Urge to Kill (37 page)

“I know about matchmaking mothers, and Pearl’s sounds like an extreme example.”

“Anyway, Pearl saw a different dermatologist and is waiting for the results.”

“Good for Pearl. But she’s defying her mother. That might be leading to a heightened sense of apprehension.
Mother’s always right.
That phrase stays with many of us all our lives. Ruins many lives.”

“So what should I do?”

Zoe finished with the comb, walked over, and kissed Quinn on the lips. “Wait,” she said. “Like Pearl.”

Then she smiled at him and hurried from the room.

Quinn lay for a while longer in Zoe’s bed, feeling the rush of cool air from the window unit and listening to traffic below on Park Avenue, letting his mind wander. He could still feel the heat of Zoe from her side of the bed, still smell her and almost hear her moans of ecstasy.

An uneasiness crept into his state of quiet bliss.

Why did I make love to Zoe, then ask her about Pearl?

Why the hell did I do that?

But an old cop knew that just because there was a question didn’t mean there was an answer.

Quinn was parking the Lincoln in front of the office when his cell phone chirped. He fished it from his pocket with one hand while spinning the steering wheel with the other to maneuver the nose of the long car toward the curb. Sometimes driving the Lincoln in Manhattan reminded him of captaining an ocean liner in a port crowded with smaller, faster ships.

He pushed the phone’s talk button by feel, said, “Quinn.”

“It’s Feds,” said the voice at the other end of the connection. “I got filled in by Vitali and Mishkin about the Farr shooting. They were close and heard the squeal on their car radio and got to the scene ten minutes after Farr was killed. The shooter, Bertrand Wrenner, was sitting on the front steps of Farr’s building. The victim was sprawled half in, half out of the place, across the threshold. Wrenner was sobbing and still holding the murder weapon. The uniforms first on the scene took it from his hand, then read him his rights.”

Quinn put the shift lever in park and turned off the engine. “He’s confessed?”

“They couldn’t get him to stop confessing.”

“I already heard from Renz on the ballistics tests,” Quinn said. He made no effort to get out of the car; reception was good here, and it was a comfortable, quiet place to talk on the phone. “Smith and Wesson twenty-two caliber. Not our gun. Not our serial killer.”

“Another half-ass duel,” Fedderman said, “only this time the winner got overwhelmed by what he did and broke down right there. Motive, gun, opportunity, witnesses, confession. No way not to get a conviction.”

“Ordinarily,” Quinn said.

“Renz is scared of this one, right?”

“You guessed it, Feds. The media’s already casting the killer as a victim, comparing him to an abused dependent wife. Some T-shirt company is probably already printing FREE BERTY shirts.”

“Berty?”

“That’s what Bertrand Wrenner goes by.” The sun was blasting down on the parked car, heating up the interior. Quinn was ready for the conversation to be over.

“Mishkin said you gotta feel sorry for the little shit,” Fedderman said.

“Mishkin feels sorry for the world.”

“Well, I guess the world could use it,” Fedderman said. “I got copies on the specifics on this one from him and Vitali, crime scene photos, witness statements, the whole investigation so far. It’s all a nice, neat bundle.”

“Bring it to the office and file it, Feds, even though it’s got nothing to do with our case other than it’s the child of political expediency.”

“Okay. Is Pearl with you?”

“No, I thought she might be with you. Maybe she’s in the office. I just pulled up in front.”

“She still worried about her mole?”

“She had it removed. They sent it away for a biopsy so they can let her know for sure everything’s okay.”

“Or if it’s not.”

“That, too.”

“You think she’s really got something to worry about?”

“Plenty, but not necessarily the mole.” The parked car was really heating up. Quinn noticed that he was beginning to perspire. His shirt was starting to stick to him the way Zoe’s clothes had when she’d dressed right after her shower.

“Funny,” Fedderman said, “that was Wrenner’s nickname at work—Mole.”

“Funny old world,” Quinn said, and pressed END. Fedderman was obviously about to get philosophical, and Quinn didn’t think he could abide that.

He climbed out of the uncomfortably warm Lincoln and went up the shallow concrete steps to the office entrance.

