takeout container and unopened bottle of soda.
Something didn’t feel right to Mary as she was walking home from the deli. She wasn’t sure why she was uneasy, but she picked up her pace.
It didn’t take her long to reach her building. Or to ride the elevator up to her floor and lock herself inside her apartment.
She leaned with her back against the door and felt better. She was home. Safe from whatever was out there.
She drew a deep breath and picked up a peculiar odor. Not of tobacco smoke. Something else. Faint but persistent, and definitely not the orange chicken
More like stale perspiration.
Urine.
The man from the subway!
She reined in her fear and made herself think. What was she going to do? Go back outside where there was more danger? Then what? Go to the police? Tell them she thought someone was in her apartment because she’d smelled an unfamiliar odor?
Sure, they’d believe her and send all units.
She sniffed the air again and detected no odor other than the food from the foam takeout container.
My imagination?
Surely. Must have been. Must!
She shut her mind to the faint odor that she might have smelled and moved away from the door and deeper into the living room.
She drew a deep breath and felt better.
Fear had to be faced. And, damn it, she could face it!
Mary placed the foam container on the coffee table and willed her fear-numbed legs to take her where she wanted to go. Where she knew she must go.
She made herself look everywhere in the small apartment. Under the bed, in the closets, behind the closed shower curtain. As she flung the plastic curtain aside, the murder score from the movie Psycho screeched through her mind, almost making her smile. She let the curtain fall back into place. Not so afraid now.
There’s no one here. Just me and my overactive imagination. Picture this viewed from above, like in a Hitchcock movie—a foreshortened, fearful woman scurrying about in a maze of cubicles, peeking here, peering there. It’s almost laughable.
There were a few more places to look. Extremely unlikely hiding places. Mary decided not to explore them. She told herself she was no longer so afraid that she had to look everywhere in the apartment.
I’ve made enough of a fool of myself.
He was in the living room.
12
Quinn figured he’d better call Renz back. If this investigation was going to stop, and it turned out it shouldn’t have, he wanted to make it clear that it was going to be the albatross around Renz’s neck.
“Which investigation do you want me to stop?” Quinn asked Renz, on the phone in the Lotus Diner. He turned his body in toward the wall, in case Thel, still over by his booth, might be eavesdropping as she figured up his check. “The one with the dog that ran away with the clues?”
“That one sounds interesting,” Renz said, “but I think we both know I’m talking about the Carver murders.”
“Carver murders…is that the one with the guy who raped and sliced up his victims?”
“See, you do know.”
“Was a long time ago.”
“It’d seem like yesterday if you were one of the victims. If they’d had any tomorrows.”
“Why would you want us to back away from that one, Harley? It must be in the NYPD cold-case files.”
But Quinn knew why. The politically attuned Renz, who at the time of the Carver murders had been a police captain overseeing the investigation, didn’t want one of his notable unsolved cases dredged up from the past to bedevil him in the present and future.
“There’s been enough human suffering over those murders,” Renz said. “The families should be left alone.”
“My impression is that the families would still like to see the killer found and brought to trial.”
“Yeah, yeah. Closure and all that.” Sensitive Harley. “We both know what the families really want is for us to kill the bastard.”
“That, too,” Quinn said. “What you really don’t want is for somebody to break this case, after you and the rest of the NYPD and your political hacks worked the publicity pump and made it bigger than Son of Sam and then failed to get anywhere with it.”
“How cruel and direct,” Renz said. “And accurate. Right now I’m especially vulnerable, with the wolves after my job. My political enemies within the department are breathing hot air down my neck. That prick Nobbler would love to have a big unsolved case that happened during my tenure as police captain to use against me. He’d use it to nail me to the cross.” Nobbler was Captain Wes Nobbler, an NYPD bureaucratic climber with apparatchiks throughout the department. Nobbler was almost as cynical and ambitious as Renz.
“Always political reasons,” Quinn said. Political infighting was one of the main reasons he was no longer with the NYPD.
“Everything’s political.”
Like having a maniac sit on your chest and slice off your nipples.
“Not everything, Harley.”
“Don’t stand on principle here, Quinn. There are plenty of people in and out of the NYPD who don’t want the Carver case reactivated and will do whatever’s necessary to keep it where it belongs—in the past. I’m talking powerful people, Quinn.”
“Like you?”
“Like me. Be glad I’m your friend. Listen to me on this one.”
“How did you know I was on this case, Harley?”
“Get serious. I’m the goddamned police commissioner, and I didn’t inherit the position. I came up out of the streets just like you did, only I rose higher because I was more realistic. I understood the realities of the job. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere in this city.”
“I owe something to my client,” Quinn said.
“You owe your client jack shit. You owe something to yourself. The idea is to stop this train before it builds up steam and the media notice the smoke. If you don’t help do that you might wind up under the wheels.”
“Along with you.”
“Naw, I know the engineer. I might even become the engineer.”
“These railroad metaphors are getting on my nerves. Can we try the airlines?”
“No. Let’s keep the airlines grounded and speak plainly: Drop the Carver investigation or you’ll regret it. Whether I regret it too shouldn’t make any difference to you. Think about yourself instead of your dreamland ethics. Give your client her money back, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“How do you know it’s a she?”
“You and your other two monkeys have talked to people, and we’ve talked to the same people. Didn’t it occur to you some of those victims’ families might contact us after you stomped all over their peace and well-being and reminded them of their grief?”
It had occurred to Quinn, only he doubted that Pearl or Fedderman had mentioned the identity of their client. And he was sure he hadn’t. It was possible that Renz was keeping a loose tail on Quinn and his detectives, even possible that a search without a warrant had been done at the office. Quinn made a mental note to be more careful locking up, and to make sure the office computers hadn’t been violated.
“It’s the twin sister,” Renz said. “Full of all that psychic bullshit about twins being so close they