Urge to Kill (6 page)

“Piece of crap,” Fedderman said. “Galin liked to shop down on Canal Street, buy imitation name-brand watches. His watch said Movado, but it was probably worth about ten bucks.”

“Free to the shooter,” Quinn said “and he still left it.” He leaned back in his desk chair, swiveled an inch or two this way and that. The chair’s mechanism made a tiny squeak each time it moved clockwise. “That inside-out pocket in his suit coat. Something was snatched out of that pocket fast, probably after Galin was dead.”

The desk phone jangled. The sudden noise made Fedderman jump. Pearl didn’t move. Both detectives watched Quinn as he picked up the receiver, then said “yeah” six times and hung up.

“That was Renz,” he said. “They got the slug out of Galin’s head. Twenty-five caliber. Ballistics said it doesn’t match either of the bullets removed from the two previous victims.”

“It was a warm night,” Fedderman said, “and with gas high as it is, it costs a bundle to sit in a parked car with the engine idling and the air conditioner running. Lots of retired cops live on the cheap. Galin might have been sitting there with his window down, taking what breeze there was, and the shooter just worked in close and shot him in the head.”

“Then he raised the window?” Pearl said.

“Maybe. Before he died.”

Quinn wasn’t buying it, about the window. “More likely the shooter approached the car, yanked open the door, and shot him. Then slammed the door shut and left.”

“More likely,” Fedderman admitted. “But who the hell’d walk up on him and shoot him?”

“Somebody who knew how to move,” Pearl said. “Galin spent time on the streets. It’d take somebody with skill to work in on him unseen and unheard, open his car door, and fire a bullet into his brain. The way the car was parked in that alley, the shooter couldn’t have approached at much of an angle.”

“Maybe he just walked up to the car,” Fedderman said. “Maybe Galin went there to meet him and didn’t suspect he was gonna get popped. Opened the door to get out of his car, then bang.”

Pearl nodded. “We don’t know what we’re talking about. Not at this point. We’re just wagging our jaws making noise.”

“That’s okay,” Quinn said, “as long as we don’t make up our minds about anything important yet.”

“Galin’s dead” Pearl said. “That’s important.”

“Not to him,” Fedderman said. “Not anymore.”

“He had a wife,” Quinn said. “He was important to her. Still is.”

“Maybe,” Fedderman said.

“Either way,” Quinn said “we’re gonna talk to her.”

Her name was June.

Joe Galin’s widow was in her forties and looked as if she’d had drastic cosmetic surgery done to her eyes. They were dark brown and slanted like a cat’s, and would have been beautiful if she hadn’t been sobbing most of the day. Though short, she had a high-fashion model’s anorexic figure, and even wearing an oversized T-shirt, baggy brown shorts, and flip-flops, it was easy to imagine her strutting along a runway. The widow would have been stunning if she hadn’t had a nose that appeared as though it belonged on a much larger face.

Do the nose next,
Pearl thought, when she, Quinn, and Fedderman had introduced themselves. She took in the widow’s eyes, the possibly collagened lips, the probably uplifted boobs, and wondered about June’s priorities.

June invited them all the way into a surprisingly well-furnished and tastefully decorated home that was on a middle-class street of single-story houses with vinyl siding.

Quinn had noticed that the Galin home was the only brick-fronted house on the block. He also was noticing the way Pearl was sizing up June, figuring that when the interview was over, Pearl would have something to say.

June offered them tea or coffee, and after the offer was declined motioned for them to sit. She sat down herself in a flower-patterned chair with wooden arms. Pearl took a more comfortable gray leather recliner, thinking it had probably been Joe Galin’s favorite chair, the point from which he’d observed the narrowing world of the retired cop. Quinn and Fedderman remained standing.

“We’re sorry for your loss, dear,” Quinn began.

‘Dear.’ Starting with the phony Irish charm,
Pearl thought.
So obvious.
But that was his talent, how he got people to confide in him. Pearl could see right through Quinn, and wondered why the suspects and witnesses he laid his phony bullshit on couldn’t.

June didn’t have a wadded tissue, but she nodded her thanks for his condolences and dabbed at her swollen eyes with a dainty knuckle. Pearl caught the flash of a gold wedding ring inlaid with tiny diamonds that might have been as phony as Quinn’s charm, but maybe not.

