Night Kills (32 page)

“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.

The evening brought showers, lightning flashes, and thunder rolling like artillery volleys above the stone and glass towers along the avenues. Then, with a humid hot breeze off the East River, the rain stopped falling, the lightning ceased, and night dropped like a curtain in a darkened theater over the city.

The new Madeline, Maria Sanchez, stood before the cracked full-length mirror mounted on the bedroom door and gave her image a final appraisal. Teased-out blond hair, tight red sleeveless T-shirt that emphasized her breasts, form-fitting black skirt that hugged her lean hips and came to just above her knees, fishnet black stockings, and killer four-inch red high heels. Makeup definitely on the heavy side, with black false eyelashes, too much eyeliner, and bright wet-look lip gloss. Lots of paste jewelry that looked as cheap as she wanted to look. She winked at herself and ran her tongue along her lower lip. She was satisfied. She looked like a whore.

To make the kind of buy she had in mind, she had to pass for a poor dumb working girl who needed a fix and had recently turned enough tricks to afford one. She had to be trusted by people who had trust in nothing other than money or power. Dressed as obviously as she was, there was always the chance they might think she was an undercover narc; but she could sense when that might happen and do something even an undercover cop wouldn't do to prove her dishonest intentions. When it came to survival, the new Madeline was like her preceding persona and had few inhibitions.

In Mexico, and during trips with Jorge to San Francisco, she used to feel above the kind of people she was now about to move among. She was the wife of a drug king, making her a drug queen, a superior creature with both money and power. It showed on her even when Jorge wasn't present. She'd inspired respect and fear among the addicted and the lower echelons of dealers. Now she had to pass as one of them.

Maybe I
am
one of them!

Trying to ignore her stab of panic, Maria turned away from the mirror. She went to the window and gazed out at the streetlights below. They were starred in the damp air, but the rain had stopped.

It was time to go out.

Before leaving, she added one more accessory to her outfit: a small black beaded purse. It contained a comb, some Kleenex, and a mace bomb she'd bought at a flea market. Supposedly, one whiff of the stuff and whoever might want to harm her would collapse helpless in a coughing fit. She didn't even know if the thing worked, but carrying it made her feel better.

At the door she considered taking an umbrella, then almost laughed out loud. The woman she'd been assessing in the mirror wasn't the sort who'd carry an umbrella if it wasn't raining. Being caught in the rain would be the least of the chances she'd routinely take. Tonight, Maria was that woman.

 

At first it was difficult to walk in the stiletto-heeled shoes. Maria took a cab south on Broadway until she was in a neighborhood that met her needs. The cabbie, who'd swerved to the curb immediately to pick her up, seemed to know what part of town she wanted to go to before she told him. Image could be everything in this world.

On foot again, it took her a few blocks to stop wobbling. She was almost surely working up a blister on her left big toe, but the hell with it. Blisters she could deal with later.

Now that the rain had stopped, there were plenty of people back out on the sidewalks. Maria ignored the stares she drew, and the occasional remarks. She went to clubs in the Village that looked like places where drug buys might be made. Her clothes were working their magic. Men propositioned her in ways bold and subtle, suave and crude. One place turned out to be a lesbian bar, and she was asked by a butch-looking woman wearing what looked like a leisure jacket to dance to an old sixties rock tune. Had to say no twice. She noticed everyone was dressed as if it were the sixties and realized that maybe she was, too. Women in her ostensive profession were in many ways a constant.

A sign made of pink paper letters strung together and draped on the mirror behind the bar declared that it was
NOSTALGIA NIGHT
and exhorted everyone to
HAVE FUN
! Maria had never regarded nostalgia as fun, merely weakness.

She thought about dancing for a while to work off the tension that was building in her, but she was worried she might sprain an ankle in her four-inch heels. A bald woman wearing a baggy tie-dyed T-shirt and huge gold hoop earrings grinned and waved a handful of bills at her, beckoning her to come back. She mouthed, “Don't leave,” but Maria pushed through half a dozen women just entering and went back out into the warm night.

