Slaughter - Lutz John (читать книги без txt) 📗

“Bag?” Sal asked.

“Sure. Big blue bag with a lotta straps.”

“Did it look heavy?”

“Not at all.”

“Where did they go? Did they leave the park?”

“No. I’m sure of that. I kinda followed them, for some reason.”

Sal could guess the reason. If the opportunity arose, Spud could throw a sucker punch, snatch the man’s wallet, and run. The man might not be in any position to follow.

“This woman,” Sal said. “Do you think you could identify her?”

Spud went into his chin rub again. Smiled the ugliest smile Sal and Harold had ever seen. “You mean her head?”

Spud objected, but Sal and Harold drove him to Q&A and he signed a statement. He wasn’t too worried, because he didn’t see Sal or Harold or any of these people as real cops. If they were, they wouldn’t have been so nice to him. He might even be up on a vagrancy charge.

To Spud, these were play cops, but not cops playing games.

Sal and Harold wrote their own reports, while Quinn and Fedderman drove Spud to the morgue in Quinn’s old black Lincoln.

Quinn figured maybe they had something here, but probably not.

“I feel like the mayor,” Spud said, leaning back in his plush seat and crossing his arms. “My kingdom’s right on the other side of this window.”

Quinn wondered what the real mayor would think of that. He drove faster.

Fedderman figured the entire car might have to be fumigated. Quinn didn’t seem to mind. The man could prioritize.

Spud, it turned out, was an ex-marine who’d seen the worst of it in Desert Storm. He didn’t react when they showed him the morgue photos of Lois Graham. Simply said, “Uh-huh. Same woman. Damned shame.”

Quinn said, “You might have seen her with her killer.”

Spud raised a bushy gray eyebrow. “Mr. Popcorn?”

“The same.”

“Maybe. Didn’t get a clear look at him, though. Told you he looked like a gremlin.”

“Leprechaun.”

“Did I say that? Shoulda said gremlin. Leprechauns ain’t always bad. Gremlins are the worst. Too curious and up to mischief all the time. No pot of gold involved.”

“Some mischief,” Quinn said.

“There a reward?”

Quinn stared at his raggedy witness in the backseat where Feds could keep an eye on him. “If you throw a net over him, I’ll pay you something out of my own pocket.”

“How much?”

“Negotiable. And remember, your testimony wouldn’t be much good if we paid you for it.”

“Wouldn’t make me no difference what brand it was.”

Quinn realized they were talking about bottles, not dollars. He gave a half smile. Spud didn’t have the ambition and balls to be mayor of what was outside the car. Good for him. “You net this gremlin and we’ll talk.” He handed Spud his card. “Give me a call and let me know if you learn anything important.”

Spud accepted the card and gave a sloppy salute.

They left the morgue and drove him back to the park where he’d first been accosted by Sal and Harold. A street vendor was set up near the 81st Street entrance. Quinn treated Spud to a knish and orange soda. He noticed that the vendor also sold popcorn.

Quinn thought of warning Spud to be careful, especially where he slept.

Then he figured Spud was careful all the time anyway. On the streets, being careful was his life.

The package Quinn found in the mail at Q&A hadn’t been delivered by the post office. There was no stamp on it, and Quinn’s name and address were printed neatly in black felt tip pen. Oddly, there was a return address, also neatly printed, in the package’s upper left hand corner: Return to Jack Kerouac. There was no actual address.

“This Kerouac the writer?” Renz asked, when Quinn called him and described the package.

“Must be,” Quinn said. “It was obviously hand delivered.”

“So why are you calling me?” Renz said. “Why aren’t you out there trying to find whoever put the damned thing in your mail?”

“Three reasons. I wanted you to know about the package before I opened it.”

“And?”

“I want you on the phone while I’m opening the package.”

“And . . .”

“I want to tell you what I think about in my few seconds left before a bomb goes off.”

There was silence on the phone.

Finally Renz spoke. “You really think there might be a small bomb in that package?”

“Could be.”

“The department does have a bomb squad. Why don’t we let them open the package?”

“I’m not sure the risk justifies all that,” Quinn said. “I can examine the package carefully, see what we got, then if need be we can call in the experts.”

“That’s insane. If that is a bomb, or something that shoots white powder, we have people who know how to—Just a minute, Quinn.”

Within about two minutes, Renz was back. “Stay put, Quinn. And don’t touch that package. The bomb squad is on the way.”

“What’s going on, Harley?”

“I just got my mail put on my desk. It contains a package just like the one you described.”

Quinn sighed. “Okay, Harley. I guess we’d better treat this for what it is.”

“Considering who must have sent the packages. Or maybe hand delivered them himself.”

“Probably paid some poor dumb schmuck to deliver them,” Quinn said.

“Yeah. Well, you better get outta your building, make sure everybody else does the same. They’ll think it’s a drill.”

“You doing the same?”

“Not right away. If you get anthraxed or blown up, I’ll know what to do. One thing, Quinn, in case we don’t see each other again. You think the phony return address name on the packages means the real Jack Kerouac? The author?”

“Yeah. But I don’t know what that means.”

“He wrote Peyton Place, didn’t he?”

Quinn said, “Good luck, Harley,” and hung up.

Half an hour later, the packages were declared safe. Quinn and Renz had each been the recipient of a jigsaw with a charred wooden handle. As they suspected, there was no clue as to who had placed the packages in the mail. Not a very direct clue, anyway.

8

Just looking at it, no one would guess that the building in the West Village had once been a bakery. In the early seventies it had been converted to a three-story apartment building, with a small foyer. In the nineties, the building had been renovated again, and in a major way. Twenty more stories had been added, and the building had become a boutique hotel, serving both guests and residents. Stone had replaced brick on part of the exterior, the foyer had become a legitimate lobby, complete with leather easy chairs and potted plants, and an elevator had been installed. Upstairs, most large rooms had become suites or been subdivided into small rooms. The halls were carpeted in a deep red, and paneled halfway up to cream-colored wallpaper with a subtle rose print.

Emilio Torres, the head of maintenance in the building, lived with his wife, Anna, in a separate, super’s apartment below ground level. He could open his door, take two steps forward, climb three steps, and be in the lobby near the elevators. During certain late-night hours one of the elevators stayed in service, while the other was used only by the staff. When that happened, whatever workmen or equipment needed was shuffled between floors, using the other elevator.

The virtually new building was named Off the Road, in a sort of salute to the beat generation of the fifties, and the rates were reasonable—by Manhattan standards.

The West Village was home to artists of all types, some of whom were doing at least okay financially. Off the Road was a success. Units were purchased for ownership or rental, and recently all had become occupied.

Emilio slept well. All of the systems in the building were almost new. Everything worked as it should, and almost everything was designed to make maintenance and upkeep as easy and infrequent as possible.