Night Kills. John Lutz

Why not Jill?

      A Degas glided past, one of his poised and elegant ballerinas glowing in the limelight of the past.

      Jill owed on her plastic cards, but she reminded herself that she wasn’t maxed out. Plastic and elastic. Hope. The thing that sprang eternal.

      One roll of the dice, and it could be a beautiful world.

      She decided to take a chance.

      There went a Van Gogh.

      Quinn and his team members had exchanged ideas and information and decided they needed to start at the beginning and cover ground already trod. They’d visit the places where the torsos were found and question people in surrounding buildings, try to find someone who’d heard something unusual or happened to look out a window and see something that might be pertinent. Even if they’d given previous statements, the same questions after the passage of time could sometimes trigger memories.

      They were about to get up and leave Quinn’s office when they got a call from Renz saying he’d just finished taping a television interview that was about to air on a local channel.

      Quinn aimed a remote at the small TV in the bookcase across from his desk and ran up the channels. Pearl got up from the armchair and closed the drapes to block the sunlight. Her motions were almost automatic, as if she still lived there and adjusted the drapes often.

      By the time Quinn found the interview it was well under way. Michelle DeRavenelle, an impossibly cute local news anchor, was standing alongside Renz, holding a microphone. The interview was taking place in a sunny spot outside One Police Plaza. A slight summer breeze ruffled DeRavenelle’s hair and made her look even cuter, while making Renz’s sparse locks stand straight up so he looked as if he’d just gotten up from reading in bed.

      “…only the nude torsos?” DeRavenelle was finishing asking. She held the microphone out toward Renz as if offering him a bite.

      There was a small, lonely potted tree just behind and to the left of Renz. He shifted slightly to his left and a branch seemed to be growing out of his head. “Serial killers operate out of compulsion,” he said. “They feel they have no choice. While leaving the victims’ torsos to be found seems—and in fact is—bizarre to us, it might not seem so to him.”

      DeRavenelle appeared to dismiss this answer. “Hopefully, the FBI or police profilers have analyzed this killer, Commissioner.”

      “Of course.”

      Quinn smiled. He didn’t recall any profiler report in the files. What could anyone really surmise with any degree of certainty about a killer from a couple of unidentifiable torsos? That was the sort of thing that happened only in mystery novels and television drama.

      “Do the police have any ideas as to who he is, what kind of madman he is? If indeed he is mad.”

      “Oh, he’s mad by our standards,” Renz said, “however anyone might decide to label him. Early on in a case, that’s about the only thing we can be sure of when dealing with this kind of killer. Our profiler is examining evidence and working out a hypothetical composite suspect who I’m sure will eventually turn out to be much like the real suspect when we arrest him. Sadly, at this point there simply isn’t much to work with, so it will take time.”

      “Can the same be said about Captain Frank Quinn and his detectives—that it will take time for them to assemble enough information to find the killer? Unfortunately, there might not be time to waste.”

      Renz wasn’t thrown. “It’s difficult to predict how this kind of investigation will go, but I’m sure that with Quinn in charge it will take the minimum amount of time to make an arrest. That’s why I partnered with him and his team and tasked them to find the killer. I know they’re the best, and in a case like this, one that impacts virtually all of our citizens who are women—or men who have lovers, wives, or daughters—the city deserves the best.”

      DeRavenelle cocked her head and smiled. This guy knew how to play the game. “But no suspects so far, Commissioner?”

      “Not solid suspects. Because of the deviant sexual aspect to these terrible crimes—”

      “You mean the sharpened stake?”

      “Yes, the sharpened stake.” It bore repeating.

      “Does penetration of the victim occur before or after death, sir?” DeRavenelle grimaced, somehow prettily, and gazed out at her viewers. “Hopefully, after.”

      “Sadly, before,” Renz lied.

      Quinn saw Pearl and Fedderman exchange glances. They looked at him and he nodded. They approved of Renz’s lie. This was something that only the killer and police would know was untrue, and it could infuriate the killer so that he might make a mistake. He might even contact the police or media to try to set the record straight.

      “Good man,” Fedderman said of Renz’s deception.

      “I wouldn’t go that far,” Pearl said.

      “Do the police have any clues as to the whereabouts of the rest of these poor dismembered women?” DeRavenelle asked. “I mean, their body parts.”

      “I can only say at this point in time that we’re cautiously optimistic.”

      “Anything more you’d like to add, Commissioner?” DeRavenelle was wearing her somber but inquisitive expression. Had one of the best in the business. She was short on time and knew this was a final rhetorical trolling for a juicy sound bite.

      Renz knew it, too, and tried to oblige. “Only that I’m sure the Torso Murders will soon be part of this great city’s past. We have the best people possible working around the clock to find the pieces and put them together.”

      Quinn winced.

      “That would be a good start,” Pearl said.

      DeRavenelle didn’t change expression as she looked somberly into the camera and returned coverage to the studio.

      Deputy Chief Wes Nobbler sat behind his desk and watched the end of the Renz interview, then aimed the remote like a gun and switched off the TV just as the weatherman came on smiling.

      Nobbler wasn’t smiling. His pink jowls spilled over his tight collar and exaggerated the downward arc of his thin lips. “Plenty of people wouldn’t mind seeing Renz’s investigation fall flat on its face,” he said. The bright morning sunlight searched his fleshy cheeks and couldn’t find a single beard stubble.

      Detective Sergeant Ed Greeve nodded, knowing when not to speak. He was one of those average-height men who seem taller because of their gauntness and slight forward lean. His long, chiseled features, and his serious brown eyes with lids that angled down at the corners, added to the illusion of height. He was wearing an unremarkable gray suit that seemed to match his mood. His nickname was “The Ghost” because of his skill at tailing people or remaining unnoticed at observation posts. Greeve was a man going through life hiding in plain sight, making a career out of it.

      He was also a man Nobbler had used before, in ways that skirted the law but advanced the cause of justice, not to mention Nobbler’s career. And Greeve was using his boss, Nobbler. What they knew about each other made them fellow travelers on the treacherous road up the ranks in the bureaucracy that was the NYPD.

      “We need to monitor this situation,” Nobbler said.

      Again Greeve merely nodded. A wooden toothpick protruded from the left corner of his mouth. It waggled slightly as he maneuvered it with his tongue.

      “Renz has found his rent-a-cops office space to work out of over on West Seventy-ninth Street. That should make it easier to keep tabs on them.”

      “We gonna need more people?” Greeve asked around the toothpick.

      “Not yet, but when we do, it won’t be a problem. A loose tail should be enough for now. If they split up, choose the one who looks most interesting and follow. It shouldn’t take you long to figure