'Don't do it, dear…'
'Shoot her, goddamn it! Shoot her!' Erin shrieked again.
Quinn heard Fedderman's nine-millimeter bark beside him. The bullet struck Chrissie in the side and jerked her half around so she staggered back a few steps. The shotgun barrel flew upward, and a round exploded into the ceiling, bringing down a shower of plaster or drywall powder.
Now she was lowering the gun, her finger still on the trigger. It would take a second for the long barrel to swing around.
Quinn's old police special revolver was out of its holster and blasting away. He'd known he had no choice and had acted automatically.
A halo of red mist appeared around Chrissie's head. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed.
The silence was complete for several seconds. Then Quinn's ears began to ring.
He looked at Fedderman, then at Pearl. They both seemed all right. Erin was slumped on the floor, the side of her head pressed to the wall. Quinn went to her, bent low, and looked into her wide, uncomprehending eyes.
'Are you hit?' His own voice, coming from far away. He screamed it again but could still barely hear himself. 'Are you hit?'
She shook her head no and then said something. He read her lips: My baby was going to kill me.
Quinn straightened up and glanced at where the winner of the Tri-State Triple Monkey Squared Super Jackpot lay dead with the lower half of her face missing. He went to Pearl. She was still holding her Glock at her side, pointed at the floor. He gently removed the heavy gun from her hand and checked the breech, then the clip.
The gun hadn't been fired.
He gave the Glock back to her and then gripped her shoulders and smiled down at her.
'Damned thing jammed,' she said.
He wondered if it had.
She looked away.
He kissed her forehead, and she smiled back at him.
Not much of a smile, but something.
79
Quinn was in Renz's office the next morning, seated before Renz's wide desk. Renz was ensconced in his plushy upholstered chair, looking plump, satisfied, and permanent. Heat lay over both men in slices of sunlight from the slanted blinds.
'It worked out well,' Renz said. One eye shone brighter than the other in the light from the blinds.
'It worked out,' Quinn said.
Renz appeared puzzled by Quinn's lack of enthusiasm. 'Addie has it right. Chrissie murdered the homeless woman, Maureen Sanders, to make us think the Carver was active again and prompt a vigorous investigation that might lead Chrissie to him. That was why Chrissie shadowed your activities. Then she committed the other two murders as a way to keep the investigation moving. Or maybe-and Helen thinks this is very possible-after doing Maureen Sanders, Chrissie developed a lust for blood and couldn't stop.'
'Helen's been wrong a few times,' Quinn said.
Renz leaned back in his chair, tucking in his chin so his fleshy jowls spilled over his stiff white collar. 'If Chrissie didn't commit the other copycat murders, and the real Carver was active again, Chrissie's death and assumed guilt will probably induce him to return to his state of what he considers to be retirement.'
'Those sound like Helen's words.'
'They are. And with the Carver's last two murders-three, if you count Yancy Taggart-attributed to Chrissie, he'll be safe. And the city is safe, comparatively.'
'And your political aspirations are safe.'
'Comparatively.'
'You are a bastard, Harley.'
'Sure. But I said if Chrissie didn't commit the other murders. I think she probably did, and the Carver only had to outsmart us once, a long time ago.'
'Sounds like you admire him.'
'Well, he beat us,' Renz said. 'That's the only thing I admire about him.'
'So you're satisfied with this outcome,' Quinn said.
'Everybody's satisfied with it. Ask them.'
'I have.'
'And?'
'They're satisfied.'
Renz grinned and shrugged. Then his expression abruptly changed, as if he'd suffered some slight pain. Or realized one might not go away. 'You're still not satisfied, right?'
'It fits together,' Quinn said. 'But just.'
'Like the killer was shot through the head, just.' Renz tilted forward in his chair and propped his elbows on the desk. 'Don't poke around at this, Quinn. It's a sleeping dog you'd best let lie.'
Quinn smiled. 'Because the dog might reveal some inconvenient truths?'
'Because the sonofabitch might have rabies.'
Elana Dare twirled before the full-length mirror mounted on the back of her bedroom door, glancing over her shoulder so she could see the action of the silk skirt she'd bought only hours ago. The smooth, lined material draped from her hips as gracefully as it had in the shop's mirrors. It moved just right, was just revealing enough. Any tawdriness that might be suggested by the brief hemline was mitigated by the overlapping panels and dark gray color. The skirt was sensual yet subdued.
Sexy with class, Elana decided.
Perhaps the most momentous thing she'd done in her life was to mention during a conversation with Gerald Lone the date of her birthday. He'd phoned later and asked if he could take her to dinner on that night to celebrate. He'd also promised there would be no strings attached, that he simply liked and admired her and wanted to contribute to her happiness.
No mention of how they'd grown closer on discovering how much they had in common, or of the electricity they could almost see when bare flesh touched bare flesh. And of course there was no mention of how his charm had finally overwhelmed her.
So they had a dinner date. No strings.
And after dinner, though Gerald might not know it yet, they would come here to her apartment-which she'd better start cleaning, since there wouldn't be much time tomorrow.
Elana smiled at her image in the mirror. It was still an attractive image, but no longer a young one. For God's sake, she'd be twenty-seven years old tomorrow! How had it happened?
Time was such a clever thief; she understood that now, and she knew that a person had to anticipate that stealth. Time would have you before you knew it. Well, that wasn't going to happen to Elana. She wasn't going to grow old too fast and smart too slow, while year after lonely year passed faster and faster.
She had her mind made up that tomorrow night things would be different. Those strings Gerald had mentioned would attach themselves, and bind them one to the other.
Elana could be clever, just like time. After a good meal, good wine, it would be easy to make it seem like Gerald's idea to come home with her.
But it was Elana's idea. She'd be the one in control.
She was determined that tomorrow night she would make of Gerald Lone a birthday present for herself.
80