“Did you know my husband?” June asked Quinn and Quinn only. He’d captured her full attention. They were players in the same drama; the others might join in if they so chose.

He nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. You know how it is, dear, I’m sure. All of us on the job are brothers and sisters.”

Siblings against crime.
Pearl tried not to make a face. She caught Fedderman’s eye. He looked quickly away. He was watching, analyzing, as she was.

The deal was, Quinn was going to handle the interview. Pearl and Fedderman were to make mental notes and, when it seemed wise, occasionally add momentum to the conversation, if any momentum developed. The object was to keep the talk flowing so at some point the tongue might get a little ahead of the brain. A prodding now and then from the sidelines could be very effective, as long as the subject of the questioning didn’t realize he or she was being ganged up on.

“During the days leading up to his passing,” Quinn said, “did your husband behave in any way unusual?”

June’s tilted, tear-brimmed eyes suddenly appeared suspicious. Was this about screwing her out of Joe’s death benefit?

“I mean,” Quinn said, seeing the signs, “did he seem on guard, as if someone might be posing some kind of danger?”

“He’d been retired almost five years. After that much time, who’d be looking to get even for something he did on the job?”

“Somebody who’d been in prison five years,” Fedderman suggested.

June thought and nodded. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“We’re checking his old closed case files for just that kind of thing,” Quinn said. “The work we do, the time we put in to keep this city safe…with a good cop like your husband, the years collect all sorts of things, including enemies.”

“He put away a lot of bad types,” Pearl said. “Unfortunately, not for life.”

“Those people,” June said, sniffling, “the ones he helped put away…Joe said they talk big sometimes, but they usually cool off during their time in prison.”

“That’s usually true,” Quinn said. “And usually ex-cons don’t shoot and kill ex-cops.”

“Usually not,” Fedderman said. “But sometimes.”

“It could happen,” Quinn said with a trace of reluctance, as if he really wished he could agree with June but had to acknowledge Fedderman’s point.

June shrugged one bony shoulder and dabbed at her moist right eye with the back of a knuckle. “Joe didn’t seem afraid. But then, he was never afraid of much.”

“Isn’t that the truth, dear,” Quinn said. He made a fist with his right hand and ground it into his left. “A fine man like your husband. A good and true cop. And then some worthless piece of—” He caught himself and forced a smile. “I’m sorry. It’s just that all of us here, we bleed for a lost brother as you do for your lost husband. Your love.” He crossed his arms and stood there like a compassionate figure climbed down from Mount Rushmore. “It’s a fact there are all kinds of love. It’s not too strong a word to use for the way many of us felt and still feel about Joe Galin. Your husband will be missed by a lot of people. Missed in all sorts of ways and for all sorts of reasons. The world is the worse for his leaving it.”

June lowered her chin to her chest and began to sob.

Quinn went to her and gently patted her shoulder. “There, there, dear, I shouldn’t have made you cry. But we so much want to find out what happened. If there’s
anything
you could tell us…”

“Everything seemed normal,” June insisted. “Joe was happy enough, even planning an elk-hunting trip with his buddies. They were going to drive up to Canada when the weather changed and elk were in season.”

“Sounds great,” Fedderman said. “You ever go with them?”

“Oh, no. It’s a men’s thing. I don’t want to shoot any animal. Shoot any living being.”

“Great to get out in the woods, though,” Fedderman said. “Nature can be beautiful.”

A slight smile glowed through the tears. “That’s certainly true.”

“I suppose you and your husband enjoyed nature together,” Pearl said.

June seemed not to have heard her.

“If you can remember anything at all,” Quinn urged, dragging June from the sylvan setting of her imagination and back to her agony.

Her body shook in another spasm of sobbing. Her nose began to drip uncontrollably.

Fedderman went to where a Kleenex box sat near a cream-colored phone on a table and pulled several of the blossoming tissues from their slot. He presented the bulky and stemless white bouquet to the widow. June accepted it and began dabbing at her eyes and nose.

“Thanks so much,” the widow told him, glancing up with reddened and grateful cat’s eyes.

