Urge to Kill

“Sometimes they put them in the mail beforehand,” Quinn said.

Lewellyn sipped his coffee, holding the cup with both hands as if it were a cold morning instead of seventy degrees.

“You know him personally?” Quinn asked.

Lewellyn shook his head no. “He worked out of Manhattan. You?”

“Didn’t exactly know him. I recall seeing him around. He was Narcotics. Worked undercover sometimes.”

“Think that might have anything to do with him being shot?”

“It usually does,” Quinn said. “But probably not this time.”

“Guy walks some mean streets for years, then doesn’t bother wearing his seat belt and something like this happens to him.”

“Goes to show you,” Quinn said, “but I’m not sure what.”

Lewellyn silently sipped some more coffee, not knowing what, either.

Quinn wished he could help him, but couldn’t.

10

Quinn wished he could take his eyes off Pearl.

He was behind his big cherrywood desk in his combination office and den. Pearl was slouched in the small armchair on the left, angled toward the desk. She was wearing a white blouse, black slacks, a gray blazer, and comfortable-looking black shoes with thick, slightly built-up heels. Not a sexy outfit, but she turned it into one. Her black hair was slightly mussed this morning, her full lips glossed a red that wasn’t brilliant but looked so on her. Her dark eyes with the long dark lashes…

“Quinn, you concentrating?”

Fedderman’s voice. Feds was seated in the large brown leather chair where Quinn often sat when he was alone and wanted to read.

“Concentrating,” Quinn said.

Fedderman looked at him and shook his head slightly. He had antennae, did Feds.

“Something I’m missing?” Pearl asked.

“Not a chance,” Fedderman said.

Pearl didn’t answer. Gave him a look. Quinn could feel the old chemistry returning to the team of detectives. There was tension here, almost all the time, but it tended to lead to results.

“What we have is a dead ex-cop,” Quinn said.

“There’s no such thing as an ex-cop,” Fedderman said.

“Me,” Pearl said. “From time to time.”

“We still have a dead ex-cop,” Quinn said. “For him, time’s over.” He looked at Fedderman. “You know Galin when he was on the job?”

“Knew of him,” Fedderman said. He was wearing a gray suit like Galin’s, only Galin’s fit him better, even dead.

Gangly, paunchy Fedderman was one of those people who mystified tailors. Not that Fedderman ever went to one. He always looked as if he’d just shaken straw out of his sleeves and come from scaring away crows in a cornfield. His body parts didn’t quite match, and nothing fit him well. Often one of his shirt cuffs was unbuttoned and flapping as he walked. Quinn wondered how that happened. It was usually after Fedderman had written something down. Quinn thought it might be because he dragged his hand a certain way when he used a pen or pencil and it worked the cuff button loose.

Fedderman ran his long, pianist’s fingers through what was left of his light-colored hair. That seemed to remind him he was getting balder by the day. He lowered his hand and glanced at it as if he might find errant hair. “Galin was a guy kinda kept to himself,” he said. “Seemed friendly enough, just…I dunno, private.”

“I was in the two-oh doing a report a long time ago,” Pearl said. “Galin walked past and pretended he’d pinched me on the ass. Made a big thing of it. It got him some laughs.”

“Sure,” Fedderman said.

“But he didn’t really pinch you?” Quinn asked.

“I said he didn’t.”

“What’d you do?” Fedderman asked.

“Shoved him into a desk anyway. He had to wave his arms around to keep from falling. That got the biggest laugh. I heard the two-oh guys called 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.”