Urge to Kill

Renz had to grin. His canine teeth were longer than most people’s, and tinged yellow. “That’s pretty good, the heartbeat thing with the philandering cardiologist. Why you’re such an ace detective. Trouble is, there’s more to my story.”

It began to rain, hard. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Quinn worked the buttons and raised all the windows, making it even warmer in the car. The windows blurred immediately, isolating Quinn and Renz from the outside world. There was a musty smell now to go with the stale tobacco scent. Nothing moved the sultry air.

Renz didn’t seem at all discomfited. “Last week an insurance executive, Alan Weeks, was shot to death in Central Park, in front of witnesses too far away to see the killer’s face. They did see the killer lean over the victim and remove something from his pocket before disappearing into the woods.”

“Not his wallet?”

“Nope,” Renz said. “Not his expensive pocket watch, either. The bullet that killed Weeks was fired from a twenty-five-caliber handgun, but not the same gun that killed Manders. Nothing about the murders seems to connect Weeks and Manders, other than bullets in the head. And possibly whatever was removed from their pockets.”

Quinn drummed his fingertips for a while on the steering wheel, making a sound something like the rain pattering on the car roof.

“Maybe coincidence,” he said, not believing it. He’d been conditioned not to believe it. Coincidence and detective work were incompatible.

Renz flashed another canine smile in the wavering light making its way through the rain-washed windows. “Like it was coincidental we bumped into each other tonight.”

Quinn stopped with the fingers. “Fate?”

Renz shook his head no. “Design.” The grin stayed. “Another homicide like the first two,” he said, “and we’ve definitely got ourselves a serial killer and all the media hype that goes with it. I need you and your team ready to go in the event that happens. Usual terms.”

For particularly difficult and sensitive cases, the clever and immensely ambitious Renz called on Quinn and his team of former NYPD detectives, Pearl Kasner and Larry Fedderman, to act as his personal investigators. Their work-for-hire status provided them use of NYPD resources, but they suffered few of the department’s hindrances.

Quinn knew this wasn’t only because Renz wanted serious crimes solved on his watch. Quinn understood the bureaucracy and still held a grudge against it from when it had turned on him. He didn’t have to be told that an important part of his job would be covering Renz’s ass.

“You could call it a standby basis,” Renz said, “but we both know it won’t be standby very long.”

“That’s what my gut tells me.”

“Your gut tell you to take the job?”

“Tells me not to touch it.”

“How about your head?”

“My head says run from it fast as I can.”

“But you’re going to call Pearl and Fedderman? Be ready to go after this sicko?”

“Yes,” Quinn said.

Renz stared at him for a while, studying him.

“Your heart must be telling you what to do,” he said. He grinned hugely, all incisors and canine teeth gleaming in the night’s reflected light. “How sweet.”

“Get out of the car.”

“Can’t,” Renz said. “You mighta noticed the radio car I was riding in has driven away, and now it’s raining. I need a lift home.”

“You shoulda thought ahead.”

“If I hadn’t been thinking ahead, Quinn, I wouldn’t be here talking with you. I want us to be ready for the media shit storm.”

“You still live over on East Fifty-first?”

“Same place,” Renz said. “Newly decorated, though.”

“It’s kinda far from here,” Quinn said.

“That’s why I asked a friend.”

Quinn started the car’s big engine. Before pulling away from the curb, he drew a cigar from an inside pocket and fired it up with the Lincoln’s lighter. If Renz was riding with him, he was going to suffer. If the smoke didn’t get to Renz, it would only be because he was a cigar smoker himself and knew good tobacco when he smelled it.

“I thought you said you were smoking your last one,” Renz said.

“This is the last one,” Quinn said.

Renz stared ahead quietly, obviously pissed off. Made Quinn smile.

He would have offered Renz a cigar if they weren’t Cuban.

6

Quinn figured it wasn’t midnight yet, so Pearl might still be awake.

She wasn’t a night owl in the sense that she liked to roam around the city after dark. It was simply that Pearl couldn’t sleep. She was probably pacing the stifling confines of her apartment, counting the steps. Or maybe bouncing off the walls. She’d always been like that, even when living with Quinn. He’d wake up at 3:00 A.M. and find her in the living room, eating potato chips and watching television news or an old movie. She was partial to the old Busby Berkeley musicals, where every time a dancer takes an initial step a thousand other dancers appear.

He was right about her being awake. She picked up halfway through the second ring.

“Watching an old movie?” Quinn asked.

“Quinn. What are you doing, spying on me with a telescope?”

“I would if I could see you from here.”