Night Kills (34 page)

After a couple of blocks, Madeline slowed to a walk, paused, and put her shoes back on, bending in that same graceful motion but this time brushing off the bottoms of her stockinged feet.

Must have been hell on the nylon,
Greeve thought.

She resumed walking at a normal pace. Greeve was glad. He was starting to get winded. And overheated. He had his charcoal gray suit coat open. It was flapping as he walked. With his dark shirt and tie, he was sure he wouldn't be noticed even if Madeline glanced behind her.

It was a standard tail again. He breathed in and out hard, twice, and decided he was okay, practicing his trade and liking it. It felt good to fall into Madeline's rhythm, moving close to the buildings off his left shoulder so he could fade from sight if she did happen to glance back while he was near a streetlight or illuminated sign. They were on a dark block, mostly closed businesses, so there wasn't much chance he'd need to move to cover.

She surprised him. The rhythm and angle of the pale legs abruptly changed. Then she disappeared. She'd turned into a doorway, or a passageway between the buildings.

What the hell?

Whatever it was, he could handle it.

He didn't think he'd been spotted, but there was no way to be sure. He picked up his pace, then lengthened his stride to a run. For all he knew, she was running again, her shoes back in her hand.

Near the shadowed area where Madeline had disappeared, he slowed down and advanced more cautiously.

She'd apparently entered a dark passageway.

Odd, a woman alone…

Nothing to do but follow.

He moved forward, his left fingertips brushing the rough-textured brick and mortar as he slipped around the edge of the building into darkness.

He was shocked to see her standing directly in front of him.

His momentary astonishment cost him his life. He felt the knife blade enter his left side and slide upward to his heart. Actually
heard
the blade scrape against a rib. Through an electric wave of pain, he felt his wallet being removed roughly from his pants pocket, then his belt buckle being loosened. The night was becoming even darker.

His pain propelled him so he moved without any thought of direction. Then he saw a faint glimmer of distant light and staggered toward it. Light meant life.

The light became fainter and moved farther away as he fought his way toward it.

Farther…

His pants worked themselves lower and lower, bunching around his ankles, and he fell.

 

Officer Ben Murray was walking his beat with a slow relentlessness, rattling doorknobs and wondering if he'd ever make it through to the end of his shift. It was a boring job, foot patrol in this part of the Village. And that was what made it dangerous. Boredom bred carelessness, and that could get you hurt or killed.

His wife, Milly, had been concerned about him getting hurt lately, not exactly nagging at him, but letting him know she was worried. She'd been getting to him. Causing Murray to think too much. Not just about the danger, but about the things you saw, things you'd never forget. He hadn't told Mil, but he'd been considering getting some other job, one where there wouldn't be so much risk, so much cynicism, so many indelible memories.

He tried the knob on the entrance to a closed erotic-book shop. No give. He peered through the windows at the racks of paperbacks and magazines and saw nothing suspicious, so he turned to move on to the next door. The bookshop had been burglarized twice in the last month. Maybe he could talk the owner into slipping him a key, so he could stay in there at length some nights and guard the place, maybe read some of the magazines. Several of the merchants on this beat were glad to—

Huh?

There was a guy with his pants down staggering along the sidewalk. Finally the puddled trousers tripped him and he fell hard. The way he dropped, without trying to protect his head or face, made Murray sure he was dead or unconscious. He unsnapped the flap on his 9mm's holster and ran toward the man.

Murray was immediately aware of the yawning black passageway alongside him, but for the moment he ignored it and tended to the fallen man.

The guy's suit coat had twisted around and Murray saw the distinctive brown strap of a shoulder holster. Murray used two fingers to pull up the leather folder in the man's shirt pocket. It contained the blue and gold shield of an NYPD detective.

Jesus, a cop!

There was blood on the guy's shirt, on the sidewalk, on Murray's hand.

It was then that Murray became aware of a sweet and subtle scent wafting from the dark passageway. He snapped his head around and saw that the passageway was empty.

But somebody wearing too much perfume had been there recently.

Something tugged at his shirt. The guy, the detective, not dead, one hand plucking at the material so Murray would lean closer. The guy's lips were moving as he tried to speak but couldn't.
Dying words. Christ!
Murray put his ear close to the man's mouth.

What the guy said was soft but distinct: “Whore…”

That was it.

Murray felt for a pulse and found only still flesh.

Quinn entered Renz's office and paused briefly, nothing showing on Quinn's face. He hadn't known Nobbler was in there, but he'd heard loud voices. He wondered why Renz had called him in with Nobbler present. Maybe he wanted a witness, just in case. Or a referee.

Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler's face was crimson as he paced Renz's overheated, humid office. Renz was obviously trying to show some compassion for him; after all, Nobbler's best friend and coconspirator, Ed Greeve, had been knifed to death last night. Quinn wondered how much compassion Renz actually felt. He'd been plenty pissed off on the phone when he'd called and told Quinn how Greeve had gotten himself killed. Pissed off at Nobbler.

