Читать книгу Night Kills - John Lutz - Страница 9

Pearl was short and curvaceous, buxom, and even in her gray uniform looked almost too vivid to be real. Perfect pale complexion. Black, black hair and eyes. White, white perfectly even large teeth. And there was a kind of energy about her that seemed as if it might attract paper clips if she got close to them.

She watched the man over at the table where the deposit and withdrawal slips were filled out. He seemed to be taking a long time filling out whichever he’d chosen, and he kept glancing around the bank.

Sixth National Bank was an older institution and boasted lots of marble, walnut paneling, and polished brass. Behind the long row of tellers’ cages the great vault’s open door was visible, like the entrance to the nineteenth century. This was the kind of bank where if anything changed it was with the slowness of molasses dripping on a cold day, and you just knew your money was safe.

Pearl liked being a bank guard at Sixth National. It was like a relaxed version of being a cop. The uniform might be gray instead of blue, but it was a uniform. You spent a lot of time on your feet, and many of the required skills were the same. If only the pay were better. But she wasn’t complaining. She’d probably never remove the gun on her hip from its holster. Even if one of these days somebody like the dork at the walnut writing table really was casing the bank, or about to present a teller with a note informing him or her of a stickup.

And if it ever did happen, hell, Pearl was ready.

The guy who’d been writing so laboriously, a skinny dude with a sleeveless shirt and lots of tattoos—the washed-out blue kind they got in prison—finally left the table and sauntered over to one of the tellers. He handed the teller what looked like a deposit slip and some cash.

Pearl relaxed and moved back to stand against the wall, out of the way of the customers. She did keep a wary eye on Mr. Tattoos, though.

Her cell phone, on a belt clip near her nine millimeter, buzzed and vibrated. She tucked in her chin and glanced down at it, holding it at an angle so she could see the display.

Quinn’s number.

She unclipped the phone and flipped up the lid so she could speak.

“Hello, Quinn,” she said simply.

“I’ve got a proposition,” said the voice on the phone.

“Been there, done that,” Pearl said.

Her gaze returned to the tattooed guy and the teller, a woman named Judy. Judy was twentyish and chubby and had a round, pretty face that usually didn’t display much emotion except at lunchtime. She was frowning now at Mr. Tats. Were they arguing?

“What kind of proposition?” Pearl asked, trying to hurry this along.

“Renz came by to see me. Seems there’s a serial killer operating in the city. The news hasn’t reached the media yet, but it’s about to pop. Cindy Sellers of City Beat is sitting on it and about to release it.”

Pearl remembered Cindy Sellers, a hard-ass little brunette who tended to move fast in straight lines.

Well, maybe the same could be said of Pearl.

“A serial killer could be harmful to Renz’s career,” Pearl said.

“Not if he’s responsible for nailing the killer. Or seems to be. Then his career gets a major boost. He wants me to reassemble the team and try to achieve that result.”

“He’s already police commissioner. What more does he want?”

“Long term, I don’t think we want to know. Whatever his motivation, he wants us on the hunt again.”

Throughout the conversation, Pearl had kept watching Mr. Tattoo and Judy. They were arguing. Judy’s round face was pale and she looked uncharacteristically furious, obviously trying to keep her cool. The guy with the tats was leaning toward her doing most of the talking.

“Pearl?”

“Yeah,” she said, angling over and beginning to move toward Judy and the skinny guy with the tattooed arms. Dozens of tattoos, kind of connected, what they called full sleeve. “Serial killer. Sounds interesting.”

“All the good guys have to work with are the victims’ torsos. He also sexually mutilates the women with a sharply pointed object like a stake. I haven’t called Feds yet. You in?”

“Just their torsos, you say?”

“Right. Both women shot through the heart, and with the same gun.”

“Damn,” Pearl said.

Mr. Tattoo said something that made Judy flinch, then he wheeled and made for the door at a fast walk.

Pearl looked at Judy.

Judy looked at Pearl.

Judy looked at Mr. Tattoo and silently mouthed, “Stop him!”

“You in, Pearl?”

Pearl took two long strides, shoved a woman in a teller’s line aside, and made for the tattooed guy. “You,” she said softly but firmly, so as not to cause instant bedlam. “Stop right where you are.”

“What’s that, Pearl? What’s going on?”

She slipped the cell phone into a side pocket of her gray uniform pants and caught up with the tattooed guy. He glanced at her and broke into a run. Pearl tackled him and brought him down on the hard marble floor, bumping her elbow hard enough that her right arm went numb. Customers were moving fast, like dancing shadows, on the periphery of her vision. A woman screamed.

“Hey, you bitch!” yelled the tattooed guy, scrambling to get up.

Pearl kicked his legs out from under him.

