Night Kills. John Lutz

“I followed Quinn and his team from Renz’s office yesterday,” he said. He didn’t sit down but stood with his hands in his pants pockets, his feet close together. His long body was at a slight forward lean, his narrow shoulders hunched. The man knew how to loom. “Quinn and company hauled ass out of there. There’s no way to know what they were discussing, but I know why the meeting broke up.”

      “The latest Torso victim,” Nobbler said. He’d learned about the most recent victim late yesterday afternoon, and it was all over the papers and TV news this morning.

      “Yeah. They went to the crime scene, and I figure they’ll be back there today canvassing the neighborhood. Probably just Pearl and Fedderman, though.”

      “You’d be better off staying with Quinn, then.”

      “That’s the way I figure it,” Greeve said. “The word I get is that ballistics tests already made the gun as the same one that killed the other victims. Little twenty-two-caliber pest pistol. One to the heart that probably didn’t kill the victim right away. Same kind of sexual mutilation.” Greeve shifted his weight slightly from one foot to the other, then settled in again so it was evenly distributed, almost like a macabre dance step. “None of this is confirmed yet.”

      Nobbler nodded. There was no need to tell Greeve he was way ahead of him on the postmortem information.

      “Actually,” Greeve said, “I stayed on Quinn last night after he parted company with Pearl and Fedderman. He met the M.E. who examined the victim at the scene of the crime, Dr. Linda Chavesky.”

      Nobbler sat forward over his desk, interested. “You mean they met someplace other than the crime scene?”

      “They had coffee at a diner over on Amsterdam. Then they took a long walk and went to dinner at an Italian restaurant on Broadway. Had antipasto and rigatoni carbonera. Then he put her in a cab. No good-night kiss.” Greeve smiled. “Coulda been the garlic.”

      This fascinated Nobbler. “You saying it was more than a professional meeting?”

      “I’m sure it was. Looked like they were more interested in each other than whatever else they were talking about. I was hoping he’d jump her bones. I’m kinda disappointed. But then, I guess Quinn is, too.”

      Nobbler drummed his fingertips on the desktop and thought for a few minutes, trying to process this and figure out how he could use it.

      Greeve seemed comfortable with the silence.

      “Dr. Chavesky…” Nobbler said at last. “I think I know which one she is over there.”

      “Nice-looking woman,” Greeve said.

      “We need to find out more about her.”

      “Definitely. I’ve heard rumors she’s got a past. Has to do with the bottle. Not here in New York, though.”

      “That we know of,” Nobbler said.

      Greeve smiled. “So far.”

      Nobbler shook his head, causing his fleshy jowls to quiver. “Quinn oughta know better.”

      “You’d think,” Greeve said. “For now, I’ll spend some time trying to find out more about the postmortem. See if there’s anything pertinent there that’s being kept secret, since these two have gotten so close.”

      “No. Just stay on Quinn.”

      Greeve nodded. “Your call.”

      “I can catch up on the postmortem,” Nobbler said. “I’ve got a confidential contact in the medical examiner’s office. Guy named Nift.”

      Greeve smiled mournfully. “Confidential contact. That the same thing as a snitch?”

      “It’s a difference without a distinction,” Nobbler said.

      Greeve nodded. “You see a lot of that these days.”