Nobbler stopped and whirled to face Renz, who was seated behind his desk and looking calm in a way that portended a storm.

“You've got a hell of a nerve,” Nobbler said, “working in goddamned secret and setting up an undercover cop to tail Madeline Scott.”

Renz, maybe thinking staying seated would help him remain calm, didn't move. His voice was tight. “Greeve wouldn't even have known about Madeline Scott if he hadn't been following Weaver.”

“So what? Greeve's—Greeve
was
a cop. He was supposed to follow people.”

“Not other cops.”

“He was following that Scott bitch when he was killed. I know because he phoned me on his cell from outside Billy G's just before he started the tail.”

“Following both women, you mean.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't
matter
?” Renz rested both palms flat on the desk, as if it might float away on Nobbler's sea of senselessness if he didn't hold it down. “Like hell it doesn't matter. You're interfering in my case. If I've got a cop following my cop following a suspect, I oughta goddamned know about it. What was Greeve doing tailing Weaver, anyway?”

“He thought it might advance the investigation.”

“
My
investigation. And Weaver had lost Scott when Greeve was killed. Greeve was following Weaver, so he probably lost Scott when she did. There's no reason to suspect Scott killed him.”

“Who else
but
Scott?” Nobbler asked. “You knew Greeve. Do you honestly think he was killed by some other,
real
prostitute he was about to bonk?”

“He had his pants down around his ankles,” Renz pointed out. “And according to Officer Murray, Greeve's last word was
whore.
”

“That's all the friggin' media in this town cares about. It's all over the papers and TV—how a police detective was killed by a prostitute. One of the headlines is even
COP CAUGHT WITH PANTS DOWN
.
”

“They're usually not so precise.”

Nobbler turned a deeper shade of red. “Don't give me that kinda shit. You know Greeve wasn't killed by some ordinary whore who caught him—”

“With his pants down. You can't blame the media. They're saying it because that's where the evidence points.”

“Do you believe it?” Nobbler asked, actually vibrating while trying to maintain self-control.

“Frankly, no.”

“But we wouldn't believe it if it had actually happened that way,” Quinn said.

Both men stared at him, as if noticing him in the room for the first time.

“Fact is,” Quinn said, “we don't know it
didn't
happen that way.”

Nobbler glared at him as if he wanted to rip out his throat.

“He's right, Wes,” Renz said. He puffed up his saggy cheeks and blew out a long breath. “Nobody likes it, but he's right.”

“Everybody's human,” Quinn said. “Greeve was vulnerable just like the rest of us. He might have gotten mixed up with a prostitute, and then things got out of control. It could've happened even with Greeve, with the right woman, whether she was a saint or a whore.”

“That's right,” Renz said. “Remember Bernie—”

“Yeah, yeah!”

Nobbler jammed his fists deep into his pants pockets and strode to stare out the window. Some of his anger seemed to have leached out of him. “Why are you so interested in Madeline Scott?” he asked, not turning around.

“She has the same name as a homeless woman who was killed by a subway train,” Quinn said.

If Nobbler was already aware of that, he gave no indication. “So what?”

“Coincidence?” Quinn asked.

“Maybe. They do happen, or the word wouldn't be in the dictionary.”

“It's not in my dictionary,” Quinn said.

“You think Greeve being knifed while he was following Scott might have something to do with the Torso Murders?” Nobbler asked.

“We don't know. We can't even be sure Greeve was still tailing Scott when he was knifed.”

“Coulter's been killed down in Louisiana,” Nobbler said. “The Torso Murder case is gonna be shut down. Neither of us solved it,” he added almost absently.

“I thought only one of us was trying,” Renz said.

Nobbler ignored him, continuing to gaze outside at the summer glare. “The Torso Murderer was already on the run, taking both of us pretty much out of the game. Maybe nobody in law enforcement is gonna get credit for his death. Hell, Coulter mighta been shot so somebody could rob him. Or maybe it was a hunting accident.”

“Likely was,” Quinn said.

Nobbler turned around. “So Coulter being shot is the kind of coincidence you believe in.”

Quinn smiled.

“We're trying to solve crimes here,” Nobbler said. “We shouldn't set up separate squads and not share information.”

“Information like autopsy reports?” Quinn asked.

A big vein in Nobbler's forehead began throbbing as if it were a fire hose about to burst and start spewing all over the place. He started to reply, then bit down hard on his lower lip and stalked from the office, slamming the door behind him.

“He took that well,” Renz said.

“He's got no right to be pissed at us,” Quinn said.

“You think it mighta been the new Madeline who knifed Greeve?”

“I don't know. It doesn't sit right.”

“So many things about this case don't,” Renz said. “It's not gonna be long before the media wolves get on to us. It's hard for me to believe. We set up a killer already on the run as a suspect to divert them, just picked the guy out of a hat, and damned if he isn't shot to death down in Louisiana.”

