88
But it was Julie Flack who was late for their meeting at the Medford. It was already ten after six and she hadn’t appeared.
The hotel’s lounge wasn’t crowded. There were three men and two women at the bar. They looked like business travelers. Others were scattered about the place, alone or in small groups, at the tables or in the black leather upholstered booths.
Quinn had chosen a secluded booth where they could talk privately. He sat where he could see the door, and waited.
He’d made his way through half a martini, when a pudgy white-haired man in an obviously expensive blue suit swiveled on his stool at the bar and walked toward him. He wore a kindly smile and an elegant blue and gold tie. He carried his drink-scotch or bourbon on the rocks-carefully balanced in his left hand.
Quinn realized the man must have been studying him in the back bar mirror.
When he was standing next to Quinn, he extended his right hand. “I’m Morris Henshaw, Ms. Flack’s attorney. She sent me to meet you as her representative.”
Quinn wasn’t surprised, the wife of a circuit judge.
“For all practical purposes,” Henshaw said, “I’ll be Ms. Flack.”
Quinn shook the cool, dry hand and motioned for Henshaw to sit down. Henshaw scooted into the seat across from Quinn in the booth.
“How long have you been sleeping with a serial killer?” Quinn asked.
The kindly smile didn’t waver.
“You said you were Ms. Flack,” Quinn reminded him.
“You seem the sort of gentleman who’d buy a lady a drink,” Henshaw said.
Quinn laughed. “Okay, Mr. Henshaw. I’m assuming Ms. Flack isn’t here because she has something to hide.”
“Or she doesn’t want to be embarrassed. Or frightened.”
“Or arrested.”
“Do you have the authority to do that?” Henshaw asked. And of course, no attorney asks a question without knowing the answer.
“I have the means.”
“How would she know you’re who you claim to be? She has every right to suspect an attempt at blackmail, since you seem to be under the impression that she’s vulnerable.”
“Fair enough.” Quinn fished out his ID and showed it to Henshaw.
“Actually, I know who you are,” Henshaw said, barely glancing at it. “I’ve long admired your work.” He leaned forward over his drink. “Why don’t you state exactly what you want of my client, and perhaps we can help you.”
“I think your client is in deep trouble, Mr. Henshaw.”
Gray eyebrows rose curiously. “How so?”
“It seems she’s been involved in a love affair with a serial killer, who planned on using her as an alibi if he were to find himself in a tight spot.”
“This serial killer, if there was one, is dead?”
Quinn nodded.
“Then why should my client’s name be dragged through dirt? I can assure you she knew nothing of her hypothetical lover’s… extra-extramarital escapades. Her husband happens-”
“I know who he is. Circuit Judge Aaron Flack. Are you also his attorney?”
“I’m the family attorney,” Henshaw said, sipping his drink. He stopped smiling. His pale blue eyes bore into Quinn. “Is your motive for doing this political?”
“Not in the slightest,” Quinn said. “My motive is simple. I want to know the truth.”
Henshaw settled back farther in the booth, smiling and shaking his head. “Such an elusive thing.”
“In your business.”
“Oh, we usually manage to pin down one version of it or another.”
“I’m going for my version.”
“You would wreck a marriage and ruin a fine man and an honest judge in the process?”
“It would depend,” Quinn said.
“You talk like a man with a price.”
“I’m not.”
“So you’re an idealist.”
“Hell, I don’t know.”
“But you see yourself as a just and good man.”
“I try. And I do understand the delicacy of the situation.”
“Might I appeal to your reason?”
“Oh, probably not.”
“Is it useless to quote a number?”
“Useless.”
Henshaw finished his drink and placed the glass on the table. “Then there’s nothing I can do here.” He extracted some bills from a beige leather wallet and laid them on the table, enough to pay for the drinks and a more-than-liberal tip. His jovial smile was back. He extended his hand to Quinn. “It’s been a distinct pleasure, sir.”
“I’ll look out for your clients, Mr. Henshaw.”
“I will tell them, Detective Quinn, that they should be reassured.”
“Within reason,” Quinn said.
“Everything within reason,” Henshaw said. “Everything.”
Quinn recalled the victims he’d seen, the artful carving in human flesh, the torture wounds, the hope no longer hope, the futures no longer futures.
Not everything.
89
Quinn decided his wisest course of action would be to continue his investigation quietly, so there would be a minimum of interference.
Badgering Julie Flack would provoke plenty of interference. Morris Henshaw would see to that, especially if Renz or the media learned what Quinn was doing. Besides, Henshaw had left little doubt that he’d take the case to the wire to establish that his client was unaware of her purpose in Link Evans’s activities. It wouldn’t matter anyway, if Quinn was right and there was more to the Skinner murders than had been uncovered so far.
The next step, Quinn decided, should be what he or one of his detectives would have done if the debacle at the Evans house in Missouri hadn’t occurred. If the investigation hadn’t ended in gunfire. He decided to question the man who’d wrongly gone to prison for the Jane Nixon rape. Who had motive to try to kill her.
His name was Scott Trent, and he’d been living in New York since his release from prison a year ago. He was employed by something called Amalgamated Cartage, and had an apartment on the Lower East Side.
“He’s at work,” Trent’s neighbor said, when Quinn was knocking on the door to Trent’s walk-up apartment. It was on the second floor of an old brick building that was bare on one side where the adjoining structure had been torn down. There was a faded advertisement for Rheingold Beer on the exposed and discolored old bricks.
Quinn turned to see a woman at least in her eighties leaning out from the partly opened door of the adjoining apartment. She was wearing a gray robe dusted with crumbs, had long gray hair in a style better suited to the head
