duplicate thousands of keys.”
“Pearl and Fedderman might come up with something. They’ll sense where to go. They have good cop instincts.”
Renz looked away, up at what might be the only cloud in the sky, then back at Quinn. “Yeah. Pearl’s a hell of a detective. And some parts of Fedderman’s brain are still active.”
“You assigned them to me.”
“Shows what I know. Pearl’s a good fuck, would you say?”
Quinn felt the anger rise hot in him, almost lifting him off the bench.
“Cool down,” Renz said. “The word is out about you and Pearl, and even you have to admit the relationship isn’t very professional.”
“It’s not professional at all. It’s personal.”
“Quinn, there is no personal.”
Quinn thought he might be right. If you were a cop long enough, groping around in other people’s dirty secrets and desires, your mental fingertips grew calluses. You lost a certain respect and sensitivity for privacy. He leaned back on the bench and crossed his arms, looking up at Renz. “You mentioned you were on your way to do some media this morning. About the Night Prowler?”
“Sure. What else is New York media interested in?”
“You said the word was out about Pearl and me. Has it hit print or TV yet?”
“No, but it will. And when it does, they’ll hammer both of you hard. It’ll be rough, but you’ll still have a little time. Maybe. Depending. Possibly. How can anyone say for sure, other than the participants, what happened behind closed doors?”
“Somebody must have said,” Quinn pointed out. “How else would the word have gotten around?”
“Nobody in the NYPD had to be told. All anybody had to do was look at Pearl to know she was in love and in heat.”
“Dammit, Harley!”
“Okay, I’ll show some respect. But you know the news wolves in this town. And they’ve already fallen in love with Anna Caruso and are leaning toward lynching you. They probably won’t feel too kindly toward Pearl, either.”
Thunder rolled again, but it sounded farther away.
Renz shot his cuff as he glanced at his gold watch. “I gotta stop wasting time talking with you. After Channel One I got another interview with Kay Kemper. If it isn’t one info babe, it’s another.”
“Careful what you say to Kemper. She likes to rake the muck.”
Renz laughed. “You, the muck, telling me to be careful. Telling anybody.”
He turned and gave a dismissive wave as he walked toward his waiting car and driver. Quinn had to admit the suit looked great on him. It was the only thing he liked about Harley Renz.
Other than he was better than Vince Egan.
Ten minutes later, Pearl and Fedderman drove up in the unmarked and parked in the space Renz’s Lincoln had occupied. As they approached the bench, Quinn thought Pearl looked businesslike in a gray jacket and dark slacks, a V of white showing where the coat was buttoned. Fedderman limped along as if his feet hurt; compared to Renz’s nifty attire, Fed’s brown suit hung on him like rags. One of his shirt cuffs protruded from the coat sleeve, unbuttoned and flapping around as he swung his arms. The general effect was that of a portly scarecrow on the move.
“Traffic,” said Pearl, who’d been driving. She said it by way of explanation, nothing of apology in her tone. Could she apologize? For anything? “Been waiting long?”
“No, and I’ve had company.” Quinn told them about his conversation with Renz.
“Guy’s a genuine prick,” Pearl said.
“So everyone says.” Quinn used the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. Pearl had to be hot in that blazer, and Fedderman in his shoddy suit. “Was Renz right to be skeptical of our search for the literal key to the case?”
“He was right,” Pearl said. “I never knew there were so many places that duplicated keys every day in the areas of the murders. The locksmiths-and only some of them are — know the blanks and brands common to apartment keys, but lots of their customers pay cash. Records aren’t available, and charge receipts yielded nothing.”
“Renz has been right so far,” Fedderman said, as if he’d only been half listening to Pearl. Quinn could see now there were crescents of perspiration beneath the arms of his suit coat. Or were those stains from yesterday? “But only so far.”
Pearl and Quinn both looked at him.
“Suppose we assume the killer duplicated his own keys. You’ve seen that some of those machines are portable, Pearl, and using them doesn’t take a great deal of skill or training. So let’s work this backward.”
Pearl didn’t know what he meant. She looked quizzically at Quinn.
“He means start with tradesmen who worked in any of the murder apartments, and also have their own portable key cutters.”
“That’d narrow it down,” Fedderman said.
“Would it ever!” Pearl grinned and kissed him on the cheek.
Fedderman blushed and glanced almost guiltily at Quinn.
56
Jubal rolled off Dalia and sighed, still trying to catch his breath. Dalia liked to go twice sometimes, once on top, then on the bottom. He couldn’t imagine Claire even suggesting such a thing-not since she’d become pregnant.
They were in Chicago’s venerable and almost shabby Tremontier Hotel, where they were registered under their real names, Dorthea Hartnagle and Arnold Wolfe. It wouldn’t do to let the others in the production of As Thy Love Thyself know they were longtime lovers. Show business could be a small world, and Jubal was married to an actress.
The room was warm and smelled of sex and the rose fragrance perfume Dalia always wore. Jubal had come to love the combined scent. It almost made him hesitate in lighting a cigarette, but he reached over to the bedside table, carefully avoiding Dalia’s overturned champagne glass, and got his pack of Camels and a hotel book of matches. He fired up a cigarette, then leaned his head back on the damp pillow, took a long drag, and exhaled.
“Jesus, that’s good!”
Dalia was staring over at him, grinning. “The sex or the cigarette?”
“All of it.”
“Your wife know you’re back smoking?”
“Somehow that doesn’t seem like the logical question.”
“I guess it isn’t.”
“There’s a lot Claire doesn’t know about me.”
“Yeah, I bet you’re really misunderstood and abused.”
“You know what I mean, how it is.”
“Do I ever.” Dalia rolled onto her stomach and felt around for the bottle of Dom Perignon on the floor. She found it, then righted the champagne glass and poured what little was left of the bottle into it. She sat up cross- legged and nude on the bed and experimentally sipped champagne.
“Flat?” Jubal asked.
“Yeah, but so am I now, after the way you’ve been bouncing on me.” Another sip drained the glass and she placed it back on the table. “Does Claire know about your sitcom offer?”
“Not yet.” The producer of a pilot film for a proposed new cable sitcom, West Side Buddies, about a group of female-obsessed New York pals and neighbors, had called Jubal’s agent and said he might be right for the part of the Mets bachelor shortstop, Eric. There were no guarantees, but Jubal’s agent said he’d gotten word Jubal had a
