Urge to Kill

52

Pearl dropped the mail all over the floor but didn’t give a damn. She was too tired.

She closed and locked her door, then stepped over the clutter on the floor.

After another hot and unproductive day on the job, she’d finally found refuge in her apartment. She’d left the window-unit air conditioner on low so the place wouldn’t preheat like an oven, but it still felt almost as hot as outside. Sometimes when she left the unit on like that it would freeze up and put out only brief wafts of neutral air while spitting occasional flecks of ice.

Like this time.

She switched off the struggling unit and turned away from it in disgust.

The bedroom was even warmer than the living room. She turned on that window unit, then went into the kitchen and switched on its smaller and almost useless air conditioner. The apartment’s air conditioners looked about twenty years old. Where did the landlord buy this crap? If it kept up like this, she’d have to curl up in the refrigerator to find any relief from the heat.

She returned to the living room, slipped off her shoes and blouse, and slumped down on the sofa wearing only slacks and her bra, waiting for the bedroom and kitchen to cool down a few degrees. She’d have a snack and a cold beer, then go into the bedroom and stretch out wearing only her panties and try to read the latest New Yorker. For some reason she enjoyed reading about the Broadway plays she couldn’t afford to see.

When she’d lived with Quinn they’d often gone to the theater. He was a Broadway buff and had turned her into one before they’d split up, leaving her with a habit she couldn’t afford. He’d enjoyed Pinter and Stoppard, she The Lion King.

Quinn.

Pearl wasn’t sure if it was the heat or lack of progress on the investigation that was keeping her in such a state of irritation, or if it was the knowledge of Quinn’s affair with the psychoanalyst Zoe.

It wasn’t that she had anything against Zoe Manders, but what the hell was Quinn doing sleeping with a shrink, anyway? If there was one thing their love lives should have taught both Quinn and Pearl it was that cops are best off mated with cops. They were the only ones who understood each other.

Shouldn’t that also be true of psychoanalysts?

What the hell do Quinn and Zoe talk about over breakfast? While riding in cabs? When watching the sun set? After they screw?

Me?

The thought of being the subject of Quinn and Zoe’s pillow talk brought a smoldering ember to flame in Pearl’s stomach. She stood up restlessly and retrieved from the floor the handful of mail she’d brought up from her box down in the lobby.

Pearl carried the mail into the kitchen, where by now it might be a few degrees cooler.

Only it wasn’t.

She went over and slapped the air conditioner, but it reacted pretty much the way Quinn did the few times she’d slapped him. It ignored her. She might as well have slapped a brick wall.

Screw it!

After getting a Budweiser from the refrigerator, she sat down at the small wooden table, took a couple of long pulls on the bottle, then turned her attention to the mail.

Jesus Christ!

Aside from the usual bills and ads, half of her mail—half!—was from doctors or medical clinics. Most of it wasn’t even the kind of mail that required opening. Fanned out on the table was one color flier or brochure after another warning of the dangers of ignoring seemingly harmless growths anywhere on the body, advising routine searches for such growths, explaining the horrors that might evolve from such tiny discolorations or moles.

Moles!

Her mother! Her mother and that goddamned Milton Kahn! They’d prompted these to be sent, and perhaps sent some themselves.

Pearl’s first impulse was to reach for the phone and call her mother, but she caught herself in time. That would only make things infinitely worse. And calling and dressing down Milt would do no good. In truth, he might not even know about her mother’s efforts to frighten Pearl back into his arms. Maybe it was just her mother and Milt’s aunt, Mrs. Kahn, out at the assisted living home in New Jersey, fighting boredom by becoming engrossed in matchmaking and medical terrorism.

Pearl took another long pull of beer and hoped the alcohol would soon calm her nerves. Pearl’s mother, Mrs. Kahn, and Milton Kahn. Most likely all three were in on the sporadic, creepy mailings that had finally erupted into this postal bombardment. This…this…!

Take it easy. Don’t assume. Best to give this some calm thought.

It was probable that Milt at least knew about the assault by mail and condoned it. But if Pearl called him, he’d deny it. And wasn’t that what this was all about, getting her to call him?

She stood up from the table and threw the mail in with the kitchen trash. All of it. Including any bills that might have been hiding between brightly colored images of moles gone amok.

Then she finished her beer and went into the bathroom, where she stood before the mirror and took yet another long, long look at the mole behind her right ear, until the ear ached from being bent drastically forward to reveal the mole. She’d been examining the mole so frequently lately that her right ear appeared swollen and larger than her left.

Pearl splashed cold water over her face, patted it dry with a towel, then leaned on the washbasin with both hands and assessed herself anew in the mirror. The stress she’d been under since joining Quinn’s investigation showed, the stress from worrying about murder and the mole. She leaned closer to the mirror to get a better look at the somber woman staring back at her.

You look like you’ve been run over by a subway.

Damn my mother! Damn Mrs. Kahn! Damn Milton Kahn!

Damn Quinn! And Fedderman, too. And that bitch, Zoe.

Look what they’re doing to me!

“Enough of this bullshit,” Pearl said to the other Pearl.

The other Pearl nodded, gave her a grim smile.

She would make another appointment with another dermatologist who wasn’t Milton Kahn, and she would keep that appointment. She would have the seemingly harmless mole examined by an unbiased physician and put the matter to rest.

She was pretty sure she would.

