Urge to Kill

“Because of your father’s death?”

“Maybe. He was an overachiever, too, as was his father.”

“In your genes.”

“Yeah, maybe. So much is genetic. Do you think murder is genetic, that it’s in your killer’s genes?”

“I honestly don’t know. That’d be your field.”

“Well, Detective Quinn—” She seemed suddenly surprised at herself. “I forgot to get your first name.”

“Just Quinn’ll work.”

“I thought we were on a first-name basis.”

“We are, Zoe. My given name’s Frank, but everyone calls me Quinn.”

“Well, Quinn, I don’t know, either. About the killer gene.”

She sat farther back. He sat back. They regarded each other.

“Life’s so goddamned short,” she said.

“For some of us. Usually the wrong ones.”

“Has this conversation been a help?” she asked.

“Has it helped you?”

She swallowed. “I suppose it has. It hasn’t brought George back, though.”

“It might help to catch his killer,” Quinn said. “There’s no way to know for sure at this point.”

“If you really think you and I getting together might help,” she said, “maybe we should do it again.”

Quinn felt surprised and oddly embarrassed. He couldn’t contain his smile. “I thought you psychoanalysts were supposed to be obscure.”

“That was me being obscure,” she said. “What I really meant is that you intrigue me. Your methods, who you are. Maybe it’s because you’re trying to track my brother’s killer. Maybe when you catch him, or kill him, you’ll no longer intrigue me.”

“That was direct enough,” Quinn said.

“Often being direct is wise. Life offers only so many opportunities, it’s a shame not to explore them. Believe me, I’m not being impulsive. I’d tell you I hardly ever do this kind of thing, only you already know that.”

“I do know it,” Quinn said.

“I don’t take very many chances.”

Oh, yes you do. Was your brother a gambler like you? A risk taker? Some people say that’s in the genes.

“Neither do I,” he said.

She crossed her arms, cocked her head to the side, and stared at him with hope and a certain vulnerability. He knew what courage it must take. But at the same time, the lady seemed to get off on risk. Quinn understood that; he often fought the same instinct in himself.

And sometimes he didn’t fight it.

What the hell, since we’re being direct: “How about dinner, then maybe later…?”

“How about sooner,” she said “then maybe dinner?”

Later that night Quinn wondered, is there a victim gene?

23

It was almost like watching a wary exotic fish considering a variety of lures. The man in the unmarked blue baseball cap had watched her yesterday from across Broadway as she meandered from shop to shop, looking in windows, regarding the bait. He knew she’d finally see something that interested her and enter one of the shops. She would finally bite.

Men and women thought quite differently. He understood how women thought, had made a study of it. Certain women, for certain reasons, he studied individually and closely.

That was because only certain women would do. It would be wrong to call them all the same physical type. It was more something about their bearing, the way they held themselves and moved. The way they thought. The look in their eyes.

That was something he hadn’t yet seen. He hadn’t looked into this one’s eyes.

She was certainly attractive, he thought, as he slowed and stood with his hands in his pockets, staring across the street. She was medium height, with long dark hair, long legs encased in tight jeans, long and graceful arms that nonetheless looked strong. Even her neck was long and slender. What interested him most was her ballet dancer’s tightly sprung body. It hinted at physical strength as well as grace, reminiscent of a wild and lovely animal that might bolt and be up to speed in seconds. A prey animal, like an elegant gazelle. Every slight movement she made was unconscious art.

She went into a mid-price fashion shop and, after about fifteen minutes, emerged carrying a small white shopping bag. From outside the shop he followed her back the way she’d come, along Broadway. She was walking now with a firm destination in mind, and he had to quicken his pace to keep up with her long, graceful strides.

Finally she took the concrete steps down a shadowed stairwell to a subway platform. Even descending the steps, had she wanted to, she could have balanced a book on her head.

Though the train was crowded, she managed to find a seat. He stood halfway down the car, holding on to a vertical steel bar, unobtrusively watching her.

They didn’t ride far before exiting the subway and surfacing back into the bright sun. Like moles, he thought, blinking at the light. He was sure she still hadn’t noticed him as he fell in behind her at a prudent distance.

He had to find out as much as possible about her, and where she lived was essential information.