When Quinn joined them, the man identified himself as Doctor Murphy. He had about him a sharp scent that might have been medicinal or simply an agent in soap.
Pearl, sitting slumped in one of the carefully arranged gray chairs, said, “Fedderman’s going to be okay.”
Quinn had thought that would be the word, but still he was relieved. “His arm…”
“The bone was nicked,” Dr. Murphy said. A green surgical mask dangled high on his chest like some kind of neck-wear he’d loosened. “Most of the damage was done to soft tissue. The bullet appeared to have struck something and was flattened before it hit him, or it might have penetrated the bicep and gone into his side. As it is, his arm will be in a cast for about six weeks. Then, with therapy, he’ll be able to recover ninety percent of previous mobility.”
“What in the movies they call a flesh wound?” Pearl asked.
The doctor looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
“A car window,” Quinn said. “That’s what the bullet went through before it hit him.”
“He’s lucky the window wasn’t down. Detective Fedderman is still under anesthetic and will be a while in the recovery room.”
“His wife’s on the way here.”
Doctor Murphy smiled. “She won’t mind the news, considering how bad it could have been. I’ll instruct the nurses to inform me when she arrives.” He nodded to both of them and stalked back to the hall and through wide swinging doors, which hissed open at his approach.
“Egan’s on his way here, too,” Quinn said.
Pearl snorted. “Tell me it’s because he’s injured.”
“Pissed off is what he sounded like.”
“Well, he’ll cheer up when he sees me.”
“He doesn’t have to know you’re here.”
“Yes, he does.”
Quinn sighed. “Listen, Pearl-”
“I’m thirsty.” She stood up and strode toward a drinking fountain in the hall near the phone Quinn had used, a woman beyond reason.
Quinn sat down, leaned back, and stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankles. All things considered, he didn’t feel so bad about this evening. The essential news was good: no one had been killed, and Fedderman would be his old self once his arm healed.
Yawning, Quinn reached over to a lamp table and picked up the only magazine, a dog-eared People. Jennifer Lopez worked hard to keep in shape. There was scandalous news about a distant Kennedy relative. Sean Penn was acting up again. A new movie was going to star the winner of a cable TV talent hunt show. This he learned just from the cover.
“Getting educated?”
Quinn looked up to see the blocky, muscular form of Captain Vincent Egan. He was surprised to see that Egan was wearing a tuxedo, his face flushed above the tight collar and white tie.
“On your way to the prom?” Quinn asked.
“On my way to a banquet at the Hyatt, as a matter of fact. Where I’m going to see the commissioner, where maybe a lowlife like you might find part-time work next year serving the haut monde.”
“There’s fish on the menu?”
“Be as much of a smart-ass as you want, Quinn. I won’t have to put up with you much longer. I’m gonna recommend at the banquet that you be taken off the Night Prowler case. It’s beginning to look bad for the department, setting a serial child molester to catch a serial killer.”
Quinn felt himself getting angry and tried to control it. What Egan wanted more than anything was for him to stand up and lose his temper, take a swing at him as Pearl had done. Pearl. He caught sight of her down the hall, talking on the pay phone, and hoped she’d have sense enough to stay away until Egan was gone.
“What I came here for,” Egan said, “was to see if you had anything to say that would lead me to believe you were any closer to the Night Prowler.”
Covering your ass. “I’d say we were pretty close to each other a few hours ago.”
“That’s true. When he unfortunately missed who he must’ve been aiming at. But that’s not quite the kind of close I had in mind. Out of fairness, I stopped by to give you one last chance to come up with something positive that suggested progress.”
“That’ll be your story, anyway.”
Egan pulled a cigar from his pocket and fired it up with a lighter. The hell with hospital rules. And New York rules that said you couldn’t smoke anyplace other than inside your house or apartment and within five feet of an ashtray and exhaust fan. “That’ll be my story,” he confirmed, and blew an imperfect smoke ring.
He turned and swaggered away, not an easy thing to do in a tuxedo, and it took all the willpower Quinn had to remain in his chair. He hadn’t budged through the entire encounter with Egan.
A nurse said something to Egan, no doubt about the cigar. Egan blew smoke her way and didn’t break stride.
He did break stride when he saw Pearl.
Now Quinn stood up. Don’t be stupid, Pearl, please!
Pearl walked toward Egan, smiling. Quinn had seen that smile. No, no…
She leaned toward the surprised Egan and whispered something in his ear. Then she walked away, toward Quinn.
Egan stared after her and seemed to puff up with rage. His flushed face glowed like red neon above the pristine whiteness of his formal shirt and tie.
Quinn thought surely Egan was going to come after Pearl. Instead he whirled and trod swiftly down the hall, then stamped around the corner as if trying to crack walnuts with every step.
“What did you say to him?” Quinn asked Pearl.
“That you were my fella and he better get off your ass. That you had a health problem, and if anything happened to you, I’d hold him personally responsible.”
“I sincerely doubt that’ll help matters,” Quinn said, and told her about his conversation with Egan.
Pearl seemed unimpressed.
“It’ll help,” she said.
Quinn didn’t feel like arguing. He wasn’t sure he believed Pearl, but whatever she’d whispered made Egan seem almost to explode, and that was all to the good.
Besides, here came an angry, frightened Alice Fedderman, charging down the hall toward them at a run.
61
Unlike Dr. Rita Maxwell, who leaned toward earth tones, Dr. Jeri Janess favored green. Her office was furnished mostly in shades of green. It was a restful color and many psychoanalysts made it the basis of their decor.
The office wasn’t as plush as Dr. Maxwell’s. It was on Second Avenue near the turnoff to the Queensboro Bridge. An air conditioner, taller than it was wide, hummed smoothly in one of the casement windows, softly overwhelming any sound that might filter into the office from the street nine stories below. Dr. Janess wanted to avoid the stereotypical setting for analysis, so there was no couch. Other than her desk chair, there were only two extremely comfortable leather armchairs, both green leather with brown piping.
Dr. Janess sat now in one of the chairs across from her new patient, Arthur Harris, and continued sizing him up, looking and listening for clues. She was sure she’d heard his name somewhere before. He was well dressed, and in many ways average-looking. You’d make a great spy, Mr. Harris. There was his mustache, which was darker than his hair, and she suspected it was false. His wire-rimmed glasses looked like cheap drugstore frames, and if they weren’t clear glass, the lenses were incredibly weak.
Jeri Janess was an attractive African American who’d spent her formative years in a rough section of Harlem as one of six children raised by their mother. She’d listened to her father’s bullshit on the rare occasions when he
