Urge to Kill

66

Martin Hawk sat that evening in the bar of his hotel and watched the reflection of a television screen on the glass partition of his booth. The TV was over by the cash register. Its sound was down, but volume wasn’t needed for what was being shown. It was a big mob scene somewhere in the park. Backward in the screen’s reflection Martin could see the lettering on the signs and shirts. He mentally flipped the letters: FREE BERTY.

So it was about the latest in the series of murders in the city, all inspired by the honorable blood sport that Martin had perfected and developed into a profitable business. Bertrand Wrenner, a feckless little man who under any other circumstances wouldn’t have dreamed of shooting anyone, had taken the media’s interpretation of Quest and Quarry’s unintentional consequences to heart. The fool actually thought he was dueling, that somehow what was happening in the city put the stamp of respectability on unadorned murder.

Berty Wrenner, Martin was sure, had never gone hunting.

A bowl of peanuts and Martin’s drink sat untouched before him. What was going on now in the city had deprived him of appetite and thirst. Somehow noble opportunity for his clients had been turned into complicity in murders. He knew the crowds demonstrating in the park, the masses plodding to their jobs and then back home every day, wouldn’t understand his goals or accomplishments. They might regard murder as dueling now; and for a while if Quest and Quarry were exposed, they might even regard what its clientele did as hunting. But Martin knew the fickleness of group thought. He might well become a reviled and shunned, not to mention imprisoned, member of society.

And of course there was Quinn, himself a hunter, a man Martin had no choice but to respect. Quinn was always out there trying to track him, thinking about him, attempting to get into his mind and motives. Stalking him.

Martin felt a powerful need for understanding, to set the record straight. To deal with the hunter who hunted him.

He could think of only one way to do that. For the record. For his record. For the fortification of his soul.

He laid some bills and a tip next to the peanut bowl on the table and started to stand up. The news was going to a commercial break, but in the instant before the picture went to a shot of luxury autos driving in formation, the backward crawl at the bottom of the screen said there’d been a new development in the latest series of murders in New York City, involving a letter.

Martin sat back down.

The next morning, Pearl and Fedderman had stopped for doughnuts, just like cops in books and movies.

“Krispy Kreme,” Fedderman said. “How can their doughnuts be so delicious and their stock so lousy?”

Pearl looked over at him. “You in the stock market, Feds?”

“No. It was either that or the supermarket. I never had the money for both.”

They actually tried to pay for the doughnuts, but the guy behind the counter said they were free in return for the protection the cops gave his store. They thanked him and got their coffees refilled in to-go cups. The doughnut guy told them to be sure and come back, and they said they would, meaning it. Sometimes the world felt right.

They got into the unmarked parked illegally at the curb. Fedderman drove. They were on their way to put their heads together with Vitali and Mishkin to see if they could break the logjam in their investigation. Neither of them mentioned the letter Helen the profiler had composed that was released under Quinn’s name. Pearl hoped the killer would ignore the damned thing.

The pressure from on high was real and growing, exacerbated by the Berty Wrenner case. Quinn hadn’t demanded action, as Renz had demanded of him, because he knew they were all pros and treated them as such. But pros felt the pressure just like everyone else, only they could shrug it off. Most of the time.

It was obvious that the stress was wearing on Quinn. His eyes were often bloodshot, as if he wasn’t getting much sleep, and his craggy features had taken on an expression of weary determination. He seemed to be taking more desperate measures, like having Nancy Weaver interview Wrenner’s fellow employees at the real estate agency where Wrenner worked. Everyone there seemed to have hated Alec Farr, so there was a remote possibility Wrenner had had an accomplice.

Pearl and Fedderman didn’t say much as they finished their coffees and left the foam containers in the car’s plastic cup holders.

They were on Broadway, driving north in heavy traffic, when Pearl said, “Hang a left at the next corner.”

“Why?” Fedderman asked.

“I need to make a quick stop.”

“What is this, you gotta pee?” With all that coffee in her, it figures, Fedderman thought.

“Just make the turn, Feds. Please.”

Astounded by the please, Fedderman steered the gray Ford into the turn. They drove for a while. Fedderman could smell something unpleasant now and then, as if someone had vomited in the car and it hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned. Maybe a suspect. They did that sometimes. He’d have opened a window, but the air conditioner was having enough of a problem keeping the summer heat outside.

“Any more instructions?” he asked.

“I just want to—”

“I know where we’re going now,” he said. “Your apartment.” He glanced over at her. “I guess you’re desperate for my body.”

“It would require desperation,” Pearl said.

When he’d parked in front of the brick and stone building, she told him she’d only be a minute and got out of the car. Her slacks felt tight and constricting, as if they’d contracted in the heat, and clung to her lower body. She was aware of Fedderman watching her as she took the front concrete steps and entered the vestibule. She wondered what he was thinking, but she knew. What all men thought.

Showing herself off, Fedderman thought. Tight pants and a flight of stairs; women couldn’t resist the opportunity—if they had it to show. Pearl had it.

Ah! She saw right away that there was something white visible through her mail slot. The postman had been here.

She keyed open the box and withdrew the day’s mail. Only one envelope, and a colorful flier from a new Thai restaurant that had opened in the neighborhood. The flier slipped from her grasp and fluttered to the tile floor. She ignored it and turned over the envelope.

In the top left corner was Dr. Eichmann’s name and office address.

Since Pearl had paid her bill, she knew what must be in the envelope. The pathology report for the biopsy of her mole. It had to be!

She moved over to a corner near the windowed door—where the mingled scents of cleaning solvent and urine were stronger, but the light was better—and started to tear open the envelope.

Then she stopped.

She had to work today, as usual, and there was no way to know how this report would affect her, one way or the other.

Pearl stared at the sealed envelope and decided it was too delicate a matter, too intensely private, to share with Fedderman, and he was waiting out in the car. Probably about to lean on the horn. She didn’t want him to see her reaction to the news, either way.

She stuffed the envelope in a pocket and went back outside, trying to forget it for the time being. It wasn’t going anywhere, and whenever she decided to read it, it would say the same thing.

Live or die, she had to concentrate on today.

She wouldn’t admit that she was terrified of what she might learn, and now that she had the envelope whose contents she’d been so eager to read, she’d delay opening it as long as possible.

Martin Hawk had spent most of the morning on his reply to Quinn’s letter, cutting and pasting from a New Yorker he’d bought at a kiosk several blocks from the hotel.

When it was finished, he decided not to mail it. Instead he took it to a Kinko’s, where he ran a copy of it.

Then he faxed it.