“No. That’s the problem. It’s why I’m thinking about getting into sales.”
“You know the name Lincoln Evans?” Quinn asked.
“Sure. It’s been all over the news.”
Quinn’s cell phone abruptly vibrated in his pocket. He drew it out to silence it, but when he glanced at it and saw Pearl’s name, he thought he’d better take the call. He excused himself and moved a few steps away, half turning his back for privacy but leaving enough angle so he could keep an eye on Trent.
“Whadya got, Pearl?”
“I did more checking on Jane Nixon’s exonerated rapist, like you told me,” Pearl said. “He’s been mixed up in some bad stuff, and used forged papers and different identities, buying and selling stolen goods. The name Scott Trent is an alias he was using at the time of his rape conviction, and he’s been using that name in New York since his release.”
“You don’t say,” Quinn said, trying to sound casual in case Trent was tuned in.
Quinn suddenly remembered Trent’s words: “Gotta be in Georgia tomorrow with this carpet pad.”
“Quinn, he’s also Beth Evans’s former husband, Roy Brannigan.” Pearl gave Quinn a few seconds to absorb what she’d said. “He supposedly raped Jane Nixon not long after he left Beth in Missouri and found his way to New York.”
“And the DNA evidence that sprang him?”
“He was convicted on blood type and Nixon’s identification. Turns out it wasn’t his blood.”
“Then he really was innocent.”
“That time, anyway,” Pearl said. “Like a lot of those other guys who’ve been set free thanks to DNA.”
Quinn kept his voice low and told Pearl where he was. She’d know what to do.
“Be careful,” he heard her say, as he broke the connection.
Trent-or Brannigan-hadn’t moved while Quinn was talking, but there was something different about his stance, a subtle tenseness. How much had he overheard?
Quinn smiled and stuffed the phone back in his pocket. “I do have a few more questions about Jane Nixon,” he said, letting Trent think the conversation wasn’t about anything he had to fear. “The woman you were convicted of raping.”
“I was later exonerated. DNA don’t lie.”
“Far as we know.” Quinn worked his way closer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brannigan’s eyes were beginning to roam. Quinn knew the signs.
“Listen, Scott-”
Brannigan hit him hard in the stomach with his fist, and then slammed the clipboard into his head.
Quinn shook off the clipboard blow easily enough, but he sank to his knees trying to catch his breath. Brannigan was on the run, and he had a stride like a deer’s.
When Quinn was just beginning to suck in air, the steel door opened at the top of the steps and the big boss peered down at him.
“What the shit’s goin’ on here?” he asked.
Quinn tried to speak but only made a squeaking sound. He raised a forefinger for the boss to give him a few seconds.
The boss came halfway down the steps and leaned so he could get a better look at Quinn.
“The employees park in this lot?” Quinn managed to wheeze.
“No. They park in a lot out front.”
“That the only gate?” Quinn tried to motion with his head, but his head didn’t move.
“That’s it,” the boss said.
“Lock it,” Quinn said.
“Says who?”
“Me,” Quinn said, and drew his police special from its holster. “And when you’re finished, go back inside and lock that door.”
When the boss was headed toward the chain-link gate, Quinn worked his way to his feet. Holding the old revolver at the ready, he began moving cautiously along the line of trailers, now and then pausing to peek beneath them. He tasted blood trickling down from the clipboard cut on his forehead, but it was Roy Brannigan’s blood that he smelled.
90
Roy Brannigan was terrified. If he managed to work his way along the building and get to a section of fence where he thought he could wriggle beneath it, he might be okay.
He’d known who Quinn was the second he’d seen him, and he couldn’t let the big detective catch him. He’d hit Quinn hard and heard the breath rush out of him, but he didn’t know how long he’d be down.
It was amazing, Roy thought, how suddenly everything had turned to crap. Jock Sanderson had been blackmailing him about the ticket stubs, and Roy was increasingly reluctant to pay. Sanderson’s threat to expose Roy and then live large in some country where there was no extradition treaty was losing credibility. It was easier to talk about setting yourself up as a wanted blackmailer and accessory to murder, and taking refuge in a foreign land, than it was to actually take the step.
But it wouldn’t hurt for Roy to have alibis in case the police happened to connect the dots. The stubs would be plausible. Some men let ticket stubs and the like build up in their wallets or on their dresser tops. The stubs would make it difficult if not impossible for him to be convicted of any of the Skinner murders.
At least, Jock Sanderson had convinced him of that.
And after the death of Link Evans, Roy thought he was completely safe.
Roy had latched on to Link Evans’s extramarital adventures while spying on him because he’d taken Roy’s place as Beth’s husband. Never one to ignore opportunity, Roy coordinated his Skinner murders with Link’s clandestine visits to New York to see Julie. Roy knew that Link would draw suspicion away from him, and also deny being in New York at the times of the murders. If push came to shove, Julie would provide Link’s alibis, but Link would do almost anything to avoid that eventuality. Not to mention that women in love make lousy witnesses.
Roy’s boot toe caught on a crack in the asphalt and he stumbled and almost fell. Another reminder that things could go wrong. His heart felt like a bird beating its wings in his chest.
This isn’t supposed to be happening! This isn’t fair!
Roy had wanted only to rid the earth of destroyers of innocent men. Such women gave false witness and were possessed by the devil. Like his own wife Beth, who’d ruined the lives of two men and bore the son of the devil that possessed her. Roy hadn’t anticipated Satan working through a blackmailer to torment and defeat him. Or unleashing on him a cop stubborn enough to follow every lead and learn the answer to every question.
Roy felt a joyous pang of hope. He should never have doubted his special blessing and mission as God’s blade of vengeance. He was almost there. The parked trailers made good cover. He could see the misshapen corner of the fence and the scooped-out area of dirt where kids, or maybe a large dog, had squeezed beneath it. Roy was lean and strong. He knew with certainty that if he made it to the fence, he could escape from the lot, escape Quinn.
He was dashing the final fifty feet toward the break in the fence when the blast of a gunshot temporarily froze him. He spun and saw Quinn about a hundred feet away, trudging around the nose of a parked trailer. His movements were deliberate. His head was down, but his eyes were trained on Roy. He looked like doom itself.
Roy began dancing backward toward the fence corner, watching Quinn, watching the muzzle of the gun. It wasn’t aimed directly at him, but pointed to the right and down.
Quinn fired again. This time Roy didn’t flinch at the shot, but he heard the bullet zing off the chain-link fence. There were buildings outside the fence, on the opposite side of the street. He knew Quinn would have to be careful shooting at him, making sure where his warning shots would go.
His warning shots.
Quinn could safely fire a bullet into him and not worry about collateral damage, but only when he got close enough.