“His photo was all over the country.”

“Still…”

“Could actually have been a coincidence.”

“Jesus, Quinn.”

“Maybe we oughta test it by setting up another wanted killer who's somewhere out there on the wind. We mighta stumbled onto something here.”

Renz covered his face with his hands for a moment, then removed them and looked up at Quinn.

“I'm thinking about Ed Greeve,” he said solemnly.

“He wasn't a bad guy,” Quinn said. “And he was a hell of a cop. He deserved better. When's the funeral?”

“I didn't mean that,” Renz said. “I was wondering why anyone would stick him.”

“The logical answer is he cheated a whore and she took offense.”

“Screw logic. It's caused a lotta trouble in my life.”

“Mine, too,” Quinn said with genuine sadness. “It's what we live by and love, and it's frightening where it can take us.”

“Like real love,” Renz said.

“I talked to a neighbor in the same building,” Victor said. “She told me she saw Madeline Scott go out alone right after dark dressed like a hooker.”

They were in Palmer Stone's cool, ordered office at E-Bliss.org. Victor's shirt was wrinkled and he needed a shave. Possibly he was growing a beard. Stone had never liked beards around a place of business.

“What time did she come home?” Stone asked, from behind his desk.

“She didn't. Not all night. I gave up watching for her about six this morning.”

“That's bad,” Stone said. “Maybe she's on the run.”

“Why would that be?”

“A cop was stabbed to death in the Village last night.”

“I don't see the connection,” Victor said. “My guess is she really was hooking and spent the night with a client.”

“She doesn't need the money,” Stone said.

“Maybe she needs the sex,” Victor said. “Some people like it too much.”

Stone stood up from his chair and ran his hands through his meticulously styled gray hair, considering a nymphomaniacal Maria—Madeline Scott. His hair miraculously fell back into place. “I suppose it's possible.”

“Drugs and sex. Maybe even something else.”

“I don't even want to think about the something else,” Stone said.

“What with the cops thinking the Torso Murders are stopped, maybe we should take Maria Sanchez out,” Victor said.

Stone knew he didn't mean out on a date. “Delete her?”

“If you'd rather put it that way.”

Stone would rather. He didn't like altering the nomenclature of their business. “Let me think on it.”

“She's a loose cannon, Palmer.”

“I don't want to take any unnecessary chances.”

“Madeline Scott will have a fatal accident. Who the hell cares about her enough to even notice? Hardly anyone in New York even knows who she is. And you know she's dangerous. She's getting more and more unstable, and she runs off at the mouth. I mean, with Maria, the transformation was never completed. She's not like our other special clients. She never really
became
Madeline Scott.”

Stone thought Victor was making a pretty good case against Maria Sanchez–Madeline Scott. And with the police assuming the late and unlucky Tom Coulter was responsible for the Torso Murders, there wouldn't seem to be any connection between them and her death. Not as long as Sanchez-Scott's death was thought to be accidental.

Stone wished Gloria was out of the hospital and well. She was the expert on accidental death. Victor…Well, the changes in Victor lately had to be taken into consideration. His increasingly sloppy appearance. His apparent streak of sadism. Emotion shouldn't be mixed with business. And of course there was the stress of Gloria's serious injury. More emotion. Would Stone be sending a loose cannon to delete a loose cannon?

“Let me think on it,” Stone said again.

Victor shrugged. “You're the boss.”

Lately Stone had been wondering about that.

 

Two days later, Victor was back in Palmer Stone's office. He was more neatly dressed this time, in a medium blue suit made from some kind of light material that gave it a graceful drape. And he no longer needed a shave. The scraggly beginnings of his beard were history. Stone liked him much better this way.

“Remember our conversation about Maria Sanchez?” Victor asked.

“Let's refer to her as Madeline Scott,” Stone said.

“Okay. Whichever she is, I've been watching her.”

Stone wasn't really surprised. “Why?”

“You said you were thinking about deleting her. I thought it would be a good idea to make some preliminary plans.”

“And now you want to know my decision,” Stone said.

“No, I don't think we should go near her.”

“Really?” Stone had been leaning in exactly the opposite direction. Victor had convinced him. He just hadn't been sure Victor was the man for the job.

“I found out the police are watching her. And around the clock.”

“Question is,” Stone asked, “were the police watching you while you were watching Madeline Scott?”

“Not a chance. I'm sure about that, Palmer. I'm a pro.”

“So are the police. Especially Quinn.”

“We're okay on this,” Victor said. “When the cops lose interest in her, then maybe we should delete her.”

“Maybe,” Stone agreed.

“I know,” Victor said, with a smile. “You'll think about it.”

But what Palmer Stone was actually thinking about was the police surveillance of Madeline Scott. How long had she been under observation? Why would they be watching her?

What did it mean?