The first thing he saw when he went inside was Pearl pacing in the middle of the room, carrying a coffee cup. There were spots on the floor where coffee had sloshed over the rim and dripped. Pearl’s dark eyes were especially vivid in a way that for some reason reminded Quinn of when they’d had sex, and she was nervously flexing and unflexing the fingers of her left hand. Incongruously, she gave him a big white grin.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I think we should take a drive,” she said.

Martin Hawk sat over coffee in the hotel restaurant and stared at his copies of the
Post
and
Times,
along with a copy of a much smaller paper,
City Beat
.

By all accounts, Bertrand Wrenner was nothing more than a common murderer. Certainly not a hunter. The media were referring to Alec Farr’s murder as a duel, but Martin didn’t see how it fit that definition. The victim had simply answered a ring at his door and been shot dead. A homicide. True, he’d been warned, as well as armed. Wrenner had delivered to him a gun with which to defend himself or go on the hunt for his potential killer. Judging by what fellow employees said, it was unlikely that, even afraid and on his guard, Farr could conceive of Bertrand Wrenner—Berty, as the papers called him—constituting a real threat. He hadn’t thought Berty had it in him.

Martin Hawk could have told him that all cornered animals were capable of killing.

Again a server came by his table to make sure Martin didn’t want breakfast today. He reassured her that was the case.

The thought of food made his stomach turn. That he was responsible for the series of murders labeled duels, which were now being cheered on by the media, sickened him and deprived him of appetite.

And filled him with contempt.

Dueling required anger or insult, a face-to-face encounter. A duel was an event brought about by hatred or disdain. But hunting was a pure and sacred tradition, an impulse in the core of all of us. The nearer to the surface it rose, the hungrier we got. Primal? Certainly. That was why it was the stuff of legend and religion. It required danger, a certain respect for one’s prey, a contest of wiliness and wills.

It required stalking.

He set aside
City Beat
and reached for yet another newspaper he’d bought, a
London Times.
He leafed through it and found and opened the financial page.

There would be nothing about New York murders or duels in this paper.

Nothing to worry him.

True to their MapQuest directions, Quinn and Pearl drove on successively narrow roads for over an hour. They stopped to buy gas at a two-pump combination service station and mini-market outside Mansard, where Pearl used a horrific restroom. Then they bought a couple of bottle Cokes from a machine and got back into the Lincoln to drive some more.

Mansard itself wasn’t much more than a few blinks on a loop off a state highway. Pearl leaned back in the passenger seat and watched about a dozen small, clapboard houses glide past. There were a few side streets where more houses might be located. She saw a green street sign and noticed that this stretch of the business loop, the main drag, had become Crescent Street. So named, she supposed, because it described a long, constant curve.

Quinn slowed the car to under twenty so they could take it all in. There was a seed and feed store, an auto parts shop, a hardware store, a small grocery store, a barbershop, the Crescent Diner, a boarded-up movie theater, and a white-frame and brick city hall, where Jane Ellen fielded phone calls. What looked like a World War II howitzer squatted next to a flagpole on the green space in front of city hall, elevated and aimed down the street as if to repel any invasion by the outside world.

Quinn’s Lincoln was the only vehicle moving. On the sidewalks were about half a dozen people, mostly men wearing work clothes, and a couple of young boys who gaped at the car as if they’d never seen such a sight.

Pearl had been unable to find an exact address for Dwayne Avis. Quinn pulled the car diagonally across the street to the curb, where a tall, skeletal old man in jeans and a sleeveless black T-shirt was shuffling along at about half a mile per hour. He lowered the window.

“We’re looking for the Dwayne Avis farm,” Quinn said.

The man had scruffy gray hair pulled back in a ratty ponytail held with a rubber band. A faded tattoo of a nude woman twirling a hula hoop adorned his scrawny right arm. He smiled with a flash of gold tooth as he sidled toward the car and bent down so he could look Quinn in the eye.

“I know where that’s at,” he said in a low, whiskey voice.

“Might you share the information with us?”

“Nobody much goes there,” the old man said.

“We’re the exception.”

