Slaughter - Lutz John (читать книги без txt) 📗

Fedderman said, “Would you say he was trying to get away from the scene, or attempting to escape the flames?”

Emilio thought. Shrugged. “It could have been either. The whole thing didn’t last that long. He squeezed out of the window, then took off running and disappeared in all the smoke.”

“I only caught a slight glimpse of him, if I saw him at all,” Anna said. “The smoke, the smell, it played with the senses.”

Quinn smiled, wishing she was as helpful as she was beautiful. He focused his attention on Emilio. “Can you give us a description of the man?”

“I would be repeating it once again.”

“Yes,” Quinn said.

Emilio sighed. “Small man, dressed in black and wearing a blue baseball cap pulled down low. Moved in a very nimble way. One of his ears—his right one, I think—stuck straight out and came to a point at the top. Like he was a . . .”

“Gremlin,” Anna said.

“I thought you were going to say leprechaun,” Fedderman said.

Anna looked puzzled. Shrugged. “I don’t know leprechaun. I know gremlin. They tinker. Break.”

“You’d have to be Irish,” Quinn said. “What about his other ear?” he asked Emilio.

“I’m not sure. The cap was too large for him, and it might have covered his right ear, held it flat against his head. Hard to say. He moved very fast, like a mirage.”

“But you did see him?”

“My husband doesn’t see mirages,” Anna said.

That seemed definite and final.

Quinn smiled. “Don’t worry. That’s not what we think. The fire was started by someone who wasn’t a mirage, but was very real, using an alarm clock as a timer to set off an incendiary bomb.”

“Terrorism?” Anna asked, her dark eyes wide.

“We don’t think so. No terrorist group is taking credit, and this wasn’t a very skilled bomb maker.”

“But the bomb worked,” Emilio said.

“That’s a good point,” Fedderman told him. “But everyone who should know sees this as simple arson, committed by someone clever, but not very knowledgeable about bombs.”

“And you can’t put a policeman in every building,” Anna said.

Fedderman said, “Another good point.”

“The neighborhood gossip, who usually starts and ends nowhere, is speaking of him as a firebug,” Emilio said.

“That might be part of it,” Quinn said. “But it’s more than that. He seems compelled to look inside things, see how they work. Know anyone like that?”

“A lot of people,” Emilio said. “But not arsonists.”

“There is the off chance that they’re not the same person,” Quinn said.

“Not much chance of that,” Fedderman said.

“‘The Gremlin,’ some newscasters are calling him,” Anna said. “A kind of ghost in the machine, causing trouble.”

She apparently believed the single-killer-arsonist theory.

“Gremlins have been known to tinker with electronics or engines and bring down airplanes,” Fedderman said.

Quinn looked at him. “Who told you that? The FAA?”

“Harold.”

Of course.

“Those media people who tagged the killer the Gremlin,” Quinn said. “Was one of those mouthy newscasters Minnie Miner?”

Anna said, “How did you know?”

Quinn wasn’t telling.

Minnie Miner had cooperated, and the rapacious little newshound would surely want something in return.

But right now Quinn was trying to keep a lid on things, and gremlin was a kinder word than terrorist.

“‘Gremlin,’” he said. “Very descriptive.”

“We wouldn’t want it to become a household word,” Fedderman said.

“We wouldn’t,” Quinn said, “but the killer might.”

11

“About half an hour before the fire in the Village,” Renz said, “there was a similar fire uptown.”

It was the next morning, and he and Quinn were in World Famous Diner on Amsterdam, having coffee and doughnuts. Renz had a large red napkin tucked under his chin so as not to get powdered sugar on his Ralph Lauren tie, tan silk suit jacket, or white shirt. Quinn could see the tiny roughness of sugar on the part of the shirt that showed, like lumps of something under a recent snowfall. Probably all the sugar would drop onto Renz’s pants when he stood up.

“Coincidence?” he asked Renz.

Renz shook his head, causing sugar to drop from his napkin to somewhere beneath table level. “Diversion. Same arsonist.”

“How do we know that?”

“The fire was in a dry cleaners only a few blocks from a firehouse. It didn’t get a chance to burn very long before the FDNY arrived in full force and extinguished the flames.”

“Start with an incendiary device?” Quinn asked.

“Yesh,” Renz said around a mouthful of chocolate-iced doughnut. “Alsho an alarm clock timer. The firebug didn’t splash a lot of flammable liquid—probably plain old gasoline—around the place. Enough, though, that the blackened clock didn’t yield any prints or anything else. It was the same kind of job as down in the Village, only on a smaller scale. Like a warm-up as well as a diversion that would rob the larger conflagration of firefighters and equipment.”

“Any casualties?”

“None.”

“Same amateur touch?”

“Oh, yes. Almost certainly the same arsonist. It was almost like a practice run.”

Quinn sipped from his white coffee mug. “Witnesses?”

“Not of any value. One guy in the building across the street claimed he saw somebody or something running from the fire about an hour before it even began to look like a fire.”

Hope moved in Quinn’s heart. Not a lot of hope, because he knew how much an eyewitness report from someone glimpsing something from a window across the street was worth.

“He just got a quick look, doesn’t know if there’s any connection with the fire. But the guy was moving fast, as if trying to get away from the area without drawing a lot of attention to himself.”

“You think this witness is worth talking to?” Quinn asked.

“Definitely.”

“Small guy?”

Renz stared at him. “Yeah. Somebody else see him?”

“Maybe somebody downtown.” Quinn looked into his coffee mug, as if for answers, found only questions. “Anything else your witness notice about the uptown guy?”

“That suggests he was also the Village firebug?” Renz glanced around as if to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. No one else was in the diner except for three teenage girls giggling in a back booth, and a bearded guy at the counter almost embracing a mug of coffee as if he wished it were booze. “There is one thing,” Renz said. “The witness said the firebug’s ears stuck out.”

Quinn was interested. “Both ears?”

“I asked him that question,” Renz said. “He told me he doesn’t know. Might have been only one ear, pointed as it was.”

“Pointed?”

“Yeah. It stuck out and was pointed on top.” Renz took a huge bite of doughnut and chewed. “Newswoman called the firebug a gremlin, maybe because of the ears.”

“Leprechauns’ ears stick out, too,” Quinn said. Not actually knowing.

“But they don’t plant bombs,” Renz said. “They’re too busy looking for rainbows and pots of gold.” He swallowed masticated doughnut. Quinn could hear his esophagus working to get the doughy mass down.

“If they want to give this guy a tag,” Quinn said, “the Gremlin is as good as any.”

“I guess,” Renz said. “I wonder who thought it up?” He smiled like a croissant.

12

Iowa, 1991

Jordan Kray’s twelfth birthday hadn’t been mentioned except for the traditional birthday spanking, which was expertly applied to his buttocks and upper thighs with a leather whip. The flesh hadn’t been broken but was raised with fiery welts that would sting for hours. He didn’t think he’d sleep at all tonight.

His twin brother, Kent, hadn’t minded his birthday at all. He was given a Timex watch and allowed to stay up and watch television. Their father had told him it was for work done around the house and small farm, work that was seldom done by Jordan. Kent and Jordan’s mother smilingly agreed while she wielded the whip and her husband watched, fondling himself.