The fourth place she tried was Billie G's, in a crumbling brick building just off Christopher Street. It occupied the entire first floor, a vast space with a bar so long four bartenders were working it. There was a good-sized parquet dance floor, a neat rectangle running parallel to the bar. On the other side of the crowded dance floor were tables. The clientele seemed to be of both genders and every sexual orientation. The dancers moved jerkily to a rhythmic, relentless pounding sound that Maria suspected was an amplified heartbeat.

She took a table along a wall and ordered an economical well drink, bourbon and water on the rocks. The waitress, an emaciated woman with one eye made up to look blackened, didn't give her a second look.
My kind of place,
Maria thought.

Putting on a pointedly disinterested act whenever someone approached her table, she studied the crowd. If she was a prostitute, she was a particular one. Knowing what to look for, Maria sipped her drink and kept to herself.

Near the end of the bar up near the door were some black-boots-and-leather types. Tough-looking guys who might be bikers, or might be daytime worker drones from the financial district, out of their Brooks Brothers garb and playing a role.

Farther down the bar were more traditional types, wearing everything from jeans to suits and ties, drinking everything from beer and straight booze to Cosmopolitans.

As people entered Billy G's, some of them paused near the leather guys, then walked on. It was quick, it was deft, but Maria's practiced eye saw money and small items change possession. A geek in low-rider pants, and with his lacquered hair combed into five-inch spikes, was definitely not running with the leather crowd, yet he, too, paused at the end of the bar and made an almost unnoticeable exchange.

Maria sat and watched, becoming optimistic, thinking maybe she wouldn't have to finish her piss-and-water drink.

Within about ten minutes one of the leather guys, a big one with a graying beard, slid off his bar stool and made his way along the edge of the dance floor toward the restrooms. He was shirtless beneath a black leather vest with chains dangling from it. His muscular arms were adorned with tattoos, and when one of the dancers accidentally bumped into him, he gave the man a casual but vicious swipe with his elbow. The injured dancer, bent over in pain but still moving to the beat, glared at him, but didn't try to retaliate.

Maria had watched people going and coming from the restrooms, keeping track. It was possible that the bearded leather guy would be alone in the men's room.

This is why you came here. Do it!

She stood up from her table and moved among the dancers to catch up with him.

The restrooms were at the end of a long hall and down a flight of dimly lit, steep concrete steps. The stiletto heels were a problem here, too. Maria had to be careful as she descended the steps. The stairwell was narrow, and the closer she got to the bottom, the more the stench of stale urine and pine disinfectant confirmed what was at the base of the steps. Urine was definitely winning the battle with the disinfectant.

She edged around an enthusiastic couple necking in the stairwell, the woman pressed tight against the wall and making soft mewing sounds. Maria heard a door open and close—someone exiting a restroom—and a slim figure began climbing the steps toward her.

When the figure got closer, she saw that it was that of a man in an unbuttoned and flapping sport jacket.

Good. One down. All the more likely that the beard's alone.

At the base of the stairs were two gray-enameled flimsy wood doors identical in every way. Each had international skirt-and pants-clad figures stenciled on it, indicating the restroom was for both men and women.
Cute.

Maria took a deep breath before remembering the ammonia stench of urine, then quickly exhaled and pushed open the nearest door.

Oddly, the air was better in the restroom. Maybe more disinfectant. There was a urinal mounted on the wall to the left. On the right was a stall. Its door was closed, and Maria could see a pair of definitely female ankles above dainty feet wearing low-heeled pumps.

She backed out and went to the other door.

This time, when she entered the restroom she glanced to her left, where she figured that with a flip plan the stall would be. Its metal door was open and it was unoccupied.

Standing to her right, at the urinal, was the bearded leather guy taking a piss.

Polite to a fault, Maria stood and waited for him to finish and turn around.

