None of this might have seemed real a few minutes ago, but it was real. And coming at him. It was happening!
The man’s smooth, athletic stride didn’t slow or in any way change as he slipped a hand into his pocket. The movement hadn’t seemed fast, but it had been fast.
Faster than Quinn could reach his own pocket.
The man had stopped now and was standing in shooting position, his body turned sideways, his right arm extended and holding a small revolver pointed at Quinn. The dark eyes sighting over the barrel at Quinn were somber and intent and without fear.
Quinn was fumbling his own revolver out of his pocket, knowing even as he did so that it would be too late. He’d simply tied his shoe, briefly let down his guard, and he was dead.
He braced himself to dive to the side, but he was only going through the motions, giving himself a slim chance.
Before he could move he saw the man’s extended arm suddenly drop.
Quinn stared, confused.
He’s dancing!
That was Quinn’s first thought as the man shuffled his feet, snapping his head this way and that. Then he became aware of the noise, a roar of gunfire.
He looked in its direction and saw Pearl standing in the middle of the street with her feet spread wide, holding her big nine-millimeter Glock in both hands and blasting away.
Then came a sudden, vibrant silence.
Quinn looked away from Pearl, back in the direction she’d been shooting.
The man in the blue suit lay motionless on the sidewalk. There was blood spreading out from beneath him. A lot of blood.
Quinn knew Pearl had disobeyed Renz’s instructions. She must have been tailing Quinn, perhaps even tailing his pursuer, the man in the blue suit.
The. 25-Caliber Killer.
Aware of his heavy breathing and the blood pulsing in his ears, Quinn stood and watched Pearl approach the downed man to make sure he was dead. After kneeling briefly beside the man, she stood up and walked toward Quinn. Her features were calm, unsmiling, the composed face of a woman at peace with the knowledge that she’d done a difficult job successfully.
Quinn felt beads of sweat running down his ribs beneath his shirt. Pearl had acted on her own and saved his life.
He couldn’t yet calculate the cost she’d have to pay, but he knew it was nothing to how much he owed her.
76
Throughout the next day they learned about Martin Hawk, saw where he’d been staying in Manhattan, where he lived in Stamford, Connecticut. They learned how he lived, what he read, whom he knew, and in a sense came to know him.
In his Manhattan hotel room they’d found a blue carry-on containing a large bicycle hook, rolls of duct tape, a coil of nylon rope, and a sharp knife. Everyone there was relieved, even the SCU people. No one was more relieved than Quinn. There was no doubt about it now. Renz and Helen’s single-killer theory had been on target. They’d gotten the right man, and he’d left them no choice but to take him down permanently.
Hawk’s house and its contents were even more revealing.
In Stamford, he’d lived alone in a ten-room brick and stone house on a wooded piece of property large enough to be called an estate. He’d lived and been educated in England for a while, and had indeed been a hunter. His big game trophies attested to that. According to neighbors he was friendly, even charming, but was somewhat aloof and had lived a lonely life. On his walls hung valuable abstract art. In his refrigerator were gourmet foods. In his garage were a two-year-old Jaguar and a three-year-old Land Rover. In his office and his bedroom were framed photographs of two attractive women, but there was nothing in the house to identify them.
Hawk’s office yielded the most evidence. A concealed safe contained client names and a set of books for a company referred to as Quest and Quarry.
All in all, the suspect’s hotel room and home were mines rich with the ore of evidence. If he’d been alive to stand trial, the outcome wouldn’t have been in doubt.
But Martin Hawk would never stand trial, and soon the case would be officially closed.
Quinn and Pearl were still decompressing from the action that took Hawk’s life, and had almost claimed Quinn’s. Fedderman had taken the time to call the airport and check on flights back to Florida. Cindy Sellers had her scoop and was no longer hectoring Renz, who was basking, even romping, in favorable publicity. Mitzi Lewis couldn’t stop walking around smiling and marveling at her good luck. It was easy to be funny when you were so grateful to be breathing.
The pressure was off all around.
Quinn spent most of his time at Zoe’s and slept there to avoid the media wolves. He and Zoe would make love, and afterward it would be hours before he’d fall asleep. Maybe the cause of his sleeplessness was the lasting exhilaration of still being alive, along with the residue of fear. He’d experienced these emotions before. It took a while sometimes to come down from the adrenaline and cortisone high of taunting death and winning.
But he knew that wasn’t what was disturbing his sleep.
Something barely beyond his consciousness wasn’t right.
77
The morning was cooler than most, and golden with sunlight.
Zoe skipped their usual grapefruit, toast, and coffee in the kitchen and left the apartment early to deal with her appointments. Quinn showered and dressed, then went out to buy a newspaper and get some breakfast.
The television mounted high behind the counter of the Lotus Diner was tuned to the news, and the news, of course, was still about Martin Hawk, Renz, Quinn, and Pearl. But mostly about Martin Hawk.
Thel the waitress came over and cleared the dishes, then topped off Quinn’s coffee.
“You didn’t bring the check,” Quinn said.
“This one’s on us,” Thel said. “Just this once. Don’t get used to it.”
That was about as civil as Thel got. Quinn thanked her, and she ignored him and returned to stand near the coffee urn behind the counter.
Quinn sat for another half hour reading the news, an ear cocked to the softly playing television.
Reading and hearing it made things suddenly come together.
He realized what had been disturbing his sleep. What was still bothering him.
A very large piece of the puzzle was missing.
He got his cell phone from his pocket and started to peck out Zoe’s office number. Then he changed his mind and called Helen the profiler.
Helen, like Quinn, did contract work for the NYPD and had a home office. It was a converted second bedroom of her apartment in the Village, and it had French doors that led out to a small brick courtyard surrounded by foliage, an ancient brick wall, and a high wooden fence that looked ready to collapse from the weight of the vines growing up it. Helen had coffee made, and she and Quinn sat in wrought-iron chairs at the small round metal table in the center of the courtyard. They were in deep shade, and the sounds from the street were curiously muffled yet nearby.
