Night kills

73

Victor had figured out a way to follow Palmer Stone's instructions, and make Jill Clark's death look like an accident. Gloria, the expert on accidental death, would be proud.

He parked the Chrysler a block down from Jill Clark's building and walked back. He was wearing khaki pants and a blue pullover shirt, well-worn jogging shoes. On his head was a Mets cap, not cocked at an angle like a younger man might wear it, but square on his head like someone trying to be unrecognizable on security tape would. People passing on the sidewalk didn't give him a second glance. If asked later to pick him out of a lineup, they'd have a problem. He didn't want to make a memorable impression tonight except on Jill Clark, and she'd remember him for the rest of her life.

In his right hand was a navy blue duffel bag with a Nike swoosh and a web handle. Mr. Average, possibly returning home from a workout at the gym. The bag contained two rolls of duct tape, pruning shears, dental floss, and a package of single-edged razor blades. Protruding from its almost zipped opening was the blunt end of a wooden broomstick, redolent of the way tennis racket handles jutted out of club bags. The other end of the yard-long length of broomstick, inside the bag, was carved and sanded to a point. Not too sharp a point; Victor had learned not to create immediate extensive internal bleeding, so his subject's agony would be prolonged.

As he strolled, he smiled. Jill would cooperate rather than die right away. Everyone scratched every way they could for those last precious seconds of life, for something as opposed to nothing.

Nothing was forever.

Jill would write her good-bye note within the first ten minutes, and then the real fun would begin. Victor had to concentrate on Gloria and her tragic state in order not to have an erection and attract attention.

After he was finished with Jill, Victor would pour cleaning solvent over her, which he knew was stored beneath her sink. Then he'd extinguish the pilot light on her old gas stove and turn on all the burners.

Before leaving, he'd set Jill, and then the draperies, on fire.

Within minutes of his exiting the building, the blaze should be steady and strong. The gas would continue to seep until it, too, was ignited. By the time the fire department arrived, the apartment would be an inferno.

He'd take the broomstick with him. With a fire, you never could tell what might not burn completely-and where the broomstick would be, it might not burn at all.

Victor didn't have a full erection, but he was tumescent as he entered Jill's building. He hoped that if anyone did happen to see him, they wouldn't notice.

Gloria!…

Pearl's cell phone in her purse played the first four notes of the old theme from Dragnet. Although it was muted, she still heard it and removed the phone, saw that it was Quinn calling.

"Everything okay there, Pearl?" he asked.

"Just another night in paradise," Pearl said. "I'm in the bedroom trying not to be a pest."

"And Jill?" There was an unexpected concern in Quinn's voice.

"She's in the living room watching TV. Some sitcom rerun about a bunch of neurotic misfits living in an apartment in New York."

"You don't like it?"

"I've seen the episode four times and don't want to see it again."

"Victor Lamping is on his way over there," Quinn said.

"He's probably coming as Tony Lake. Nothing new there. He'll be tickled to see me."

"He was seen buying a wood-handled broom earlier today," Quinn said.

"Oh… Who's on him?"

"Weaver was. She lost him. Listen, Pearl. Feds and I might not be able to get there in time to help you."

"Weaver lost him?"

"Don't be catty, Pearl."

"Could be he's just coming over to try again to bed Jill. Poor bastard's balls have probably turned blue from trying and failing."

"A broom, Pearl. He's not going to be Tony Lake tonight."

"Maybe he just needed a broom. To sweep."

"Pearl…"

"I can handle things here, Quinn. You know I can." Not like that screwup Weaver.

"I can get some radio cars over there within minutes."

"And spook Victor after we've gone to all this trouble to lure him into our trap?"

Her reaction didn't surprise him. "There's that possibility."

"Probability, even if they arrive without lights or sirens." Pearl unconsciously passed her hand over her Glock 9mm in its belt holster. "I'll control things here and wait for you and Feds."

"You're taking a chance, Pearl. Sticking your neck way out."

"So are you, Quinn. It's the only way we can stop these assholes."

"I don't want-"

"Don't worry. Nobody's gonna do the slightest harm to Jill Clark."

"I was thinking about you, Pearl."

But you're letting me face one of the creepiest killers ever by myself.

"Don't worry about me, Quinn. I'll do my job. If you have to worry, make it about your friend Dr. Linda."

"Damn it, Pearl-"

She broke the connection.

Why did I say that? Why did I have to say it?

She heard the rasp of the intercom from the other side of the door, in the living room.

Heard Jill answer it and invite someone up.

Jill went to the mirror near the door and made sure her blouse was tucked tightly in her jeans, then fluffed her hair. It was an effort making herself look good for Tony Lake now that she knew what he might be capable of doing to her. What he might have done to those other women.

But even now, sometimes, he could be so charming it was-

There was a scuffing sound in the hall. She pressed her lips tightly together and rolled them to make sure her gloss was on evenly, then turned away from the mirror.

Two knocks on the door, firm and loud.

She gathered herself, then went to the door and opened it. Smiled big and broad.

"Tony!"

Quinn was three blocks from Jill's apartment, seething in the back of the cab. A block ahead, something was going on involving a tall van and some flashing yellow lights. Maybe a tow truck trying to handle more than it could manage. Whatever it was, it had traffic stalled to intermittent gains of ten or fifteen feet before brake lights flared again and the cab would come to a complete halt.

The driver's gunfighter eyes met Quinn's in the cocked rearview mirror. He swiveled in his seat to face Quinn and mouthed that he was sorry, there was nothing he could do to make better time.

Quinn squirmed and nodded. He understood, and he didn't see that things were going to change anytime soon.

He reached in his wallet and counted out what was on the meter, along with a generous tip, then tapped a knuckle on the clear divider and shoved the wad of bills on the steel swivel tray.

Then he was out of the cab and striding along the sidewalk in the direction of Jill's apartment. If the leg he'd been shot in months ago still ailed him, he didn't feel it. He resisted the urge to break into a run, knowing it would only exhaust him and might ultimately slow him down.

As he walked, brushing people aside, ignoring their hostile glares and remarks, he fished his cell phone from his pocket and pecked out Pearl's number.

What the hell was going on in Jill's apartment?