Quinn left Renz's office in a glum mood. It was true that everyone else who'd been involved in the investigation was satisfied with the outcome. Satisfied enough, anyway. Renz was certainly content with his cemented and powerful political position.
Fedderman was a realist and resigned to a gray world.
Helen the profiler would get a pat on the back and maybe a raise in pay.
Addie Price would have something to chatter about during her TV spots in Detroit, and no doubt her speaking fee would increase.
Vitali and Mishkin were in line for commendations and might be kicked up a notch in rank and pay.
Bribes to let the sleeping dog lie.
Even Pearl seemed comfortable with the result of the investigation. There seemed to be no doubt in her mind that Chrissie had killed Yancy. Pearl had come to the hostage site ready to find any excuse to avenge Yancy's death by killing Chrissie. She'd been burning to kill Chrissie. Only Pearl could have stopped Pearl from squeezing the trigger. And Pearl had.
But that didn't change the way she felt about Chrissie Keller.
Well, maybe they all had it right, Quinn thought. Justice had been served here in a number of ways. Chrissie's death might mark the end of the new incarnation of the Carver, and Chrissie had found her revenge. She'd killed her father, and her mother had to live with her guilt for not speaking up years ago, and with the image of her daughter's head exploding from the impact of a bullet that took brain matter with it as it exited the skull.
Maybe worst of all for her, Erin would always remember that shotgun barrel moving back and forth between her and Quinn, and she'd always wonder who would have been her daughter's choice to die next in the West Side apartment.
With the later murders attributed to Chrissie, the Carver's time of bloody rampage was finally over.
The victims' families would find peace and the much-mentioned closure. Mary Bakehouse would cease to be afraid and have two good and loyal friends in the large golden retrievers she'd bought as her protectors, dogs that would probably never under any circumstances bite anyone.
Maybe Renz was right, and Quinn shouldn't poke and probe.
Quinn believed that.
Sure, he did.
81
Addie phoned Quinn and told him she was returning to Detroit on a late flight out of Kennedy. He asked to see her one more time. About the case, he assured her. It was already afternoon; could she drop by his apartment to discuss the investigation in private?
'The investigation's over,' she said.
'I'm not so sure.'
He could hear her breathing into the phone as he sat watching the only thing moving in the quiet office, dust motes swirling in a sun beam that had penetrated the front window.
'Have I made you curious?' he asked.
She laughed. 'I'll admit that.'
'Because you have doubts, too?'
'Because you're always sure of everything. That's what attracted me to you in the first place.'
'So we can talk about it? Maybe we can discuss it over dinner someplace.'
'I'm having dinner on the plane.'
'What? Peanuts and miniature cookies?'
'I'm flying first class, Quinn. It'll be steak.'
'My apartment, then. Afterward we'll stop by your place for your luggage, and I'll drive you to the airport.'
'Okay, your apartment,' she said. 'For a drink and a chat. And we can leave from there for the airport. I only have a couple of carry-ons. I travel light and unburdened by baggage.'
'Then you're lucky,' Quinn said.
She laughed again. 'So philosophical for a cop. That's something else that drew me to you.'
'So what's scaring you away?'
'So dark,' she said.
When they'd broken the connection, he wondered if she'd been kidding.
She was wearing a light beige blouse with a white scarf knotted loosely at her throat, dark brown slacks with brown high heels that made her legs look longer. A large black leather carry-on was slung by a narrow strap over her shoulder. She smiled at Quinn in a way that wounded him, and he would always remember.
She pecked him on the cheek and slid past him into the apartment, dragging an arm. At the end of the arm was the handle of a red rolling suitcase that would be maximum size for a carry-on.
'I'm going to miss you,' she said.
'And I you.'
He stepped well out of the way of the suitcase, then relieved her of the handle and sat it upright near the door.
Quinn led her to the living room, and she crossed to the upholstered green chair that long ago had been his wife's favorite. She sat down and crossed her legs, placed her arms on each arm of the chair, and looked expectantly up at him.
'You should be the prettiest passenger on the flight.'
'That's nice of you to say, Quinn.'
'Can I get you a drink?'
'Anything but gin.'
He went into the kitchen, and a few minutes later returned with a scotch and water over ice in an on-the- rocks glass. In his other hand was an opened bottle of Heineken.
After he handed her the glass, they sipped their drinks, then Quinn went over to the sofa. He didn't sit down on the cushions, though. Instead he sat perched on the wide sofa arm, facing Addie.
'When we're finished with our drinks,' he said, 'I'd like for us to go into the bedroom.'
Addie seemed to stir without actually moving, and for only a second seemed alarmed. 'I didn't think that was our deal.'
'Do you realize,' Quinn said, 'that despite our attraction to each other, we've never even kissed? I mean, really kissed?'
She took another sip of her drink and then nodded. 'I realize that.' She sat back, but it was as if she was trying to get as far away from him as possible. 'I made a mistake coming here.'
'Why's that?'
'I thought better of you.'
'I would like for us to have sex,' Quinn said.
She gave him a calm, level look with eyes he'd never seen before. 'That isn't going to happen.' She moved to stand up.
'Sit down, Addie.'
His voice was calm, his tone moderated, but it carried authority. She sat back precisely in her previous position.
Quinn said, 'This hypothesis that we're left with after the investigation, do you agree with it?'
'That's a rather awkward change of subject, but I'll take it.'
'Do you agree with it?' he repeated.
'Of course I do.'
Quinn placed his Heineken bottle on the lamp table, not caring if it left a ring, and crossed his arms. 'Want to