“Hey!” he yelled again and scooted backward out of her reach. Didn’t try to get up, though.

She fumbled for her gun and couldn’t get it out of its holster. Hell with it. She crawled over and turned Mr. Tats on his belly and reached around for her handcuffs. He wasn’t resisting. The kick in the legs she’d given him might have sprung one of his knees.

“Miss Kasner!” a woman’s voice was saying. “Miss Kasner, don’t hurt him! Please!”

Pearl looked up to see Judy standing over her. Behind Judy, all around the lobby, the bank’s customers were frozen by fear. Some of them were on the floor like Pearl and the tattooed guy.

“You asked me to stop him,” Pearl said to Judy. “Didn’t he try to rob the bank?”

“No. He just robbed me by refusing to give me my child support money. He’s my ex-husband, is all, not a bank robber.”

Pearl struggled to her feet, furious. The pain in her elbow flared. “Why the hell did you ask me to stop him?”

“I dunno. I just did.” Judy began to cry.

“I’m gonna goddamn sue you!” snarled the tattooed guy, sitting up now and glaring at Pearl.

“Sue me? You’re lucky I didn’t—”

“Miss Kasner.”

Another voice. That of Copperthwaite, the bank manager. “When Judy calms down I’d like to see both of you in my office.”

“I-I’m okay.” Judy sniffled and used the back of her wrist to wipe her eyes, which were blackened by running mascara, making her look like a distraught raccoon. She kneeled low and brushed a lock of hair from Mr. Tats’s forehead.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Pearl swore, dusting herself off and rubbing her sore elbow.

“Pearl…?”

Yet another voice. Very faint. Familiar.

Oh, yeah. Quinn.

Pearl fished the cell phone out of her pocket and held it to her ear.

“I’m in,” she said.

Fedderman wondered if he’d retired too soon. He was the youngest of the golf foursome from the Coral Castle condo project on Florida’s serene and scenic southwest coast. It was like paradise here except for hurricane season, and Fedderman knew he should be happy despite the fact that his wife, Blanche, had left him…what, a year ago now. It seemed much shorter. All he had to do in life was collect his pension and lie around the condo or play golf. Being retired, he was supposed to like just lying around. He was supposed to like golf.

He was supposed to like fishing, too, but frankly some of the things he’d caught in the ocean while deep-sea fishing scared him. Not to mention the seasickness.

“Hit the damned ball, Larry!” Chet, one of his foursome, shouted.

Fedderman looked back at him and waved. His drive had taken him off the fairway and into the rough, which was to say high saw grass that would cut your hand if you tried to pull up a clump. It was a miracle he’d even found the damned ball.

Never a man whose clothes quite fit, Fedderman’s tall and lanky yet potbellied form even made his golf outfit look like it belonged on someone else. One sleeve of his blue knit pullover seemed longer than the other, and his muted plaid slacks made him look as if he were standing in a brisk wind even though the weather was calm. And hot. And humid.

As he approached the ball, Fedderman slapped at a mosquito and missed. His seemingly mismatched body parts made for an interesting golf swing as he took a practice swish, then moved closer and slashed the ball out of the rough. It rose neatly toward the green, carrying Fedderman’s hope with it, then suddenly veered right as if it had encountered the jet stream and landed among some trees.

“You missed the sand trap, anyway!” Chet shouted. Fedderman was learning to dislike Chet.

Fedderman’s shot again. His three fellow golfers were already on the green. He was isolated in what seemed a forest of palm trees near a running creek. There was his ball. Not a bad lie, on a stretch of grass that wasn’t so high, because the sun never reached it beneath the closely grouped palms.

Something moved near the creek. Fedderman stared but saw nothing in the tall grass. He’d heard about alligators on the golf course but had never seen one, even on his frequent journeys into the rough. Still, he was sure he’d seen some kind of movement not human and it gave him the creeps.

He quickly approached his ball and set himself. He’d have to keep the shot low and get the ball between the trunks of two palm trees if he even had a chance to get near the barely visible green.

“Shoot the ball!” Chet yelled. “Shoot the ball, Larry!”

Shoot you, you dumb bastard!

Movement again, in the corner of his vision. There sure as hell was something over there in the shadows.

Fedderman took a quick practice swing, then hurried his shot.

He really nailed this one. Solid. It felt great.

The ball flew about ten feet, bounced off a palm trunk, and rocketed straight back and hit Fedderman in the head.

He threw down his club and clutched his skull, then staggered out into the searing sunlight. His cleated golf shoes snagged in the tall grass and he almost fell. Chet was yelling something, maybe laughing.

Damn Chet!

Damn golf!

Damn Florida!

He had to get out of here! Had to!

Fedderman’s cell phone chirped.