Urge to Kill

“Babes on Broadway,” she said.

“I’d spy on them, too.”

“That’s the movie I’m watching, Babes on Broadway.”

“Mickey Rooney?”

“Not here.”

“Don’t wanna talk to him anyway,” Quinn said. “Wanna talk to you.”

“Talk.”

“You should be in bed sleeping.”

“Like you should. You didn’t call me about sleeping.”

“Being in bed, though…”

“Have a good reason for being on the line, Quinn, or I’m hanging up so I can watch the dancing.”

He told her about Renz’s visit and job offer.

“I’m still working at Sixth National,” she said when he was finished. “They need me.”

“Pearl, Sixth National Bank hasn’t been held up since nineteen twenty-seven.”

“Overdue.”

“You can get a leave of absence.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s our arrangement. It’s just…”

“What?”

“You start these things, these murder cases, and they take over your life. You understand. I know you do. It’s a strain on mind and body, Quinn. It becomes a goddamned obsession.”

“There are good obsessions, Pearl.”

“Are there? I can’t think of any.”

“All right,” Quinn said, tired of arguing with her. “We’re slaves to ourselves all the way to the grave.”

“Slaves to something,” Pearl said.

“You in?” Quinn asked.

She didn’t answer right away. He could hear lively dance music in the background.

“Pearl?”

“I’m in,” she said.

Slaves to something.

After the conversation with Pearl, Quinn decided not to call Fedderman until morning. Retirees went to bed early, didn’t they?

Quinn decided they did and went to bed himself.

He had trouble falling asleep. Maybe Pearl was right about obsessions. The hunt wasn’t only in his mind, though. It was in every cell of his being. It seemed a kind of destiny that he and whoever was on a killing spree should share a common struggle.

There was little doubt in Quinn’s mind that there was a serial killer out there in the city, playing out the drama he’d chosen for himself, making Quinn a part of it. Quinn would be the part the killer would regret. Old juices were starting to flow again. The hunt was in body and blood.

“Locked in,” Quinn actually muttered, and finally fell asleep.

7

In the morning, Quinn put Mr. Coffee to work so he could have his caffeine fix before walking over to the Lotus Diner for breakfast. He showered and shaved, then dressed and combed his hair. He noticed he needed a haircut but figured it could wait.

Feeling much more awake after a restless night, he carried the wireless phone into the kitchen and sat at the table with his coffee off to the side within easy reach. Nine thirty. Fedderman should be awake by now. Maybe he was even on the links, or out on the wide ocean casting for marlin. Or he might be sitting in some diner swapping lies with other retired cops. Stories that sounded like lies to anyone listening, anyway.

Fedderman answered his phone on the second ring and was no problem. No Pearl-like discourses out of Feds, the voice of pure practicality.

“So we got a new hobby,” Fedderman said over the phone, when Quinn was done relating what Renz had said. That was one way police described a long-lasting serial killer investigation. “One that should keep us busy for a while. It gives me a reason for living so I don’t ride a bullet outta here.”

Quinn sampled his coffee. Yeow! Still too hot to drink. “Things that bad, Feds?”

“Naw, things are just things. Living alone at my age, not gainfully employed, stretching my pension money with coupons and early-bird specials. It’s okay for some people, but not for me.”

“There are plenty of people who lead active lives after retirement,” Quinn said, but he knew exactly what Fedderman meant, how he felt. Quinn had the same feeling sometimes, woke up with it lying heavily enough on his body that it felt like one of those lead bibs dentists lay over your chest to protect against X-ray damage. It made it hard to breathe.

“I tried golf,” Fedderman said, “tried fishing. Golf just makes you mad, fishing disappointed.”

“Rich widows down there,” Quinn reminded him.

“Widows looking for rich husbands,” Fedderman said, “not for bloodstained ex-cops. They get a sniff of my past and don’t want much to do with me.”

“Jesus, I’m glad I called.”

“Me, too, Quinn.”

Quinn’s mind flashed an image of Fedderman, balding, gangly, paunchy, able to make the most expensive suit look as if it had just been stripped off a wino. Not tempting widow bait, Fedderman.

I should talk.

“You and Pearl still on the outs?” Fedderman asked, as if reading Quinn’s mind over the phone.

“Yeah. Pearl’s got her own place, and she’s still working that bank guard job at Sixth National.”

“Job for guys in their eighties,” Fedderman said. “Banks don’t get robbed anymore in ways a guard might prevent. Usually it’s done by computer. Robber might never even see the inside of the place.”

“Technology.”

“Who the hell understands it, Quinn?”

“Everybody under thirty.”

“Not us,” Fedderman said.

Quinn took a cautious sip of his coffee. It was still almost hot enough to singe his tongue. Mr. Coffee needed some adjustment.