Urge to Kill

When he’d parked in front of the brick and stone building, she told him she’d only be a minute and got out of the car. Her slacks felt tight and constricting, as if they’d contracted in the heat, and clung to her lower body. She was aware of Fedderman watching her as she took the front concrete steps and entered the vestibule. She wondered what he was thinking, but she knew. What all men thought.

Showing herself off, Fedderman thought. Tight pants and a flight of stairs; women couldn’t resist the opportunity—if they had it to show. Pearl had it.

Ah! She saw right away that there was something white visible through her mail slot. The postman had been here.

She keyed open the box and withdrew the day’s mail. Only one envelope, and a colorful flier from a new Thai restaurant that had opened in the neighborhood. The flier slipped from her grasp and fluttered to the tile floor. She ignored it and turned over the envelope.

In the top left corner was Dr. Eichmann’s name and office address.

Since Pearl had paid her bill, she knew what must be in the envelope. The pathology report for the biopsy of her mole. It had to be!

She moved over to a corner near the windowed door—where the mingled scents of cleaning solvent and urine were stronger, but the light was better—and started to tear open the envelope.

Then she stopped.

She had to work today, as usual, and there was no way to know how this report would affect her, one way or the other.

Pearl stared at the sealed envelope and decided it was too delicate a matter, too intensely private, to share with Fedderman, and he was waiting out in the car. Probably about to lean on the horn. She didn’t want him to see her reaction to the news, either way.

She stuffed the envelope in a pocket and went back outside, trying to forget it for the time being. It wasn’t going anywhere, and whenever she decided to read it, it would say the same thing.

Live or die, she had to concentrate on today.

She wouldn’t admit that she was terrified of what she might learn, and now that she had the envelope whose contents she’d been so eager to read, she’d delay opening it as long as possible.

Martin Hawk had spent most of the morning on his reply to Quinn’s letter, cutting and pasting from a New Yorker he’d bought at a kiosk several blocks from the hotel.

When it was finished, he decided not to mail it. Instead he took it to a Kinko’s, where he ran a copy of it.

Then he faxed it.

67

They weren’t sorry he was dead.

Nancy Weaver sat in Alec Farr’s office, in the large black leather desk chair that had been Farr’s, and read over the notes she’d taken on the interviews with the employees of the Home Away agency. Though some of the employees were at least polite, including Farr’s personal assistant, a weepy-eyed woman named Gloria Ann, most of them clearly disliked Farr to the point where they were glad fate had stepped in and removed him from their lives.

Mention of Berty Wrenner’s name brought praise and distress. Praise because Berty was such a quiet, thoughtful, warmhearted man. Distress because Berty was in a pickle for killing Farr. Weaver knew how, once they became causes célèbres, the oppressed and imprisoned could grow in everyone’s estimation, but this was ridiculous. Berty Wrenner should be in line for sainthood.

The last name on her interview list was Adam Hastings, the owner of Home Away. He entered Farr’s office without knocking, a tall, slender man in his sixties, with gray hair, glittering blue eyes, and the face of a sly reptile. He sat down in the straight-backed wooden chair where employees must have sat to be excoriated by Farr, smoothed the creases in his neat gray suit, and smiled at Weaver.

“I’m here to tell you what a prince Bertrand Wrenner is and what an asshole Alec Farr was,” he said.

Weaver’s face showed nothing, but she kind of liked the way the interview was starting. She was dealing with the alpha of alpha males here. This could be exhilarating.

“Is that how you really saw it?” she asked.

“I told a half-truth,” Hastings said. He had a smooth, cultured voice, like a late-night DJ on public radio classics. “Bertrand Wrenner is an incompetent little twit, and Alec Farr was a son of a bitch.”

“Did you know that when you hired them?”

“Not entirely. I thought Wrenner might be able to sell, but he turned out to be a wimp. Farr, I knew was a son of a bitch. That was the reason I hired him. I knew he used steroids, not because he was an athlete, but so he’d be more intimidating and aggressive. We’re not in an easy business, Detective Weaver, especially in these times.”

It was Officer Weaver, but Weaver didn’t correct him. “So what your salespeople are saying is true—Farr was a slave-driving prick.”

“Quite so. He demonstrated it on a daily basis. Several of our people quit because they couldn’t take the pressure. Boo-hoo. They were replaceable, and Farr got results.”

“Not lately, he didn’t.”