The baggy-suited man got into the car, and the dark-haired woman walked around to the driver’s side. But before she did, in the brief time the other man was in the car and she and Quinn were alone on the sidewalk, she dragged her fingertips lightly along Quinn’s arm and smiled at him.
Interesting…
Still smiling slightly at Quinn, who stood motionless watching her, the woman slid into the car behind the steering wheel.
Quinn still didn’t move as the car waited for a break in traffic, then pulled away from the curb. Several pigeons, which had been pecking away in the gutter, flapped into the air to get out of the way, then circled and settled back down exactly where they’d been.
When the vehicle-probably an unmarked police car-had rounded the corner, Quinn began walking. He moved easily, with one hand still in a pants pocket, not in any rush. At a magazine kiosk near the corner, he stopped. The hand came out of the pocket and deposited some change on a stack of magazines, and he picked up a newspaper. After a glance at the paper, he tucked it under his arm and continued on his way.
There was no doubt in Anna’s mind what she should do. She had no car, so obviously she couldn’t have followed the other two detectives.
That left Quinn.
Don’t do it. Turn around and go home. Dumb, dumb…
But here she was and she had nothing to do but follow him.
Anna gave up trying to talk herself out of it. She was already walking behind Quinn, anyway, though she hadn’t made the conscious decision to do so. It was as if choices were being made for her by some higher power.
She was sure it had something to do with the gun, but she didn’t understand the connection.
Leon Holtzman was hungry.
The illuminated red numerals on the bedroom clock indicated it was two forty-five A.M. Leon’s stomach had been upset that evening and he’d eaten light when he and Lisa met friends at the French Affaire for drinks and dinner. The mint cappuccino he’d had for dessert hadn’t helped his digestion, as he’d foolishly claimed it would. Lisa had warned him about drinking coffee to medicate a dyspeptic stomach: So what are you, Leon, a doctor? He wasn’t. He should have listened.
After parting with the other couple outside the restaurant, Leon and Lisa cabbed back to the apartment, bouncing over what seemed like dozens of potholes. Each crevice caused the driver to accelerate and then brake suddenly, as if he were in a series of hundred-foot drag races. At times Leon thought he might lose his small but excellent dinner in the back of the taxi. Once, grim-faced, he’d suggested to the driver that the cab should be equipped with a barf bag.
It was past eleven o’clock when they arrived home, so he’d taken some expired prescription medicine of Lisa’s to calm his stomach and gone straight to bed.
Now, less than four hours later, whatever was bothering Leon seemed to have left him, possibly due to the medicine whose brand or generic name he’d have to remember. His normally healthy appetite had returned.
He glanced over at Lisa’s shadowed form and listened to her breathing. She was obviously sleeping well, and Leon didn’t want to disturb her. He held his breath as he climbed out of bed and located his pants on the chair where he’d folded them the night before.
The bedroom was dim and he was still disoriented; he had to brace himself with one hand on the dresser as he slipped his left leg into the pants and his big toe found resistance. Almost falling, he cursed under his breath. Fifteen-no, ten! — years ago, he could have put on his pants in a dark room while running. Jumped into his damned pants! That was the young Leon Holtzman!
Standing up straight, he fastened his belt rather than let it dangle, took another look at Lisa to make sure he hadn’t awakened her, then quietly made his way toward the kitchen.
He saw right away that the hall was brighter than it should be. Lisa must have forgotten to switch off the kitchen light when she came to bed-again. With what the utilities charged these days! What if he gently woke her up, talking to her nicely, of course: Lisa, honey, I just wanted to tell you, so maybe you won’t forget next time, that you went to bed and left the kitchen light on-again.
No, that was probably a bad idea.
Leon was still slightly irritated by his wife’s forgetfulness, distracted as he entered the kitchen.
He stopped short just inside the door.
Incredible!
His mind tried to catch up, tried to figure out if he should be terrified, angry, or both at the sight of the strange man seated at his kitchen table and sipping milk from the carton. Unsanitary! Leon inanely wondered if he should berate the stranger for his thoughtlessness and lack of manners. He heard his mother’s long-ago words: This is how disease spreads, Leon.
He began to recover from his surprise and stammered incoherently as he took a few steps toward the stranger in his kitchen, who was casually placing the milk carton on the table.
The man rose to greet him, as if to shake hands.
Lisa awoke.
Leon?
She sensed that her husband was gone even before she reached an arm over to check and felt only cool linen.
Was he ill?
He hadn’t felt well most of last night at the restaurant, and the cab ride had made him worse. Cab ride from hell! The subway would have been better!
She recalled now what had awakened her, a noise from the hall bathroom, or maybe the kitchen.
So Leon had gotten up and was either trying to find something to ease his discomfort, or he was feeling better and was in the kitchen rummaging about for something to eat. It would be one or the other.
Lisa decided to get out of bed and go find out which.
43
Quinn was on his way to meet Pearl and Fedderman at the park entrance the next morning when his cell phone beeped.
He slowed his pace but continued walking as he drew the phone from his pocket and held it to his ear.
Harley Renz answered his hello with “You up for another one this morning, Quinn?”
At first Quinn thought Renz had somehow found out about him and Pearl and was being a wiseass. Then he realized what he must mean and stood still. “You sure it’s our guy?”
“That’s your job, isn’t it?”
A woman danced around Quinn, deliberately grazing his hip, and glared at him for taking up sidewalk space to have a phone conversation.
Screw you, lady. “Don’t waste my time, Harley.”
“Waste time? The principals in this little drama aren’t going anywhere. A man and his wife, dead in their apartment on the West Side.”
“You sure it’s his wife?”
“What are you, the morality police?”
“Harley…”
“Okay, I’m assuming,” Renz admitted. And he gave Quinn an address in the seventies.
As soon as the connection was broken, Quinn called Pearl and told her his location, then called Fedderman, who was already driving in from Queens in the unmarked to pick up Pearl. The morning was moving fast.
After replacing the phone in his pocket, Quinn made his way to some shade beneath an awning in front of a luggage shop and waited. There had been no point in walking the rest of the way to the park.
Which was a shame, he thought; it was a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
Renz hadn’t been quick enough this time. When Quinn, Pearl, and Fedderman arrived, there were already half
