Pearl thought Chan should have drawn a smiley face alongside his signatures-lent some cheer to the place. But it wasn’t that kind of restaurant. Pearl smiled and thanked Yves as she stood up and shook his hand. “Montand,” she said.
He appeared puzzled.
“That’s why your name was familiar to me. The famous French actor, Yves Montand. He starred with Marilyn Monroe in something or other.”
“I’m afraid I never heard of the man,” Yves said. “Marilyn Monroe, though.”
“Are you or were you ever French? This is the police asking.”
“Not really.” Yves smiled, but the admission seemed to pain him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Pearl said.
And she meant it. She was happy. She had names. Soon she would have addresses. Soon she would talk to the two women who were friends, or at least acquaintances, of Lisa Ide.
Wouldn’t Quinn be pleased? Mon Dieu!
At the office door she turned and said, “Au revoir.”
“I hear that all the time,” Yves said.
Quinn agreed to meet Pearl at the Nations Cafe, a multi-cultural eatery on First Avenue near the UN Building. She’d phoned and told him she had the information she needed and they could question the two women who’d lunched with Lisa Ide at the West Side French restaurant near the time of her and her husband’s murders. They were, as it turned out, old college chums of Lisa.
Quinn thought the three women probably spent most of their lunch conversation reliving the past, unaware of how short Lisa’s future was, and would have little to add to the investigation. But Pearl seemed proud, and she had a right. There was real satisfaction in doing detective work and knowing you’d inched forward. And talking with the two women would explore a lead that should be investigated, even if it came to nothing.
The more Quinn saw of Pearl’s work, the more impressed he was by her insight and thoroughness. And the more he understood the underlying fear and loneliness that had created her protective shell. Or might his newfound emotions be affecting his judgment? Might Pearl be deliberately playing him? It had been so long since Quinn felt this way about a woman.
How the hell could a man know?
Quinn did know Pearl played hard and for keeps. And Pearl could be tricky. That was what attracted him to her in the first place. Well, maybe not in the first place…
Such were Quinn’s thoughts as he waited for the traffic signal to change, then crossed East Fifty-sixth and continued strolling along First Avenue toward the diner. He wasn’t in any hurry. He was only a short block away from his meeting with Pearl and was fifteen minutes early.
It was a warm evening but cooling down. Good weather for walking in the city he loved despite its warts. As usual there was plenty of traffic on First, all heading north at a fast clip. He breathed in diesel exhaust as a truck pulled away from a loading area. The lumbering vehicle drew angry horn blasts as it edged into a convoy of taxis cruising the curb lane for fares.
Quinn didn’t mind the mingled exhaust fumes, maybe because they reminded him of the city and cars. He liked cars, though owning one in Manhattan hadn’t made sense to him even when he could afford it. But he felt good standing near the rush of traffic and hearing its constant, growling din.
Later, if he could afford it again, maybe a car.
A photo clipped from the newspaper and taped to the inside of a florist’s shop window caught his eye. The shop was closed and dim inside, so the rectangle of newsprint on white was particularly noticeable. He walked closer to examine it.
What he’d thought at first glance turned out to be true. The photo in the clipping was that of Luther Lunt, along with a rendition of a projected older Luther with less hair and heavier features. The present Luther. Approximately.
The city was spooked, Quinn thought, standing and staring at the clipping. Then he noticed the decal or etching just above it, a spiderweb of what looked like cracks in the glass.
As he watched, another web appeared, along with a white-edged hole in its center.
Not decals or etchings at all.
There was no sound of shots over the noise of the traffic, so it took Quinn a few seconds to realize the significance of what he was looking at-bullet holes!
Someone’s shooting at me!
He crouched low and ran for the cover of a parked car, peering through its windows at the people on the opposite sidewalk. No one seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Had the shots come from a window?
He was about to look up when he caught movement in a passageway between two buildings across the street. A dark shape moving fast. The flit of a sneaker sole, rising, disappearing. Running!
Getting away!
Like hell!
Quinn was out from behind the car and dashing across the street. Horns blared and someone shouted; he heard the screech of brakes an instant after a front bumper brushed his pants leg. He zigzagged to avoid another oncoming car, stopped cold to let another pass, then was up on the sidewalk and running hard toward the passageway where he’d seen the dark figure disappear. The Night Prowler-he could feel it!
He bumped someone walking along the sidewalk and heard the man’s expulsion of breath. Then he was in the darkness of the passageway, running toward faint light at the opposite end.
For an instant he glimpsed movement and was sure the Night Prowler was still in the passageway, moving as if picking up speed. Perhaps he’d paused halfway and begun to walk, thinking he hadn’t been seen, that he was safe.
Quinn ran faster, seeing movement again, this time to the left, as his quarry reached the next block. All right, he knew which way the figure had turned; he had direction. His side ached and he was breathing in fire, but he kept his legs pumping, lifting his knees higher.
At the end of the passageway Quinn slowed, gripped rough brick wall, and half ran, half swung around the corner.
Gasping for breath, he smelled the East River. He was on a street running parallel to its bank. Sutton Place. Again he saw movement, ahead of him, more than one figure.
No one behind him.
Then up ahead, faster movement, and he saw the figure he’d been pursuing turn onto East Fifty-seventh Street.
Good! As he approached the corner, Quinn saw the sign at East Fifty-seventh: DEAD END.
Thank God!
He ran down the short block to a concrete ramp with a black iron handrail. In the corner of his vision he saw NO DOGS ALLOWED as he negotiated the ramp and found himself in a small parklike area where neighborhood pet owners walked their dogs, despite the sign, or wandered down to the river’s edge and stared at the listless slide of gray water.
There was a brick surface lined with benches, some large trees in grassy rectangles, a sandbox where the kids could play, and a statue of a wild boar to disturb their dreams. On his right was a raised brick walkway. A low concrete wall topped with a curved iron rail faced the murky water.
Half a dozen people were in the park. All were walking dogs, except for a couple leaning on the iron rail and watching the river while they held hands. No Night Prowler…
A tall woman wearing a ball cap, tank top, and jeans was standing off by herself, but her animal, a large black Lab, was off leash and bounding around. The woman had a clear plastic bag over her hand like a glove and was calling, “Jeb! Jeb!” Presumably the Lab. The dog skidded to a halt, then stood gazing back at her in a calculating way, then in the direction it had been running. It yearned to go but was frozen by command. “Jeb! C’mere, baby!”
The conflicted Jeb reluctantly turned around and began slouching toward his owner.
Had Jeb been chasing someone?
It was possible to scale a fence and escape from the park through the grounds of the building next to it.
Quinn sucked in air and began running again, in the direction the dog had strained to go.
