Night kills

60

"We've lost our decoy," Renz said, in a voice that suggested a close relative had died.

Quinn and Renz were in Renz's office. Renz looked terrible in the harsh morning sunlight. His bloodhound eyes were encircled by saggy flesh that was even darker than usual. Before him on his desk lay this morning's Times. Quinn thought that was enough to explain Renz's appearance.

"Not quite yet," Quinn said. He'd read the paper over breakfast and given the Coulter story some thought. "As far as the media are concerned, Coulter's still the Torso Murderer."

"Until another torso turns up and the shit hits the fan again, and then us."

Quinn knew that by "us" Renz meant "me."

"Look at the bright side, Harley."

"I am. I see a fire about to consume us."

"You have a point about the real killer taking another victim, and establishing that Coulter wasn't our man. But the killer's probably thinking right along with you. He stays pretty much in the clear until he murders again. That might make him wait a while. Meanwhile, Coulter's dead and can't provide alibis for the times of some of the Torso Murders."

That last seemed to cheer Renz somewhat. His bleary eyes opened wider and he looked thoughtful. "That's true enough."

"What about Nobbler?"

It took Renz a few seconds to understand what Quinn meant. "Yeah, it might settle him down, too. Far as we know he bought the story about Coulter being our prime suspect. Maybe he'll pull in his horns."

Quinn didn't disagree. But he knew that when Nobbler saw that Renz wasn't pulling in any horns, he'd realize Coulter had only been a decoy. That was if he didn't realize it already. Nobbler was smart and had his sources within the NYPD.

"The other thing Coulter's death does for us," Quinn said, "is put E-Bliss off their guard. They're thinking the pressure's off them, as long as everyone's assuming the Torso Murderer died when Coulter died."

Renz bit on his flabby lower lip and nodded. "It might make them careless."

"When you hold your press conference," Quinn said, "emphasize that the case against Coulter is still being made, even though he's dead. We aren't jumping to any conclusions. We want to be absolutely sure of his guilt."

"I like that," Renz said. "Cover our asses for when the real killer leaves us another grisly present."

"The idea is to nail the killer before then," Quinn said. "We do that, and none of the stuff about Coulter will matter."

"You got that right," Renz said. "The public wants this prick stopped, and whoever does it will be a hero. Or heroes." He placed his hands behind his neck, leaned back in his chair, stretched, and stared up at the ceiling while flexing his muscles so that his biceps jumped around beneath the taut material of his shirt. "Who do you suppose shotgunned Coulter? I mean, nobody's stepped forward to take a bow and be an instant celebrity."

"Let the Louisiana cops worry about it," Quinn said. "We've got our own worries."

Renz sat forward, picked up the Times, and tossed it to the side of his desk.

"Fill me in on some of those worries," he said, "so I can worry some more."

Maria Sanchez absently scratched at her arms, paced five steps this way, five steps back. This was getting unbearable. She had to get out and risk scoring some coke. It was either that or go mad.

She walked to the window and glanced outside.

It was still morning. Not even goddamned noon. It felt as though she'd been awake for ten hours after finally dropping into an uneasy sleep about dawn. New York was bright and hot out there. A city strange to her. And ominous. It wouldn't work, trying to make a buy during daylight. She needed the night. She needed the people who came out at night.

She needed.

She would have to wait for darkness. Then she would act.

She needed.