“Something like what happened to your husband,” Fedderman said, “reminds us that we’re all in this together.” There was a catch in his voice.

Pearl observed all this and felt a stab of pride.
These guys are good. And I’m part of the team.
Just then, the idea of standing around in her gray uniform, hour after hour, in a walnut and marbled quiet bank lobby wasn’t so appealing.

“He didn’t seem exactly afraid,” June muttered into the Kleenex between sniffles.

“Pardon me, dear?” Quinn sounded casual, even distracted, as if he might have misheard a remark about the weather.

“Not what I’d describe as afraid,” June said, more clearly.

Quinn nodded his understanding. “But he must have felt something at least somewhat out of the ordinary. At least sometimes, or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But—”

“What, then?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know…” She sobbed some more, dabbed at her nose and eyes some more.

“Did he seem uneasy?” Quinn asked.

“No, not exactly.”

“Anxious?” Fedderman suggested. “Did your husband seem anxious?”

The widow looked at him. “Well, yes…I suppose you
could
describe it that way. But ‘uneasy’ is more like it. Sometimes on a case he used to get like that.”

There was something here. They could all sense it. Sitting there in Joe Galin’s Barcalounger, Pearl was wondering how a guy like Galin would act if he were involved with another woman, having a hot affair. He might act suspiciously around his wife, even a guy his age, with his experience and the elbows and who knew what else he’d rubbed over the years. Retired narc in love. And secretly loving the danger.
Missing
the danger.

“Anxious how?” Fedderman asked.

“I didn’t say—“

“Elated?” Pearl asked.

The widow’s head snapped around. She’d known what Pearl was thinking, and had to admit she might be right.

“Elated,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She’d almost strangled on the word. Then she made a face as if she didn’t like its taste and was considering spitting it out. Instead, she swallowed.

Quinn moved closer and gently patted her shoulder. “It’s all right, dear. You’re with friends.”

She gazed up at him with moist, surgically widened eyes. “If Joe was elated, it was about something he didn’t share with me.”

Pearl stared at her, feeling a strange pang of pity.

It isn’t okay yet to hate your husband. Not with him so recently passed from this world of the living and still a resident of the morgue. It isn’t allowed.

“Nervous,” June said. She’d found a word, a concept, she could handle. “Yes, I suppose that’s the best way to put it. The last week or so before his…his death, Joe seemed nervous. Not afraid, but nervous.”

“Anxious,” Fedderman said again.

She looked at him, defeated. “Anxious,” she conceded.

Feds had worn her down.

Pearl showed a thin smile when the widow wasn’t looking.

Elated.

Interesting.

Jerry Dunn remembered a time in London when he’d sat in his hotel room awaiting the arrival of a prostitute. It had felt something like this.

It wasn’t morning then, as it was now. And he’d been sitting on the bed then, not in a chair as now. The chair was armless and uncomfortable, before a low wooden desk on which was a phone and a gold-embossed leather folder stuffed with flyers explaining the amenities at the Mayerling Hotel in Midtown Manhattan.

The Mayerling was almost plush enough to be called luxurious, with a vast blue-carpeted lobby and marbled steps leading to a long registration desk. Arranged about the lobby were half a dozen conversation groupings of high-quality cracked leather chairs and heavily grained wooden tables. The main elevators were almost invisible in a decorative wall of polished oak and veined marble. Beyond an array of potted plants was a discreet entrance to a lounge. Jerry had noted that the lounge also had a street door, so that you could enter or leave it without passing through the lobby. That was an important fact that Jerry logged in his memory.

Jerry had a good memory. A good mind. And he was damned good at writing advertising copy. He knew he looked like an average kind of guy—mid-forties, dark hair just beginning to thin, pleasant features, nice smile. Always up, was Jerry, at least on the outside. If they were casting him for movies he’d never be the leading man. He’d get the roles Tony Randall used to get, or Gig Young. Clean-cut, handsome guys, but not quite leading men. That was how Jerry figured people saw him, not quite ready for stardom, ever.

He glanced at his gold Rolex watch. It was an imitation Rolex with a quartz movement inside a gold-plated case. It didn’t cost as much as a real Rolex, of course, but unless you examined it carefully it could pass for the real thing.