John Lutz - In for the Kill

He walked faster and faster, elbowing people out of his way, and finally broke into a run.

Quinn and Pearl were in room 624, two rooms down the hall from Myrna Kraft's. From there Quinn could observe the street and at the same time stay close to Myrna. Fedderman was outside running things at ground level according to Quinn's instructions. He was in an unmarked car, from time to time changing parking spots, while he kept in touch with Quinn or the undercover cop posing as a bellhop and hanging around the hotel entrance with the real bellhop. The undercover cop's name was Neeson and he hadn't liked climbing into a bellhop uniform. On the other hand, he'd garnered some tips just holding the door open for arriving and departing guests. The last time Fedderman had checked on him, Neeson said he was considering changing occupations.

The bearded homeless man across the street, seated on a folded blanket in the shadow of a building recess and holding a cup, was also NYPD undercover. Probably making a little extra money today, too, Fedderman thought, as he sat in the car half a block down and waited for the overheated engine to cool enough so he could restart it and turn the air conditioner back on.

Two more undercovers were in the lobby, looking like a tourist couple, and another-Officer Nancy Weaver-was hanging around Myrna's floor in a maid's uniform. Quinn had requested Weaver. Pearl thought it was maybe to aggravate her, Pearl, because of her short-lived affair with Jeb Kraft. He'd even mentioned he thought Weaver looked cute in her maid's outfit. Pearl told him Weaver should change linens and scrub toilets as part of her cover. (And maybe fasten another button on her maid uniform blouse.)

Fueled by three cups of coffee, Pearl was pacing, while Quinn sat in a comfortable chair he'd dragged across the carpet so he could sit by the window. A set of earphones was draped over the back of the desk chair. Myrna's room was bugged, but she was out now, probably shopping, and being tailed by the rest of the unit Renz had assigned the task of protecting her.

As Pearl paced, she thought she smelled stale tobacco smoke. Every hotel room she'd been in lately smelled as if someone had been smoking in it. Had New Yorkers been driven to skulk like addicts or adulterers and appease their filthy vice in hotel rooms?

"I'm sorry about that Weaver remark," Quinn said. "About her looking cute. I was trying to make you jealous." He was addressing Pearl but continued gazing out the window as he talked.

"You only made it to annoyed," Pearl said. "Does it smell to you like somebody's been smoking in here?"

"No. You're always thinking you smell tobacco smoke where there is none."

"Maybe I do smell smoke, and you can't because you've burned out your sense of smell with those illegal Cuban cigars you suck on."

"You're testy. Is it the coffee?"

"It's you."

"What you should do," he said, "is only have relationships with other cops."

We're back on that, are we? "I'm no longer a cop, except temporarily."

"Bank guard, then. More or less the same thing."

"No," Pearl said. "If I were a bank guard I wouldn't be here."

Quinn continued to stare out the window, silently.

Pearl figured she'd better set things straight. It wasn't that she didn't feel something for Quinn. It was more that she knew something about herself. It wouldn't work for them.

Maybe nothing would work for her with anyone. It was easy to think that way after Jeb Jones-Kraft. Her psyche was still bruised and confused. She did know she could no longer trust her emotions. Build a wall around your heart…

"We're friends," she said. "Colleagues. That's all, Quinn."

"I don't want to leave it at that. Not with you."

If it was supposed to be a compliment, it hadn't worked. "You've got a hell of a nerve," Pearl said.

"I won't give up."

"If you don't mind, I'd like to concentrate on the stalker outside the hotel."

Quinn turned away from the window just long enough to smile at her. "I meant I won't give up hope."

"That's your concern," Pearl said, "and none of mine."

"At this point," Quinn said, "I know you're not seeing anyone else."

"Don't be so sure."

He smiled again. Didn't turn his head, but she saw his cheek crinkle up just beneath the corner of his eye. She'd seen that enough times to know he was grinning. Anger rose in her.

"Milton Kahn," she said venomously, as if casting a spell.

Quinn looked over at her curiously. "Who?"

"Never mind. He's nobody you're ever going to meet."

Me, either, with any luck.

"I happen to like my life the way it is," Pearl said. "Once I get back to the status quo."

Did that lie even make sense?

Quinn was silent for a while. "I don't think he'll come tonight," he said. "He's more the sort to take his time."

Pearl knew he wasn't talking about Milton Kahn. "He's also the sort to spring surprises. We seem to have everything taken into account, Quinn, but I still can't shake the notion that this killer might figure a way around us. You ever get that feeling about him?

"Yeah."

Quinn's cell phone, lying on the windowsill, beeped the first few notes of "Lara's Theme" before he snatched it up, pressed it to his ear, and said, "Yeah," again. "Okay, Feds."

He cut the connection and laid the phone back on the sill.

"Myrna's back."

Pearl instantly stopped pacing, sat down at the desk, and slipped the headphones back on.

"I happen to like being a bank guard," she said, with a sideways glance at Quinn.

"Probably the uniform," Quinn said.

No mercy.

"You have other things to do all the time," Wormy told Lauri.

They were in the kitchen of the Hungry U, a busy place full of spicy aromas, the blur of motion, the clink and clatter of dishes and flatware.

"Not all the time, but tonight," Lauri said. She was checking on a customer's order of shahi korma, wondering what the delay was. She had to have something to tell the man, who was a valued regular, meaning he'd been in the restaurant at least twice.

"Be ready jus' about three minutes," said Jamal, the African American-Pakistani chef.

"Lauri-"

"Really, Wormy, you don't have a title proving ownership of me. Women aren't chattel any longer."

"Cattle?"

"Chattel. It means we don't have to spend every minute together you want to spend, but not a single moment you don't."

Wormy seemed puzzled by her phrasing. Or indignant. Maybe he was still thinking about chattel. Lauri didn't have time to sort it all out.

"Damn it, Lauri. Ain't any call to be so hard-ass. You know you're my woman."

Jamal, racketing a whisk around in a metal bowl to whip up a sauce, gave him a look.

Not half so withering as Lauri's. "I'm nobody's woman. And you don't have any business in the kitchen, Wormy."

"She be right on that one," Jamal said. "Them two."

"I know what you're doin'," Wormy said, ignoring Jamal. "You're goin' out with somebody else."

"Whee-ooh!" Jamal said.

"If I were seeing someone else," Lauri said coldly, "it'd be none of your concern. You think I don't know about you and your friends, and what goes on at those clubs when I'm not around?"

Jamal stopped with the whisk and looked from Lauri to Wormy.

"That kinda thing's nothin', Lauri. Nothin'! I don't feel about any of those girls the way I feel about you. You're everything in the world to me."

Nodding approval, Jamal began whisking vigorously again.

"You don't act like it," Lauri said. "And that's the operative word-act!"

"Girl's education showin'," Jamal said.

Wormy stepped toward him, the upper half of his body seeming to move much slower than the lower half. "I about had it with you!"

Jamal smiled. "C'mon, I stab you with this whisk."