Urge to Kill

Hastings smiled again. It was a scary sight. “It’s a punishing economy out there, Detective. You should be glad you’re in public service. When people need a house or a new car, they can delay buying them. When people need a cop, they usually can’t put it off.”

“You make me glad I’m not on commission,” Weaver said.

“You should be glad. But if you ever need a job, consider contacting Home Away. There’s something about you that makes me think you’d be a fit.”

“If ever I start using steroids,” Weaver said.

Hastings stood up. “I’ve told you all I really know. I don’t spend a lot of time on the premises. I hired Alec Farr to run this end of the business, and he did it his way.”

“Like in the Frank Sinatra song,” Weaver said, “only it got him killed.”

“And now I have to replace two employees.” Hastings sounded self-pitying and mildly piqued, as if some triviality had tripped him up and now he had to waste his valuable time dealing with the consequences.

“Mr. Hastings,” Weaver said, “is that the only reason you’re sorry Alec Farr is dead?”

“Of course it is. He was a valuable employee.”

“Did you like him?”

“Not at all. No one could like him.”

“What about Berty Wrenner?”

“Didn’t really know him, and he can be replaced.”

Everybody’s epitaph, Weaver thought.

“Anything else, Detective?”

“Not at the moment, sir.”

Why did I call him ‘sir‘? Did Farr feel intimidated by Hastings, even in his own office? Is that the kind of pissing contest game they played around here? A game that became more than a game to Berty Wrenner and drove him to murder?

Hastings nodded a good-bye and went out the door.

Weaver stood up from Alec Farr’s chair and glanced around the office. There were a few awards on the walls. Top salesman of this year or that, and a nineteen-year-old business administration diploma from someplace called Pierpont College. Above the black file cabinets was a bad painting of a bald eagle soaring against the background of an American flag. At least Farr had been a patriot. No photographs of wife or kids, as Farr had been a divorced man without children. No shots of any other family members. No Elk membership certificate, mounted trophy fish, personal mementos, or souvenirs from tourist traps.

Weaver decided that Farr had been a lonely man. His job must have meant everything to him. That was the reason he’d stayed instead of run. Not courage, but lonely desperation. She decided that maybe she thought more kindly of Alec Farr than anyone else who’d ever been in this office. Still, she wouldn’t have enjoyed working for him, and she couldn’t say she would have liked him. In fact, she didn’t really like anyone she’d interviewed today.

Feeling a sudden urgency to get out of the office and away from the Home Away agency, she headed for the door. She knew the air would be better outside, uncontaminated by Machiavellian maneuvering and raw ambition. Not to mention fear.

The place was toxic. The toxicity could be fatal.

68

“A woman named Mitzi Lewis called,” Fedderman said, when he checked in by phone with Quinn. “She does standup comedy and wanted to talk to you about serial killers. She’s got some kind of routine in mind.”

“Comedy? About serial killers?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Jesus, Feds!”

“I know. She sounded nice, though.”

“Call her back and tell her I’m too busy now, but I’ll give her an interview when all this is over.”

“Seems the thing to do,” Fedderman said.

“And Feds, tell her it’ll be over soon.”

“We hope.”

“Leave that part out,” Quinn said, and broke the connection.

Mitzi said it aloud to see how it would sound: “There is a smoking section, but it’s not exactly in the plane.”

No, that one wasn’t funny, and it reminded passengers they were in an aluminum tube six miles up going five hundred miles per hour. No laughs to be mined here.

Her cell sounded the five key notes of Comedy Tonight, and she yanked it from her pocket. Ah! Fedderman was calling. The cop.

She listened to his message from Quinn, then she sighed and thanked him. He said he was really sorry, and she believed him.

Okay, she thought, putting the phone back in her pocket. She’d forget about the married serial killers idea until later, and if it still seemed workable she’d see if she could talk with Quinn.

Meanwhile, time to get back to work.