disturbed. Almost immediately, his expression became serious. 'Yes. Yes,' he said. He produced a notepad from the sunken alcove. 'Christ!' he said, looking in turn at everyone in the office. He might have been identifying the caller, judging by the somber, dazed expression on his bloodhound features.
He switched the phone to his left hand so he could write on the notepad. He kept saying yes intermittently while scribbling with his pen. Finally, he thanked the caller and hung up.
He sat for a minute running his fingertips along the loose flesh of his sagging cheeks. It stretched the skin around his eyes downward and made him look even more like some upright breed of hound.
'We've got us another torso,' he said. 'Found alongside a Dumpster on the Upper West Side.'
'Maybe a match for our arm,' Fedderman said.
Renz shook his head no. 'This one's too fresh. Killed within the last few days.'
Pearl, who'd been leaning back so only her chair's back legs were on the floor, realized the import of Renz's words. She sat forward so the chair's front legs made a soft thump on the thick pile carpet.
'Victim number four,' she said.
Renz was staring down at the folded City Beat on his desk. 'I guess I oughta call Cindy Sellers.' He looked at Quinn as if for help. 'The woman's become one big pain in the ass.'
Quinn shrugged. 'You're the one who made the deal with the devil.'
'I do it all the time,' Renz said. 'Usually it works out okay.'
He shoved his notepad forward so Quinn could copy the information on his own.
'I need you to find this bastard, Quinn.'
Quinn didn't think that required a reply and kept on silently writing.
They left Renz in his office to go to the West Side address where the torso had been found. Left him in the suddenly smaller room with his plaques and commendations and ego-inflating framed photographs.
Right now, it wasn't a comfortable place for him.
14
The three of them were in Quinn's old Lincoln on the way to the West Side address where the latest torso had been found. Quinn was driving, Pearl beside him, Fedderman in back. They were headed uptown on Broadway. Traffic was heavy, and there was a haze that smelled like exhaust fumes over everything. The sun angled in low along the side streets and turned the haze golden.
As Quinn veered around a sightseeing bus to make better time, Pearl's cell phone buzzed and vibrated in her pocket.
She fished it out and saw by caller ID that the call's origin was Golden Sunset.
Her mother. Had to be. A familiar dread and anger closed in on her.
Quinn glanced over at her, wondering if she was going to answer her call.
Feeling that she had little choice, Pearl made the connection. 'Officer Kasner.' Let her mother know she was working. She glanced at Quinn, who was staring straight ahead. Was he smiling? Was that bastard smiling?
'It's your mother, Pearl,' came the strident voice from the phone. Pearl didn't want to hear it, yet she had to press the tiny phone close to her ear so Quinn and Fedderman couldn't overhear.
'Pearl? Is that you, dear?'
'Yes.' Keep it terse and simple. Brief.
'I called your apartment, dear, and got your machine. Such a world since we started using machines to answer our phones. Maybe the phones could just talk to each other. Don't you ever check your messages?'
'Sometimes.' Brief.
'Maybe your machine erases mine. What I wondered, dear, is if you and Milton Kahn left each other on good terms.'
Huh?
'I mean, after last night,' her mother said.
What? This was unacceptable. 'Who told you? What do you mean?' Unacceptable!
'That's two questions, dear.'
'Then answer them both.'
'Don't snap, Pearl. That's very rude. Mrs. Kahn told me. And why not? It's no secret you and her nephew Milton are hotsy-totsy.'
Pearl had a pretty good idea where Mrs. Kahn had gotten her information. She fell silent, noticing Quinn watching her from the corner of his eye. 'Some things you don't talk about,' Pearl said.
'Don't you know I agree with you, dear? But these were extraordinary circumstances. Mrs. Kahn tells me Milton is worried sick about you. About your personal safety. They-Mrs. Kahn and wonderful Milton-thought I should talk to you about it.'
Wonderful Milton's going to learn to keep his mouth shut. 'I appreciate his concern, but it's really none of his business. Or the business of whomever he might have told.'
'The people who love you, darling Pearl, they're concerned. What else do we have in this world where everything, including your own mother, will someday turn to dust? Someday soon, I might add in all sincerity, feeling more and more distressed every day as I do here in this nursing home hell.'
'Assisted living. It's not a nursing home. Assisted-living apartments with televisions, comfortable beds, kitchens, private baths, recliners, all the food you can eat-including the pot roast you like so much. People who were on The Lawrence Welk Show come there to perform. There are game rooms, buses to Atlantic City. They're assisted-living apartments.'
'Death's waiting rooms, dear.'
Pearl was seething. 'I think not.' She so yearned to terminate this conversation. 'Is that all you wanted? If so, I'm busy.'
'You're being snappish again.'
'I mean to be.'
'What I want is for you to consider the future, Pearl. Milton and a home-and children, God willing. A place without killers and guns and knives and rap talk. There are other jobs, Pearl. Milton said to Mrs. Kahn that you could work as his receptionist. It would be safe there. He wants you off the streets, Pearl. We all do. The people who-'
'Yeah, yeah. This is my job.'
'What I'm saying, Pearl, is there are other jobs.'
Like dermatologist receptionist.
Quinn blasted the horn and cursed at a battered, dusty cab that had cut him off.
'Is that that nice Mr. Quinn I hear, Pearl?'
'The same.'
'Such a good man. A protector and a provider. You should feel blessed, Pearl. You have your choice between two good men-one a mensch policeman retired with a generous pension, and the other a medical doctor, no less.'
'An obsessive maniac and a weasel.'
'What?' Quinn asked.
'I was talking into the phone.'
'What, dear?'
'I have to end this conversation, really.'
Quinn blasted the horn again, still focused on the cab that had cut him off. The driver extended his arm out the window and raised his middle finger.
Quinn leaned on the horn again. 'If we had time I'd pull that bastard over.'
'We've got time,' Fedderman said from the backseat. 'Lady we're going to see is dead.'
'Look at that asshole, Feds!'
'Cabbies think they own the road like cops,' Fedderman said.
'Screw a buncha cabbies.'