The man leaned lower and peered past Quinn at Pearl. A whiff of gin and perspiration made its way into the warming car. “You two are cops.”

“How’d you guess?”

“You didn’t ask me why nobody much goes to the Avis farm.”

“Being cops,” Quinn said, “we usually sooner or later get what we ask for.”

The gold-tinted smile widened. “Might as well make it sooner. You wanna visit Avis, you keep on the way you’re goin’ through town, then after about ten miles make a right turn on a dirt road dead-ends on the two-lane. Go left an’ follow that road to the first dirt road, make another left, an’ you’re on the farm. That’s Avis’s driveway.”

Quinn thanked him and started to close the window.

“You don’t have to worry about me phonin’ ahead an’ tellin’ Dwayne you’re on the way,” said the ponytailed man. “He probably wouldn’t answer the phone anyway, an’ tell you the truth, it don’t mean shit to me why you wanna see him.”

“I’ll take you at your word,” Quinn said.

“Don’t count on a friendly welcome,” the man said. He straightened up as if his back hurt and continued his slow, steady progress down the sidewalk.

“Me in ten years,” Quinn said.

“You assume a lot,” Pearl said.

The old man lifted a hand in a listless wave, but didn’t look back at them as they drove away.

It wasn’t much of a farm. The surrounding fields lay fallow except for near the back of the barn, where tomato vines wound their way up head-high wooden stakes. A small field of cornstalks off to the left appeared to be the only other crop. The rest of the farm was so neglected that the woods had taken over a large area of the fields. There were more trees near the ramshackle house and barn: a shade tree—looked like a maple—by the barn, and a huge willow whose graceful branches scraped the old house’s second floor. In the shade of the willow a deteriorated wooden porch glider that didn’t look safe to sit on had become the property of termites.

The house was sided with faded gray clapboard. The trim was dark green, but hadn’t been painted in a long time. Here and there bare wood peeked through. There was a wide plank porch across the front. The wooden steps were painted gray and were rotted enough to be dangerous.

Pearl looked closely at the barn where the dogs had been found hanging and gutted. It was a leaning structure of weathered wood with horizontal streaks of old red paint still holding on. Its twin wooden doors were closed, and made to stay that way with a large padlock. The hinges on the doors were old and dusted with surface rust but looked strong. There was no sign of any animals.

As soon as Quinn and Pearl had climbed out of the parked Lincoln and slammed the car doors shut, a man in tattered jeans and a red shirt with its long sleeves rolled up to his biceps opened the front door and stepped out into the shade of the porch’s sagging roof. He looked to be in his early fifties, had receded dark hair, and a hard, seamed face. Slung beneath his right arm was a double-barreled shotgun.

He stood casually observing Quinn and Pearl and said nothing.

“Dwayne Avis?” Quinn asked.

“Was when I woke up this mornin’.”

He’s going to be difficult.
Quinn kept an eye on the shotgun.

Avis spread his feet wide and assumed an unyielding stance. His dark eyes were staring and unblinking, with a glint of arrogance in them.

“We’re police,” Pearl said. She’d had about enough of this backwoods bravado.

“State or local?”

“New York City.”

“You got no jurisdiction here.”

“We can get it in a hurry if we have to.”

Avis stepped down off the porch, carefully holding the shotgun pointed at the ground. “Then why don’t you hurry on away an’ do that? Meanwhile,” he said, raising the shotgun but aiming it off to the side, “get off my land.”

Pearl thought she’d never heard that except in movies or TV.

Quinn thought this was a man who used his temper mainly as a weapon, not really losing it but pretending, showing it off as he did the shotgun, letting interlopers know what
could
happen if they took him lightly. Contrary to how they were portrayed in books and movies, this sort of person was dangerous. Pretending could turn real in a second.

“We only want to talk to you,” Quinn said. “It’ll be easiest all around if you don’t make us have to leave and come back.”

“I know what you wanna talk about,” Avis said. “Them damn dogs. Well, I already been dealt with and consider that whole thing a closed matter. Dealin’ with me next time won’t be a pleasure. I swore that to myself.”

“This isn’t next time,” Quinn said.