Darker Than Night

55

The sun was bright and there were no clouds in the morning sky, but thunder roared like a distant lion in the east. Quinn was sitting on one of the concrete and wooden benches just inside the Eighty-sixth Street entrance to the park, looking out at a gentle slope of ground shaded by mature trees. Beyond the slope a few sunbathers were out on towels or webbed aluminum loungers, though it was still early and the day’s heat was just beginning to build.

Quinn thought it was a beautiful morning that belied his troubles. He glanced at his watch. Pearl and Fedderman should be along soon.

“So, this is where you meet,” said a voice behind him.

Harley Renz walked into view. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a light pinstripe, a blue shirt and patterned red tie fastened with a gold clasp. Somebody had spent a lot of time buffing his shoes to a high gloss. He belonged in the park like Fred Astaire belonged at an Ozark clog dance. Quinn figured there must be a TV interview scheduled for this morning. He could see a shiny black Lincoln at the curb out on Central Park West and thought it was probably Renz’s driver waiting for him.

“You might get rained on,” Renz said with a smile, as if he didn’t think that would be so bad. “Hear that thunder?”

“It’s out at sea.”

“Where you are,” Renz said, still smiling. He lightly hooked a thumb in his belt, so he looked like a catalog clothes model, and glanced around. “Your roach trap apartment’s in the Nineties. There’s an entrance to the park closer to where you live, so why don’t you meet your partners in crime solving there?”

“This is more central to us.” Which was true. It was also true there was a playground near the Ninety-first Street entrance, and Quinn didn’t want to spend time on a park bench too close to it. The media had enough to work with, as it was.

“I was on my way to Channel One, then the precinct, and I thought, I bet Quinn has something to report. I knew this was where you and your team met sometimes, so I had my driver stop off here so we could chat.”

Quinn told him about Pearl’s key-reproduction theory.

“And?” Renz asked.

“We’re still checking it out. It makes sense.”

“Which is your way of saying you don’t have diddly shit.”

Quinn nodded. “Your way of saying it is better. But we’re not done. Pearl and Fedderman have been on it and might have something when they get here.”

“On it how?”

“Checking places where apartment door keys might have been duplicated.”

“Jesus, Quinn. Do you know how many—”

“It’s not as long a shot as you might think. There are certain blanks for particular kinds of locks that are usually on apartment doors.”

“Blanks?”

“Plain, unnotched keys that haven’t been cut.”

“And there are only millions of apartments in Manhattan. If one half of one percent of their occupants had duplicate keys made, it’d mean you only had hundreds of thousands to check out.”

“Remember, we’re looking for tradesmen who had keys duplicated. That narrows it down.”

“To only tens of thousands.”

“Harley, you’ve been spending time trying to trace a silencer that doesn’t have an individual serial number.”

“And found a guy living on the West Side who threw one out in his trash a few months ago.”

“If it’s the same silencer.”

“It might be.”

“So do you have your troops searching landfills?”

“No. Too much of a long shot. And I wouldn’t have them going around visiting hundreds of places that duplicate thousands of keys.”

“Pearl and Fedderman might come up with something. They’ll sense where to go. They have good cop instincts.”

Renz looked away, up at what might be the only cloud in the sky, then back at Quinn. “Yeah. Pearl’s a hell of a detective. And some parts of Fedderman’s brain are still active.”

“You assigned them to me.”

“Shows what I know. Pearl’s a good fuck, would you say?”

Quinn felt the anger rise hot in him, almost lifting him off the bench.

“Cool down,” Renz said. “The word is out about you and Pearl, and even you have to admit the relationship isn’t very professional.”

“It’s not professional at all. It’s personal.”

“Quinn, there is no personal.”

Quinn thought he might be right. If you were a cop long enough, groping around in other people’s dirty secrets and desires, your mental fingertips grew calluses. You lost a certain respect and sensitivity for privacy. He leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms, looking up at Renz. “You mentioned you were on your way to do some media this morning. About the Night Prowler?”

“Sure. What else is New York media interested in?”

“You said the word was out about Pearl and me. Has it hit print or TV yet?”

“No, but it will. And when it does, they’ll hammer both of you hard. It’ll be rough, but you’ll still have a little time. Maybe. Depending. Possibly. How can anyone say for sure, other than the participants, what happened behind closed doors?”

“Somebody must have said,” Quinn pointed out. “How else would the word have gotten around?”

“Nobody in the NYPD had to be told. All anybody had to do was look at Pearl to know she was in love and in heat.”

“Dammit, Harley!”

“Okay, I’ll show some respect. But you know the news wolves in this town. And they’ve already fallen in love with Anna Caruso and are leaning toward lynching you. They probably won’t feel too kindly toward Pearl, either.”

Thunder rolled again, but it sounded farther away.

Renz shot his cuff as he glanced at his gold watch. “I gotta stop wasting time talking with you. After Channel One I got another interview with Kay Kemper. If it isn’t one info babe, it’s another.”

“Careful what you say to Kemper. She likes to rake the muck.”

Renz laughed. “You, the muck, telling me to be careful. Telling anybody.”

He turned and gave a dismissive wave as he walked toward his waiting car and driver. Quinn had to admit the suit looked great on him. It was the only thing he liked about Harley Renz.

Other than he was better than Vince Egan.

Ten minutes later, Pearl and Fedderman drove up in the unmarked and parked in the space Renz’s Lincoln had occupied. As they approached the bench, Quinn thought Pearl looked businesslike in a gray jacket and dark slacks, a V of white showing where the coat was buttoned. Fedderman limped along as if his feet hurt; compared to Renz’s nifty attire, Fed’s brown suit hung on him like rags. One of his shirt cuffs protruded from the coat sleeve, unbuttoned and flapping around as he swung his arms. The general effect was that of a portly scarecrow on the move.

“Traffic,” said Pearl, who’d been driving. She said it by way of explanation, nothing of apology in her tone. Could she apologize? For anything? “Been waiting long?”

“No, and I’ve had company.” Quinn told them about his conversation with Renz.

“Guy’s a genuine prick,” Pearl said.

“So everyone says.” Quinn used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. Pearl had to be hot in that blazer, and Fedderman in his shoddy suit. “Was Renz right to be skeptical of our search for the literal key to the case?”

“He was right,” Pearl said. “I never knew there were so many places that duplicated keys every day in the areas of the murders. The locksmiths—and only some of them are—know the blanks and brands common to apartment keys, but lots of their customers pay cash. Records aren’t available, and charge receipts yielded nothing.”

“Renz has been right so far,” Fedderman said, as if he’d only been half listening to Pearl. Quinn could see now there were crescents of perspiration beneath the arms of his suit coat. Or were those stains from yesterday? “But only so far.”

Pearl and Quinn both looked at him.

“Suppose we assume the killer duplicated his own keys. You’ve seen that some of those machines are portable, Pearl, and using them doesn’t take a great deal of skill or training. So let’s work this backward.”

Pearl didn’t know what he meant. She looked quizzically at Quinn.

“He means start with tradesmen who worked in any of the murder apartments, and also have their own portable key cutters.”

“That’d narrow it down,” Fedderman said.

“Would it ever!” Pearl grinned and kissed him on the cheek.

Fedderman blushed and glanced almost guiltily at Quinn.