Читать книгу Urge To Kill - John Lutz - Страница 17

Joseph Galin was conscious, but he wasn’t thinking or seeing clearly. It had become a world without time or meaning. He had no memory of how he’d gotten where he was, sitting slouched and apparently in a car.

His car?

He couldn’t move, and though there was no pain, there was an advancing numbness. It had begun with his feet, then his hands. Now he had no feeling at all in any of his extremities. He might as well have been floating like a balloon.

Galin could see out the windshield to the wide expanse of the car’s hood, where a bird of some kind was walking around, pecking, maybe damaging the paint. And it was night out. Evening. Dark and getting darker. Way past dusk.

Then darkness fell completely, as if he were in a sealed room and someone had pulled down a shade. Odd. Strange also that he wasn’t afraid. More curious. What the hell was happening?

Am I drunk?

He’d been on benders before and figured this wasn’t one of them.

Some kind of stroke?

If I could only remember who I am…

He could smell leather and something that reminded him of dirty coins…pennies.

A penny for my thoughts…

He might have smiled.

The darkness was heavy on him, keeping him from opening his eyes now. Not that it made any difference. He heard himself let out a long breath. Heard the bird pecking on the car hood, still working even though it was so dark. He heard a car passing way out in the street, beyond the mouth of the alley.

Alley?

He began to remember and was afraid. His mind searched for light and found none.

The fear remained. Held on to him like a lost lover dying along with him.

Dying?

Without meaning to, he said loudly and in a clear voice, “Hawk.”

The word meant nothing to him.

Then Galin saw nothing, became totally blind. He could no longer remember what he couldn’t see. Could no longer smell the leather and tarnished copper or anything else, could hear nothing, feel nothing…

Nothing.

The phone chirping by the bed pulled Quinn out of deep sleep. His mouth and throat were dry. There was grit beneath his eyelids. He glanced at his watch to see the time. It was…dark. Why the hell didn’t luminous hands work at the same brightness all the time?

He found the phone in the dark, lifted the receiver, and mashed it against his ear.

Damned chirping’s stopped, anyway. Like a nattering bird.

“Quinn?”

Renz’s voice. Great.

“Quinn,” he confirmed. He reached out and switched on the reading lamp on the table alongside the bed. Saw the face of his watch. A few minutes past five o’clock.

“You were sleeping, right?” Renz said, as if he’d been asked to answer some kind of riddle.

“You guessed it. That why you called? To wake me up?”

“Yeah, but there’s a deeper reason. Remember our conversation from a week ago?”

Quinn was almost all the way awake now. “I remember. We got another one?”

“’Fraid so. Remember Joe Galin?”

Quinn searched his memory. Found a stocky, gray-haired plainclothes cop with an easy smile that could turn hard. “Detective Joe Galin? Narcotics? Manhattan South?”

“The very one,” Renz said.

“Galin’s dead?”

“Or putting on a hell of an act.”

Quinn was having difficulty processing this. “Our killer did a cop?”

“Sure did. Single small-caliber bullet to the head. Ex-cop, by the way. He was retired, like you.”

“Like I was,” Quinn said.

Despite the hour, Quinn phoned Pearl and Fedderman. Then he got dressed, went outside to where his car was parked, and in the glimmering dawn drove across town and over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge into Queens.

It was a gray but bright morning when Quinn pulled the Lincoln to the curb and braked to a halt behind a parked radio car. There was another patrol car and what looked like an unmarked city car parked directly in front of a take-out pizza joint with PIZZA-RIO painted on its window. Beneath the name in smaller letters was PIZZA WITH A SPANISH KICK.

Might be good, Quinn thought, as he climbed out of the Lincoln. But not now. Not here. What he wanted was coffee. He knew he should have taken the time to swing by the Lotus Diner and get a go cup. It would have taken only a few more minutes. Several uniformed cops and two plainclothes detectives were standing around on the sidewalk in a circle. They were holding white foam cups, some of which had steam rising from them, and at least two were eating doughnuts.

As Quinn walked toward the mouth of an alley where, according to Renz on the phone, the shooting had taken place, one of the plainclothes guys—the shorter of the two, with a gray buzz cut and a broad, florid face, spotted Quinn and walked toward him. He smiled. “Captain Quinn?”

Quinn nodded, noticing the man was holding two cups of coffee.

