Urge to Kill

After waiting until Quinn was seated, Beeker walked around and situated himself in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. He rocked back and forth a few times in the chair, and then sat forward and made a pink tent with his fingers the way Renz often did, which made Quinn distrust him. It wasn’t hard for Quinn to imagine the doctor as his assailant in the dark Seventy-ninth Street office.

The doctor smiled faintly. “So how can I help you, Lieutenant Quinn?”

“Captain Quinn.”

Beeker looked a bit surprised, as if he’d suddenly recognized Quinn’s name from the news, though he didn’t seem exactly thrown. His smile returned. Quinn might as well have been here to promote some sort of community action or to make a charity pitch. Beeker glanced at his watch, then touched the tip of the pink finger tent to the dimpled tip of his chin. “Well, Captain?”

“You don’t have much time left,” Quinn said.

“I know. My first appointment will be here in ten minutes, and I’ll need to make a few preparations.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Quinn said. He thought he could smell the rose in the crystal vase. “If you ever lay a hand or any other object again on Zoe Manders, I’m going to kill you.”

Beeker didn’t change expression at first; then his intense dark eyes bored into Quinn. He lowered his hands palms down on the desk. He didn’t seem afraid, only hyperalert. “Isn’t it against regulations for an NYPD police captain to threaten a lawful citizen?”

“You aren’t a lawful citizen. You’re guilty of assault.”

“This Miss Manders…”

“Dr. Manders. Zoe.”

“She’s filed a complaint against me?”

“No, and she won’t.”

“What makes you think I assaulted her?”

“She told me.”

“Did she offer any proof?”

“No.”

“But you believe her.”

“Yes.”

“I think I can guess why.”

Guess away, asshole.

Beeker stared at Quinn for a while, obviously calculating. Then he stood up behind his desk. “Well, you’ve delivered your message. Now you can go about your business and I can go about mine.”

Quinn didn’t budge from his chair. “Where were you between one and three o’clock this morning?” This morning…had it been so recently?

Beeker smiled faintly. “Did someone attack Dr. Manders around that time? Or make a threatening phone call? Is that it? She thinks it was me?”

“Where were you?” Quinn asked again, calmly.

“Where any sane person who doesn’t have a night job was—home in bed. And alone.” He cocked his head to the side and gave Quinn an appraising look. “You have a personal interest in Zoe.”

Quinn said nothing.

“I wouldn’t believe everything Zoe says,” Beeker told him.

“I don’t believe everything anybody says.”

“Zoe especially, you shouldn’t believe.”

“She said you threatened to put photographs of her on the Internet,” Quinn said. “I believed that.”

“There’s nothing improper about those photos,” Beeker said. He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk. “But you can remind Zoe that she willingly posed for other photographs, and if she sends you or someone like you here again, they’ll be posted on the Internet. She knows where.” He leaned farther over the desk toward Quinn. “I won’t be threatened. And I’d like to see your identification. I don’t think you are from the police.”

Quinn stood up, leaned across the desk, and shoved Beeker hard back into his chair. The chair was on rollers and shot back and slammed against the file cabinets, jolting Beeker. He remained seated, staring up at Quinn. He still didn’t look afraid.

“I think you should reconsider posting photos of Zoe on the Internet,” Quinn said.

“It was only a threat.”

“Reconsider the threat.”

“I could go to the real police,” Beeker said.

“While you’re there, you can read the assault complaint Zoe will file. And I’ll get to interrogate you.”

“Someone assaulted Zoe last night—earlier this morning?”

“Much earlier,” Quinn said.

“Ah! Bruises fade with time. You must know that in your business. Zoe has no proof of anything.”

Quinn walked around the desk and gripped Beeker by his shirt lapels. Some silk tie and flesh were pinched in with the material. He shook the doctor hard so that his head flopped around, bouncing off the chair’s high leather back, and a few times off a filing cabinet as the chair rolled. Beeker’s plastered-over hair rose on his head and stood high like a sparse rooster comb.

Quinn released him, but remained close, staring down at him. “You were right about me having delivered my message. Now I’ll leave. Don’t do anything that might prompt me to return. And remember what I said about those photographs.”

Beeker was busy rearranging his shirt and tie, and didn’t bother looking at Quinn.