He zipped his jeans and turned at the same time. She saw the surprise in his eyes. He'd assumed another man was behind him, waiting to use the urinal.

He looked her up and down and smiled at her with rotten teeth. “If you're gonna stand an' pee, I hope you don't mind if I watch.”

She returned the smile. “You know, I wouldn't mind at all.”

His flesh-padded blue eyes darted this way and that, confirming that they were alone. He was obviously curious. “What's your play?”

“I'm looking for something to play
with.
”

“You look more like
you're
somethin' to play with, if a man's got the cash.”

“Some men did have the cash. Now I've got it.”

“And now you're lookin' to spend it?”

“Isn't that what it's for?”

“Depends on what you wanna buy.”

“White powder, not for a baby's ass.”

He grinned and breathed out loudly and slowly, signifying that he was thinking. She could smell his foul breath, even from three feet away.

“You a cop?” he asked.

“If I am, I sure as hell got a sore anatomy from raising the cash for a score.”

“You must be pretty confident I ain't a cop.”

“Yeah, I bet tourists come up and ask you directions all the time.”

He laughed. “You sure as shit ain't no workin' girl. You wear that outfit like it's some kinda costume. And maybe it is.”

“I don't wanna pass a fashion test. I'm here to buy some coke.”

“Thing is, there's a rumor there might be a raid on Billy G's tonight.”

“Don't you hear that rumor every night?”

“Just about,” he admitted.

“Listen, I sat upstairs and watched you deal to other people. From local jerkoffs to geeks from the burbs who drove their father's car into the city. My money's good, too. And to tell you the truth, I'm kinda desperate.”

“Now, that I believe. But desperate to score some coke, or to make an arrest?”

“Oh, get serious.” She lifted her T-shirt to expose her bare breasts, then squeezed them together, aiming her nipples at him. “Would a cop do this?”

He kept his eyes trained on her breasts until she lowered the shirt.

His hand went to a pocket in his leather vest and came out with a small tin container that had held breath mints. Maria wondered where he'd got it; he sure hadn't bought it and used all the mints. She inched her right hand into her unzipped purse.

“This has got high-grade stuff in it,” he said.

She reached for the tin and he drew it back away from her outstretched left hand. “You don't trust me?”

“I trust no one.”

“Well, you gotta place your trust in reliable old me. It's not like you're Donald Trump and you got any kinda bargainin' position. Is the stuff real or is it talcum powder? That's a question it's gonna cost you to answer.”

“I don't buy without a taste.”

He shrugged massive shoulders beneath the black leather vest. “You say you been watchin' me doin' business. How the hell you think I
stay
in business if I ain't honest?”

In a perverse way, it was a reasonable question. “Okay. How much?”

“Whatever's on you.” His gaze returned to her breasts. “An' then some. You can show me you're really a workin' girl, an' that play outfit you're about to take off ain't a costume.”

She fought down her fear and revulsion, letting her anger lend her courage. “Maybe you didn't notice I already showed you. And us working girls get paid.”

“Sometimes they just get screwed.”

The door opened, and a man in dress slacks and a blue pullover looked in. The expression on his face went blank and he quickly backed out.

The leather guy shrugged his bull shoulders again. “All I'm askin's a bonus.” He held up the tiny tin container. “An' by the way, it ain't talcum powder. Like you mentioned, that's for babies' asses. This is for your nose, sweetheart. I got a whole nother somethin' for your ass.” He noticed her hand in her purse, and the perfect stillness of very dangerous men about to act came over him. “I really do hope you're reachin' for your money.”

She pulled out the flea market mace bomb and aimed it at his face, extending her arm so it was only inches away, and mashed down hard on the plastic button with her thumb.

Work! Please work!

Nothing happened.

“
Oh, shit!
”

He was just beginning to break into a grin when the mace hissed out into his face. It caught him when he was inhaling, and he gasped and staggered backward, floundering on the slick tiles.

He went down hard, bonking his head on the porcelain urinal.