Urge To Kill. John Lutz
him ‘Windmill Galin’ for a while after that.”
“I take it you didn’t like him,” Quinn said.
Pearl shrugged. “He was no worse than most. They get kinda wild sometimes, the guys doing undercover. No way some of that shit doesn’t rub off on you. You do that kinda work, you better have some…”
“Moral equilibrium,” Fedderman suggested.
Pearl looked at him as if he were a lesser primate that had spoken. “That’s exactly right, Feds. Good boy!”
She sat up straighter, making her large breasts strain the fabric of her white blouse. She clapped once, as if to suggest they return to business, then rubbed her hands together as if to warm them. “I guess we rule out suicide.”
“No gun in the car,” Quinn said, “other than the nine-millimeter in Galin’s holster, and it hadn’t been fired.”
“Holster strap wasn’t even unsnapped,” Fedderman said. “Galin either knew who shot him, or he was taken completely by surprise.”
“Our guy do this?” Pearl asked Quinn.
“I don’t doubt it,” Quinn said. “Nothing seems to have been stolen from Galin. His wallet had over ninety dollars in it and wasn’t touched. He was still wearing his wristwatch.”
“Piece of crap,” Fedderman said. “Galin liked to shop down on Canal Street, buy imitation name-brand watches. His watch said Movado, but it was probably worth about ten bucks.”
“Free to the shooter,” Quinn said “and he still left it.” He leaned back in his desk chair, swiveled an inch or two this way and that. The chair’s mechanism made a tiny squeak each time it moved clockwise. “That inside-out pocket in his suit coat. Something was snatched out of that pocket fast, probably after Galin was dead.”
The desk phone jangled. The sudden noise made Fedderman jump. Pearl didn’t move. Both detectives watched Quinn as he picked up the receiver, then said “yeah” six times and hung up.
“That was Renz,” he said. “They got the slug out of Galin’s head. Twenty-five caliber. Ballistics said it doesn’t match either of the bullets removed from the two previous victims.”
“It was a warm night,” Fedderman said, “and with gas high as it is, it costs a bundle to sit in a parked car with the engine idling and the air conditioner running. Lots of retired cops live on the cheap. Galin might have been sitting there with his window down, taking what breeze there was, and the shooter just worked in close and shot him in the head.”
“Then he raised the window?” Pearl said.
“Maybe. Before he died.”
Quinn wasn’t buying it, about the window. “More likely the shooter approached the car, yanked open the door, and shot him. Then slammed the door shut and left.”
“More likely,” Fedderman admitted. “But who the hell’d walk up on him and shoot him?”
“Somebody who knew how to move,” Pearl said. “Galin spent time on the streets. It’d take somebody with skill to work in on him unseen and unheard, open his car door, and fire a bullet into his brain. The way the car was parked in that alley, the shooter couldn’t have approached at much of an angle.”
“Maybe he just walked up to the car,” Fedderman said. “Maybe Galin went there to meet him and didn’t suspect he was gonna get popped. Opened the door to get out of his car, then bang.”
Pearl nodded. “We don’t know what we’re talking about. Not at this point. We’re just wagging our jaws making noise.”
“That’s okay,” Quinn said, “as long as we don’t make up our minds about anything important yet.”
“Galin’s dead” Pearl said. “That’s important.”
“Not to him,” Fedderman said. “Not anymore.”
“He had a wife,” Quinn said. “He was important to her. Still is.”
“Maybe,” Fedderman said.
“Either way,” Quinn said “we’re gonna talk to her.”
11
Her name was June.
Joe Galin’s widow was in her forties and looked as if she’d had drastic cosmetic surgery done to her eyes. They were dark brown and slanted like a cat’s, and would have been beautiful if she hadn’t been sobbing most of the day. Though short, she had a high-fashion model’s anorexic figure, and even wearing an oversized T-shirt, baggy brown shorts, and flip-flops, it was easy to imagine her strutting along a runway. The widow would have been stunning if she hadn’t had a nose that appeared as though it belonged on a much larger face.
Do the nose next, Pearl thought, when she, Quinn, and Fedderman had introduced themselves. She took in the widow’s eyes, the possibly collagened lips, the probably uplifted boobs, and wondered about June’s priorities.
June invited them all the way into a surprisingly well-furnished and tastefully decorated home that was on a middle-class street of single-story houses with vinyl siding.
Quinn had noticed that the Galin home was the only brick-fronted house on the block. He also was noticing the way Pearl was sizing up June, figuring that when the interview was over, Pearl would have something to say.
June offered them tea or coffee, and after the offer was declined motioned for them to sit. She sat down herself in a flower-patterned chair with wooden arms. Pearl took a more comfortable gray leather recliner, thinking it had probably been Joe Galin’s favorite chair, the point from which he’d observed the narrowing world of the retired cop. Quinn and Fedderman remained standing.
“We’re sorry for your loss, dear,” Quinn began.
‘Dear.’ Starting with the phony Irish charm, Pearl thought. So obvious. But that was his talent, how he got people to confide in him. Pearl could see right through Quinn, and wondered why the suspects and witnesses he laid his phony bullshit on couldn’t.
June didn’t have a wadded tissue, but she nodded her thanks for his condolences and dabbed at her swollen eyes with a dainty knuckle. Pearl caught the flash of a gold wedding ring inlaid with tiny diamonds that might have been as phony as Quinn’s charm, but maybe not.
“Did you know my husband?” June asked Quinn and Quinn only. He’d captured her full attention. They were players in the same drama; the others might join in if they so chose.
He nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. You know how it is, dear, I’m sure. All of us on the job are brothers and sisters.”
Siblings against crime. Pearl tried not to make a face. She caught Fedderman’s eye. He looked quickly away. He was watching, analyzing, as she was.
The deal was, Quinn was going to handle the interview. Pearl and Fedderman were to make mental notes and, when it seemed wise, occasionally add momentum to the conversation, if any momentum developed. The object was to keep the talk flowing so at some point the tongue might get a little ahead of the brain. A prodding now and then from the sidelines could be very effective, as long as the subject of the questioning didn’t realize he or she was being ganged up on.
“During the days leading up to his passing,” Quinn said, “did your husband behave in any way unusual?”
June’s tilted, tear-brimmed eyes suddenly appeared suspicious. Was this about screwing her out of Joe’s death benefit?
“I mean,” Quinn said, seeing the signs, “did he seem on guard, as if someone might be posing some kind of danger?”
“He’d been retired almost five years. After that much time, who’d be looking to get even for something he did on the job?”
“Somebody who’d been in prison five years,” Fedderman suggested.