Urge to Kill

Quinn waited, tired of word games. He actually did have a sliver of respect for Renz, even though Renz represented authority and bureaucracy. Renz had at one time been a tough and effective homicide detective, and now and then it showed. And both men knew Renz was commissioner because of Quinn’s work on the Torso murders, for which Renz had skillfully garnered most of the credit. Quinn didn’t care about that. In fact, it had been part of the arrangement. The enthusiastically devious and ambitious Renz had used his newfound fame to become the most popular police commissioner in the city’s history. A media darling of monstrous proportions, his high standing in the polls translated into leverage he didn’t hesitate to use.

“I want to tell you a story,” Renz said.

“About speeding?”

Renz waved a hand dismissively. “You were going way too fast, but we can forget about that.”

Quinn pressed a button, and the window on his side of the Lincoln glided down. Sultry night air mingled with exhaust fumes tumbled into the car. He took a final pull on the cigar and tossed the glowing butt out into the street, watching it bounce and spark like a miniature fireworks display.

“Littering,” Renz said. “Illicit cigars, gambling, speeding, and now this. Jesus, Quinn! You’re a one-man crime wave.”

“It gives me something to do in retirement.” Quinn sighed and brushed cigar ash off his shirt. “It’s still hot out there.”

“Hotter than you know.”

Quinn left the window down to let in plenty of heat so maybe Renz would leave sooner and the car would air out. He leaned forward so he could reach the ignition key and killed the motor.

“This story of yours,” Quinn said. “Go ahead and tell it. And try not to be so cryptic.”

5

The car was uncomfortably hot within minutes. Quinn suffered gladly, knowing it would hasten Renz’s departure. He had a hunch what kind of story he was about to hear, and where it would lead. Quinn was uneasy about that last part, where it would lead.

“A month ago,” Renz began, “a hedge fund manager named George Manders was shot to death in a crowded SoHo club.”

“Never heard of him,” Quinn said. Maybe he could hurry Renz along.

“That’s okay, you’re not a suspect.” Renz made a face and wrinkled up his nose. It was probably a reaction to the cigar smoke smell in the car, somehow made stronger by the humid night air. Maybe Renz had a bloodhound nose as well as the looks of the breed. “At the time of the shooting,” Renz continued, “Manders was dancing with a woman he didn’t know. At least according to her. They’d just met ten minutes ago, and he’d asked her to dance. The dance floor was illuminated by those colored strobe lights that make everything look fast and herky-jerky, and the music was so loud nobody heard the shot from a small-caliber gun.”

“How small?” Quinn asked.

“Twenty-five caliber.”

It wasn’t an uncommon size bullet, but more rare than a .22 caliber when it came to small handguns.

Renz said, “The way the light was flickering, and the sound of the shot being drowned out by all that noise that passes for music, nobody realized at first that Manders had been shot. When he went down, they thought maybe it was some kinda tricky dance step and he was gonna pop right back up. Then witnesses said they saw someone bend over him—they thought to talk to him, maybe make sure he was okay—and the guy reached in and removed something from Manders’s suit coat pocket and then shag-assed outta the club.”

“This is the same guy that shot him?” Quinn asked, wanting to keep the facts straight.

“Far as we know,” Renz said. “Nobody actually saw a gun. Hardly anyone even noticed there was something wrong. The music went on for another minute or so after Manders went down, and people kept dancing.”

“Can anyone identify this guy who ran from the club?”

Renz shook his head no. “It all happened too fast, under conditions where it’d take a while for people to react. Half of them were juiced up on one substance or another anyway. So we got no positive ID in the offing. And nobody knows what was removed from the victim’s pocket. His wallet, stuffed with cash, was intact, as was his Rolex watch and gold ring.”

“Wedding ring?”

“No. Manders was divorced five years ago. He was living alone, like you.”

“What kinda club was it?” Quinn asked, ignoring the barb.

“Straight clientele, upper to upper-upper class, looking for action.”

“So that’s what Manders was doing,” Quinn said “and he got a different kind of action than he was looking for.”

“Could be.”

“And maybe whoever bent over him wasn’t the shooter but really was somebody wanting to help him, and when he realized Manders was dead he ran out of there so he wouldn’t be involved.”

“So what was taken from the victim’s pocket?”

Quinn shrugged. “Maybe nothing. Maybe the guy bending over him was feeling for a heartbeat. Coulda been a doctor stepping out on his wife and didn’t want any record that he was there.”