Rhodes was too quick for him. Jerry Dunn had been following Thomas Rhodes for the last fifteen minutes, staying well back, waiting for Rhodes either to be relatively isolated, or surrounded by so many people that the bark of a shot would only serve to confuse them and the shooter—the hunter—could easily be lost among the milling humanity.

What Dunn liked was that Rhodes was carrying a black leather duffel bag slung from his shoulder by a thick strap. That meant he intended to run rather than try to turn the tables and become hunter rather than prey. Probably, Dunn thought, because Rhodes knew that if he couldn’t successfully go into hiding he’d continue to be hunted no matter how this particular joust with death turned out.

What Dunn didn’t like was that the duffel bag was only partly zipped, and Rhodes walked with one arm resting on the bag, his hand inside it. Dunn was sure the hand was curled around a .25-caliber revolver exactly like the one concealed in the fold of the morning Times he was carrying.

Rhodes was wearing brown slacks and a brownish tweed sport coat, warm for this kind of weather. Dunn figured that was so he could take all the useful clothing with him that wouldn’t fit into the bag. It also meant he might be heading for a cooler climate. Not once had Rhodes glanced behind him, but Dunn didn’t take for granted that his presence was unknown.

Suddenly Rhodes crossed Seventh Avenue in the middle of the block. At Fifty-first Street he jauntily descended the steps to a subway stop.

Dunn had to hurry. He followed down the concrete steps toward the platform, aware that his haste might cause carelessness. He might be entering a trap.

Ahead, beyond the turnstiles, he could see people coming up another flight of steps. Apparently a train had just arrived.

Dunn had a Metro card good for a week. He hurried through a turnstile, elbowing aside some of the crowd moving the opposite direction and pushing through the turnstiles to exit.

At the head of the steps he stopped.

He had a clear view down to a landing and a continuation of concrete steps, and saw no sign of Rhodes. Had he been tricked?

Damn it!

He glanced back toward the turnstiles and caught a glimpse of men’s brown pants, as someone who might have been Rhodes jogged up the steps beyond the turnstiles and ran toward the street.

Rhodes?

The color of the pants was perfect.

Dunn ran toward the turnstiles, pushed through to exit, and dashed up the steps, taking them three at a time.

Back in the sunshine at street level, he looked in all directions.

No Thomas Rhodes.

Calm down, Dunn told himself. Calm down!

He didn’t doubt Rhodes had known he was being tracked and had used the subway stop to slip away from his pursuer. He must have been waiting just to the side of the street steps so he could cut back the way he’d come after Dunn had hurried toward the turnstiles without a sideways glance. Now back up on the crowded sidewalks, Dunn had no chance of finding him again to resume tracking.

He moved back into a doorway and stood thinking, his eyes all the time moving, seeking another momentary glimpse of Rhodes.

Rhodes was wearing a heavy sport jacket and carrying a bag that could only be called luggage, so he was traveling. He might catch a cab and head for one of the airports, but his pursuer would figure him to travel by air, probably in first class.

Dunn knew he had to guess, and he went with the odds. What was the least likely way Rhodes would travel?

A bus.

Possibly a train, but less likely was a bus.

If that was the case, Dunn had a pretty good idea where Rhodes would hook up with his transportation. Where whoever was hunting him would have to make another choice. Port Authority Terminal on Forty-second Street, where a traveler could board either a bus or a subway train.

Rhodes wasn’t carrying the duffel bag for nothing.

Dunn got out in the street and hailed a cab. He told the driver he was pressed for time and there was a twenty in it for him if he drove fast for the Port Authority Terminal, that he needed to hook up with someone he did business with and it was critical to an important deal for him to get there before a bus left.

All true. In its fashion.

It had been almost a week since Hobbs had laid a hand on her. Temporarily at least, Lavern Neeson was unbruised.

Often he’d call her from work to keep tabs on her, so she’d faked a doctor’s appointment this time, knowing that since she was unmarked Hobbs wouldn’t be interested. And she’d told him she thought she was coming down with a summer cold, not only to keep him away from her, but to give her an excuse for her sham appointment.

Where she’d taken her unbruised self was to the lounge where she’d almost been picked up by the handsome guy with the hooded eyes and jet-black hair. It was about the same time of day she’d been there last time, so he might well be there, too. She could picture him sitting on the same stool as before, hunched over his drink, and then walking toward her, absently spinning bar stools as he came. Then the change in his expression as he saw the bruises on her face, bruises that makeup couldn’t quite conceal. She hadn’t been able to get the man out of her thoughts, out of her dreams.

It could be different this time.

As she entered the lounge she blinked a few times to help adjust her eyes to the dimness, looking all around for the dark-eyed man.

He wasn’t there.

Well, what did you expect? With your crappy luck.

But on the same stool where dark-eyes had sat was another man, in his late thirties, maybe forty. A nice-enough-looking guy wearing gray slacks and a shirt and tie. He was looking at Lavern and smiling. He had a lot of dark stubble on his chin, but that was the style, and maybe he was growing a beard.

When she got closer, she glanced at his left hand and didn’t see a wedding band. For all that was worth these days.

Still smiling, he nodded to her and said, “You’re late, but that’s okay. We can make up for lost time.”

Another bullshit artist.

“Do we know each other?”

“I’ve never before laid eyes on you,” he admitted. The smile widened. Nice teeth, very white. “See, we’re starting off honestly.”

Lavern smiled back.

Why not? She could use a little talk, a little personal, painless attention.

And a drink.