Darker Than Night. John Lutz
bought groceries someplace where they couldn’t be traced by the bags and someone might remember him.”
“Very good, Quinn. I was sure you’d have a different slant on this and come up with something new. You didn’t disappoint me.”
“I’m flushed with pride. Are you here to tell me anything new?”
“Yeah. I’m afraid things have changed. Egan found out you’re on the case. I think from a uniform named Charlie Mercer.”
“Big, square-shouldered guy, blue and brown?”
“Fits him.”
“He was coming out of the elevator in the Elzners’ building when I stepped in.”
“He get a good look at you?”
“Like I got at him.”
“Then there’s no mistaking it; the bastard must’ve told Egan.” Renz’s brow furrowed. “Mercer’s made a mistake. One he’ll pay dearly for, and sooner than he thinks. Egan’s probably already notified the chief’s office. Maybe somebody in the news media. That last won’t help him.”
“Why not?”
Renz’s forehead relaxed, but the furrows didn’t fade away. “Because I’ve gone on the offensive. I’ve notified all my media contacts I’ve taken a chance on a good man—that’d be you. The safety of the community comes before NYPD politics and petty revenge, so I’ve asked Frank Quinn to look into the Elzner case because he’s the best. If the story’s not already on the news, it will be soon, before Egan’s. The department won’t move to take you off the case, because it’d be bad PR. There was never a criminal charge and a trial in the rape case. The public’ll see you as a hero, Quinn. A victim of unsubstantiated rumor who deserves a second chance. I’ve also assigned a team of detectives to work under your command.”
Quinn was surprised. “Team?”
“Two detectives, but you’ll have additional temporary help, if and when you need it.” Renz leaned forward on the sofa. “You know how it works, Quinn. The killing of a typical Manhattan couple means media by the shit load. Media means pressure. Can you deal with it?”
“I can deal. This team…are these good cops you’re giving me?”
“Sure, they are. Your old partner from your radio car years, Larry Fedderman, and his new partner, Pearl Kasner.”
Fedderman. Quinn almost smiled. Other than the people who’d set him up, Fedderman was probably the only one in the NYPD who didn’t think Quinn was guilty of raping a minor. Fedderman had paid for it, in wisecracks and dirty looks and shitty assignments. The word was, he still believed in Quinn. “Fedderman’ll do. What about Kasner?”
Renz shifted on the sofa cushion as if he’d just noticed he was sitting on something sharp. “She’s got kind of a reputation in the department, but she’s also got great skills.”
Uh-oh. “Reputation?”
“She’s got what you might call a temper. Not so unlike yourself. She gets in the same kinda trouble you used to.”
“She in any of it now?”
“Yes and no.”
“What’s the yes part?”
“Vince Egan made a play for her in a hotel lobby, and she knocked him on his ass.”
Quinn stared incredulously. “A working cop swung on an NYPD captain? She’s on her way out, then.”
“Let’s just say she’s on the bubble.” Renz explained to Quinn that Egan was drunk at the time and there were witnesses. It was the kind of trouble the NYPD didn’t need aired in public. An IA investigation had been spiked before it could get under way. “It’s the kinda process you should understand,” Renz said.
“Egan’ll get her some other way.”
“Not if you, Pearl, and Fedderman break the Elzner murder case.”
Quinn understood Renz’s angle better now. He jammed his hands in his pants pockets and paced in his stocking feet. “I don’t like this. Too many last chances. How about Fedderman? He got something big riding on this, too? Will solving this case somehow cure him of a fatal disease?”
“You’re the one who might be cured of a fatal disease, Quinn. Loneliness and rot.”
That one got through. Quinn stopped pacing and turned to face Renz.
“You oughta know last chances aren’t so bad,” Renz said. “In fact, they’re what life’s all about.”
Quinn felt the anger drain from him. Renz was right.
“You can meet with Fedderman and Kasner tomorrow morning,” Renz said. “You name the time and place. I didn’t figure you’d want the meet here, since the apartment’s not set up for entertaining, even without the orange peels.”
“Tomorrow’s supposed to be a nice day,” Quinn said. “We can meet just inside the Eighty-sixth Street entrance to Central Park, say around ten o’clock.”
“That’ll work. They’ll be in plain clothes.”
“I’ll watch for Fedderman. What’s Kasner look like?”
“You should know Fedderman’s put on some weight, mostly around the middle. Kasner’s short, a looker with brown eyes, a lotta dark hair, and a good rack.”
“And a good punch, apparently.”
“A short right,” Renz said, grinning as he stood up from the couch. “I got the story from a bartender I know at the Meermont. She knocked Egan ass over elbows. You and Pearl, you oughta get along fine.”
“Like salt and pepper,” Quinn said, liking Kasner a little already, even though he knew she might be playing a double game, reporting to Renz as well as to him.
“More like pepper and pepper,” Renz said, going out the door.
Quinn listened to Renz’s receding footsteps on the creaking wooden stairs, then the faint swishing sound of the street door opening and closing.
He wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into, but at least his life was moving forward again.
Or some direction.
Pain!
It would never stop. Or so it seemed.
The woman continued crawling toward the door, and the whip continued to lash her bare buttocks, her meaty thighs, and sometimes, to surprise her, her bare back.
She’d known what she was getting into—so this was her own doing, as her father used to say. She was to blame. She bore the guilt like invisible chains. When she’d received the pain and punishment she deserved, she’d be the better for it. The chains would drop away and she’d be pure again.
She was off the carpet now and crawling faster toward the door, knowing she wasn’t going to escape, that she had no chance, as always. A woman with an M.B.A. and a responsible job…what am I doing here? She clenched her teeth and whimpered. She wouldn’t scream. That was one of the rules. She’d been commanded not to scream. And if she did, if her neighbors heard and called the police, how would she explain? Her bare knees thumped on the hardwood floor, and her hands made desperate slapping sounds louder than her moans.
The whip whistled near her ear, sending a line of fire across her upper back and curling around her shoulder. It burned again across her tender inner right thigh. He knew how to use a whip, this one.
Ten feet from the door.
The whip set fire to her right buttock. There was less time between lashes now. She crawled even faster, hurting her knees and the heels of her hands. The whip followed, flicking her like a dragon’s fiery and agile tongue.
The man standing over her