“I’m Detective Charlton Lewellyn. I’ve been with Commissioner Renz on the phone. He said this one was yours.” He held out one of the foam cups for Quinn to take, as if he’d been referring to it and not to what had happened in the alley.

Quinn accepted the cup, which had a white plastic lid on it to keep in the heat, and thanked Lewellyn. He sipped. Good coffee, cream, no sugar. Had Lewellyn checked with someone to see how Quinn drank his coffee?

“I hope that’s okay,” Lewellyn said, as if he didn’t want Quinn to think he was too clever.

Quinn took another sip. “Fine.”

“We kept the scene frozen for you,” Lewellyn said. He led the way toward the alley. The uniforms had moved away and taken up position to keep any passersby clear. One of them was seated in a radio car with the door hanging open, working on some kind of form on a metal clipboard. The other plainclothes cop was standing nearby, as if the one filling out the form might need help. It occurred to Quinn that there wasn’t much of a turnout here considering an ex-cop had been shot. But maybe that was Renz keeping a low profile. Or maybe Galin had been gone too long. About five years, Renz had said.

There was yellow crime scene tape strung across the mouth of the alley. Lewellyn lifted it high so Quinn could stoop and move beneath it, like a corner man helping a boxer into the ring.

A late-model red Buick was parked in the alley. Beyond it, Quinn saw three kids peering down the alley from the block at the opposite end. There was no crime scene tape, but there was at least one uniform posted there, keeping anyone from cutting through. He came into view and talked to the kids, and they all looked down the alley toward Quinn and hurriedly moved along.

As Quinn got closer to the car he saw a figure hunched over the steering wheel. “CSU been here?”

“Nobody,” Lewellyn said. “We were keeping it fresh for you.”

Quinn set his coffee cup on the ground out of the way, then got some crime scene gloves from a pocket and worked them onto his hands. He moved in closer to the Buick. All of the car’s windows were up. The doors appeared to be unlocked.

“The engine and air conditioner were off,” Lewellyn said.

“Ignition key in the off position?”

“Yes, sir. It wasn’t all that hot last night. The victim might have sat a while with the windows up and still not gotten warm enough to lower them or turn the engine and AC back on.”

“Or he might have just arrived and been about to get out of the car,” Quinn said.

Lewellyn nodded.

“I like it your way, though,” Quinn said, making friends. “He didn’t park here in an alley for nothing.”

Lewellyn nodded again, same way, same expression, not giving away much or taking much. Quinn liked that about him.

Quinn leaned closer and peered into the lightly tinted front-side window, across the wide seat, at the dead man behind the steering wheel. He saw no sign of a bullet hole. The heavyset man with the wavy gray hair might have been taking a nap.

Not touching the car, Quinn moved around to the driver’s side. Through the window he could see the dark bullet hole in Galin’s temple.

Making as little contact with the handle as possible, he opened the door.

The wound looked nastier up close and without tinted glass filtering out the details.

“He wasn’t wearing his seat belt,” Lewellyn said. He’d moved in so he was standing just behind Quinn.

Quinn saw that that was true.

There was no sign of a gun, but they might still be looking at suicide. Then Quinn noticed the butt of what looked like a nine-millimeter handgun protruding from a belt holster beneath the victim’s suit coat. The position of the holster, the way the gun butt was turned, indicated Galin was right handed.

Left temple wound. Small-caliber bullet. Not likely a suicide, even if the gun that fired the bullet was around, under the seat or something. And why would somebody serious about suicide favor a small-caliber weapon when he had a large-caliber one in his holster? If you really do go through with it and shoot yourself, you want to make sure.

Quinn noticed the right-hand jacket pocket in Galin’s gray suit coat was turned inside out.

“No sign of a note,” Lewellyn said.

“Sometimes they put them in the mail beforehand,” Quinn said.

Lewellyn sipped his coffee, holding the cup with both hands as if it were a cold morning instead of seventy degrees.

“You know him personally?” Quinn asked.

Lewellyn shook his head no. “He worked out of Manhattan. You?”

“Didn’t exactly know him. I recall seeing him around. He was Narcotics. Worked undercover sometimes.”

“Think that might have anything to do with him being shot?”

“It usually does,” Quinn said. “But probably not this time.”

“Guy walks some mean streets for years, then doesn’t bother wearing his seat belt and something like this happens to him.”

“Goes to show you,” Quinn said, “but I’m not sure what.”

Lewellyn silently sipped some more coffee, not knowing what, either.

Quinn wished he could help him, but couldn’t.