."

He broke the connection, then immediately called Renz and told him the situation at E-Bliss.org.

Renz didn't say anything for almost a minute, thinking about all the ramifications of maybe looking foolish if Quinn was wrong about Stone not being Stone. The consequences could be even worse than simply looking foolish. There were deep wells to fall into here. Even tiger pits.

But Renz was still more cop than bureaucrat or politician.

"Could be," he said. "Not likely, but could be." He paused. "You're on your own with this hypothesis, though. It's gotta be that way, Quinn." Well, almost more cop than bureaucrat or politician.

The Two Palmer Stones was Quinn's theory, Quinn's game, Quinn's risk-and if Quinn just happened to be right, Renz's glory. And if it turned out Quinn was wrong, no harm to Renz. Win-win.

"We're on our way to Jill's apartment," Quinn said.

"I'll call Weaver," Renz said, "and make sure she takes Jill somewhere safe." No political risk there. Only upside.

While Quinn was stuffing the cell phone back in his pocket, Fedderman said, "Pearl okay?"

"For Pearl," Quinn said. "For now."

They took the elevator down and Quinn gave directions to the CSU crew that had just entered the lobby. Then they were back in the unmarked bucking traffic and retracing their route. Ignoring potholes and blaring horns and angry shouts and traffic laws and traffic lights. Driving hard toward Jill Clark's apartment.

"Think he'll go there?" Fedderman asked.

Quinn concentrated on threading his way through traffic. "I think he might. That's enough."

"Should still be plenty of law there. Maybe they haven't even taken away Victor's body."

"That'll all be out in the street," Quinn said. "And if there's something going on there, all the better for Stone. It'll be easier for him to enter the building without attracting suspicion and confront Jill and Pearl."

"He's not stupid," Fedderman said. "He might think we could be on to him and he's got that figured in his plans."

Quinn smiled a smile Fedderman had seen before. It would never prompt anyone to smile back.

"We have our own plans," Quinn said.

Stone was there.

Quinn and Fedderman knew it almost as soon as they entered the building. They saw him first as a lower leg in richly tailored dress slacks and polished wing tips, for only a second as he rounded the corner and began climbing the stairs.

Neither Quinn nor Fedderman said anything as they quietly gave chase. They didn't want Stone to know they were there. Ideally, they'd come up behind him before he realized he wasn't alone and take him down alive. They needed him in court, as a defendant and as a witness.

As Stone began climbing the last flight of stairs to Jill's floor, he prepared to enter her apartment by drawing a small pearl-handled gun from his suit coat pocket.

As he did so, Quinn made the slightest noise on the creaking stairs.

Stone turned in surprise. It was as if the dead man back in the office had risen up and they'd startled him.

Quinn didn't hesitate. He couldn't. There was distance to cover.

He charged.

The wind rushed out of Stone as Quinn leveled a shoulder into his midsection. At the same time, Quinn's left hand found Stone's right, forcing the pearl-handled gun to point at the ceiling.

As the two men slid toward the floor, Quinn squeezed hard with his powerful left hand. Flesh and blood vessels compacted against bone as Stone's right wrist was crushed. The gun dropped like a child's surrendered toy and clattered onto the floor.

Stone wasn't the sort to put up a fight.

He sat down winded on the wooden steps, leaning forward and gripping his aching wrist. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. He brushed away the drool, working hard to control his breathing, then gave a sad smile and shook his head.

Fedderman read him his rights, then leaned close to him so their faces were only inches apart. He studied Stone. "The dead guy sitting at your desk-"

"Isn't me," Stone finished for him. "Obviously."

"Your double," Quinn said. "Who thought he was going to move into your life and be well paid for it. Instead he was used to fake your suicide."

"Things had reached an impasse," Stone said. "Because of you, I might add."