Читать книгу Urge To Kill - John Lutz - Страница 15

In the morning, Quinn put Mr. Coffee to work so he could have his caffeine fix before walking over to the Lotus Diner for breakfast. He showered and shaved, then dressed and combed his hair. He noticed he needed a haircut but figured it could wait.

Feeling much more awake after a restless night, he carried the wireless phone into the kitchen and sat at the table with his coffee off to the side within easy reach. Nine thirty. Fedderman should be awake by now. Maybe he was even on the links, or out on the wide ocean casting for marlin. Or he might be sitting in some diner swapping lies with other retired cops. Stories that sounded like lies to anyone listening, anyway.

Fedderman answered his phone on the second ring and was no problem. No Pearl-like discourses out of Feds, the voice of pure practicality.

“So we got a new hobby,” Fedderman said over the phone, when Quinn was done relating what Renz had said. That was one way police described a long-lasting serial killer investigation. “One that should keep us busy for a while. It gives me a reason for living so I don’t ride a bullet outta here.”

Quinn sampled his coffee. Yeow! Still too hot to drink. “Things that bad, Feds?”

“Naw, things are just things. Living alone at my age, not gainfully employed, stretching my pension money with coupons and early-bird specials. It’s okay for some people, but not for me.”

“There are plenty of people who lead active lives after retirement,” Quinn said, but he knew exactly what Fedderman meant, how he felt. Quinn had the same feeling sometimes, woke up with it lying heavily enough on his body that it felt like one of those lead bibs dentists lay over your chest to protect against X-ray damage. It made it hard to breathe.

“I tried golf,” Fedderman said, “tried fishing. Golf just makes you mad, fishing disappointed.”

“Rich widows down there,” Quinn reminded him.

“Widows looking for rich husbands,” Fedderman said, “not for bloodstained ex-cops. They get a sniff of my past and don’t want much to do with me.”

“Jesus, I’m glad I called.”

“Me, too, Quinn.”

Quinn’s mind flashed an image of Fedderman, balding, gangly, paunchy, able to make the most expensive suit look as if it had just been stripped off a wino. Not tempting widow bait, Fedderman.

I should talk.

“You and Pearl still on the outs?” Fedderman asked, as if reading Quinn’s mind over the phone.

“Yeah. Pearl’s got her own place, and she’s still working that bank guard job at Sixth National.”

“Job for guys in their eighties,” Fedderman said. “Banks don’t get robbed anymore in ways a guard might prevent. Usually it’s done by computer. Robber might never even see the inside of the place.”

“Technology.”

“Who the hell understands it, Quinn?”

“Everybody under thirty.”

“Not us,” Fedderman said.

Quinn took a cautious sip of his coffee. It was still almost hot enough to singe his tongue. Mr. Coffee needed some adjustment.

“You want me to fly up there?” Fedderman asked. “I can close down the condo, put my convertible in storage.”

“You drive a convertible?”

“Uh-huh. Lot of guys around here do. Reliving their youth. Place down here sells new cars made in emerging nations at reasonable prices ’cause of the low labor costs. I got a red Sockoto Senior Special. Front seat swivels and kinda lifts you so you can get out easy.”

That was disturbing to Quinn. “You’re in your fifties, Feds. You don’t need that kinda crap.”

“Nice, though. Makes things easier. You’re still a young man, Quinn, comparatively. You got it made with early retirement, but you’ll find out how it is.”

Early retirement, Quinn thought. A false accusation of child molestation, then a bullet in the leg. Some way to retire.

“Not that you haven’t earned it,” Fedderman said, reading Quinn’s mind again. “You want me to fly up there?”

“Not yet. Renz is waiting for confirmation and for the media wolves to start howling in unison. Then he’ll give us the go-ahead.”

“Confirmation?”

“Officially there’s no serial killer yet. Not enough definitive evidence to link the murders.”

“From what you told me, he’s out there.”

“Renz still has hope there won’t be another victim. Busy building his fool’s paradise. You know how he is.”

“So we sit back and wait for the next victim?”

“Not much else we can do,” Quinn said.

“I guess not. And I’d like to be with Renz on this one, thinking there might not be a next victim, but I know better.”

“We all do.”

Quinn added some milk to his coffee and tested it. Cool enough now to be bearable. Coffee could be a trial to drink, but he liked to use the coffeemaker now and then just to fill the kitchen with the warm scent of fresh grounds.

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what Renz is paying this time?” he asked.

“Screw the money,” Fedderman said. “You know what I mean?”

“Sure. It’s the game.”

“I know Pearl feels the same way. That’s why I always figured you two’d stay together.”

“Fire and ice,” Quinn said. “Sometimes it makes lots of smoke but not much in the way of flames.”

“Long as there’s embers,” Fedderman said.

Quinn wondered if, in Pearl’s heart, there were even embers.

Fedderman was quiet for a while; then he said, “Can you feel him out there, Quinn?”

He couldn’t help it; there was a note of hope in his voice. Fedderman knew Quinn was notorious for splicing into the thought processes of the mad and dangerous men who killed over and over. Quinn understood them from their work, from the pain they caused and the pain they left behind. He could read their handiwork the way a hunter reads a spoor, and then set off in the right direction.

“Quinn?”

The voice on the phone was faint, as if Florida were drifting away from the rest of the continent.

“He’s out there,” Quinn said.

After hanging up the phone he sat and drank some more coffee. It was making him hungry.