John Lutz - In for the Kill

He realized he was clenching his jaw. No anger. No need and no reason for anger.

Sherman knew the police were getting anxious, wondering if he'd actually rise to the bait and confirm their cleverness. They were the ones feeling the pressure. They were planting staged photographs in the newspapers. They were the sources of amusement being laughed at for their futility. They were the ones lost in the swamp.

As he stood up from the bench, he folded the newspaper, then walked over to a nearby trash receptacle and dropped it in with the rest of the detritus of humanity.

Then he began to walk, still not hungry.

Around two that afternoon he fell asleep in his recliner and dreamed of Quinn and Mom gazing at each other…that way. Of them doing other things. Of Sam Pickett and the sounds that had come from Mom's bedroom, the squeal of the bedsprings and crashing of the headboard against the wall, over and over and over until it became like distant thunder that wouldn't quit, that wouldn't allow peace or safety, that remained fear on the horizon.

The squeal of the bedsprings!

The squeal of the bedsprings!

There was no way to stop it, or to stop the distant thunder from moving closer and closer.

The past threatened like a summer storm, roiling the darkness of his mind, and other sounds and images rose unbidden to the surface of Sherman's memory: the lapping of black water in moonlight, the persistent droning of insects, the smooth dark movement in shadowed glades, the shrill scream of the power saw cutting through-

The squeal-

The storm grew in intensity and roared in on him like a hurricane.

It gathered him struggling to its bosom, and he surrendered to it.

He expected darkness when he opened his eyes, but light flooded in through the window. He sat for a while staring out at the city, still there and not a dream, miles of soaring stone and glass and angular stark shadow and bright sunlight. The past was over and gone. Outside the window was the present.

Now! Real!

He swallowed his fear and the bitterness of sleep and dreams.

A trick. The photo in the newspaper looked real but it was a trick.

But the dream echoed and flashed in his mind and Sherman was furious, perspiring, his heart hammering.

Calm, damn it! Calm…A trick…

He recalled fishing in the swamp, the bait taken, the hook bare. Sometimes a gator would yank at the line, breaking it and sweeping away hook and bait with an invisible awesome power. Quinn would learn there were creatures you didn't fish for. Quinn could never imagine. He'd never been where Sherman had been, or learned the hard lessons. You didn't stalk creatures that regarded bait and hunter as gift and prey.

Quinn could never imagine.

Sherman reached for his cell phone and pecked out Lauri's cell phone number. Cell to cell, like a living organism. His heart slowed its pace and he was breathing evenly at last.

She answered on the third ring.

"Hi," he said. "Miss me?"

Undercover officer Jack Neeson was playing the bellhop, pansy uniform and all. Shakespeare or whoever the hell had said it was right-life was like a stage and we were all actors. Sometimes Neeson was a bum, sometimes a drug dealer, sometimes a straight-arrow WASP with a smile and a line, sometimes a low-life asshole in the rackets. Always he was a cop.

He was hanging around just inside the entrance to the Meredith Hotel, trying to remember a joke he'd recently heard, when he recognized Quinn's daughter. She was on the arm of a guy in a well-cut blue suit and carrying a white box that looked as if it might have flowers in it. He and the girl made a good match. She was a looker, though still young and not as filled out as Neeson liked them. The guy she was with was a nice enough looking sort, with a medium-size, athletic build and a head of full wavy blond hair worn a little too long.

Neeson figured Quinn might already know she was here. She could even be on her way upstairs to see him.

But she and her date-looked like a date, anyway-made a left turn away from the elevators and walked down the corridor leading to the hotel's pricey restaurant, the Longitude Room.

A date, then. Neeson envied the guy. He recognized Lola, Laura-whatever her name was-from seeing her hanging around Pearl Kasner. Pearl acted like she wanted the girl to scram, but Neeson would have taken just the opposite position, even though the kid wore that glitter thing screwed in the side of her nostril. Why the hell did they do that?

There was a joke about those nose studs, but he couldn't remember that one, either. He maintained a large repertoire of jokes because it helped to keep the memory sharp, which was useful in his work. If only he could remember the damned things…

For a few seconds Neeson thought it might be worth calling upstairs and letting Quinn know his daughter was in the building, just in case, but what was the point? The guy she was with must be okay, if Quinn's own daughter was going out with him and could vouch for him.

Movement over by the lobby entrance caught his eye.

Here came a little guy with a carry-on slung by a strap over his shoulder, wearing baggy khaki pants and a black golf shirt, an airline ticket folder sticking up out of his breast pocket like a badge saying, "I am a rube tourist." Yeah, sure. He fit the description and like a lot of other men resembled the old photo of the suspect, only he was probably too short. Way too short.

Still, it paid to be thorough.

Neeson knew dozens of short guy jokes. His vertically challenged partner had once filed a complaint against him. Neeson was soon transferred out of the precinct. He kept an eye on this short guy checking in, waiting until the man had shooed away the real bellhop, who wanted to carry his bag, and strode off toward the elevators.

Soon as the elevator door closed on the guy, Neeson was at the desk. Getting information fast on these mopes was major in this operation.

The guest's name was Larry Martin. He was from Sarasota, Florida. Neeson used the phone to call in the information to Fedderman, who called back within minutes and said the name and address checked out, and reminded Neeson the suspect was medium height, an estimated five-feet-eleven inches tall. The information on Martin's Florida driver's license had him at five-feet-five inches.

"Didn't look even that tall," Neeson said. "But maybe his legs weren't all the way out."

"I don't follow," said Fedderman's voice on the phone.

"A joke, a joke," Neeson said. He had to struggle not to laugh.

"You're a smart-ass for a bellhop," Fedderman said, and hung up.

Two hours later, Neeson didn't notice Lauri Quinn and her date emerge from the restaurant corridor and walk toward the elevator.

Lauri was tired but happy, and hanging on Joe's arm this time for support as well as show. One of her high heels turned in slightly as she walked. Her date still carried the long white box. A gift he'd promised to show her after dinner, when they were upstairs in the room he'd reserved.

She sat on a small bench for a minute or so, while the elevator made its way down. He still held the white box beneath his arm. She thought he looked amazingly handsome, standing there. The finished product.

Neeson came in from talking to the doorman outside and observed them getting into the elevator but didn't think much of it. They were probably on their way up to the sixth floor to see Quinn, or maybe they were going to a room and the guy was going to be doing what Neeson wouldn't mind doing.

He told himself not to let his imagination run away with him. This was the daughter of one of the shrewdest, toughest homicide detectives the NYPD had produced. Better to get crossways with tyrannosaurus Rex. If the blond guy didn't know that and was going to tap the kid, good luck to him.