“She might have nicked him,” Pearl said.

“Weaver searched personally. There was no blood. Renz is there now. Got CSU and a bunch of uniforms.”

“Bunch of press, too, I’d imagine,” Pearl said. “Where’s this leave Weaver?”

“If I know her,” Quinn said, “she’ll want to continue what she’s been doing. She probably wants the killer to try again.”

“She’s seen what he did to those other women,” Pearl said.

“She’s seen worse.” Quinn doubted it, but it sounded good. And he knew Weaver wouldn’t quit the case. If she was going to be bait, she’d be bait that bit.

But Quinn figured the killer might move on to another victim, somebody Quinn held dearer than Weaver.

“You better call Renz,” Pearl said. “Have him put some guardian angels on Jody.”

“And on you,” Quinn said.

“Don’t be silly,” Pearl said. “I’m an ex-cop. He’s more apt to go after you again, the way he did in Maine. You’re unfinished business.”

“I’ll know when he’s going to do that,” Quinn said. “I know how he plays the game.”

Game! This was exactly the kind of conversation that infuriated Pearl. “Okay, I wouldn’t think of intruding on your macho idiocy. I’ll save my worry for Weaver. She’s unfinished business, too. Out there with her life on the line.”

“Weaver’s an active cop. You can bet people are gonna be assigned to look after her. Ask me, I think you, Jody, and then Weaver need special protection.”

“Didn’t ask you,” Pearl said. “And Jody’s gonna resist.”

Pearl’s daughter Jody—who was no less a daughter to Quinn—was an attorney with a small firm specializing in what she called social justice cases. Right now, she was defending two men and a woman who were under arrest for urinating in a public place to protest the lack of available public restrooms in New York City. According to Jody, the city was losing millions in tourist money because of the bad experiences tourists had when unable to find public restrooms. They talked about the situation in NYC when they went home to Anywhere, USA, where there were plenty of public toilets. Not to mention, Jody maintained, the considerable income the city could be collecting from pay toilets.

After talking with Renz, Quinn called Jody down and she sat next to Pearl on the sofa. Pearl laid her legs across Jody’s lap and crossed her ankles. Jody didn’t seem to mind. These two were close. Sometimes they ganged up on Quinn.

Quinn explained the situation to Jody, who said, predictably, “I want to help.”

“You’re already helping thousands of tourists walking around town double time in desperation.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“You’re telling me,” Quinn said.

“I can take some time off the public urination case.”

“Are your clients in jail?”

“Yes. They resisted arrest.”

“You’ve got to think of their best interest, get them out at least until their court date.”

“They resisted arrest. One of them urinated on a cop.”

“Damn it, Jody!”

“He had no idea it was a cop. The guy was in plainclothes. So one of my clients . . .”

“Well?”

“The cop got wet, then he got mad, then he got wetter.”

Quinn waited.

“Then a fight broke out.” She looked mad enough to spit. “I’ve got witnesses say he just lost his composure. Went berserk.”

“The cop?”

“My client. He started swinging with both fists, kicking with both feet. Some kind of martial art that turned him into a fighting machine.”

“The urinater.”

“Turned out the cop was an undercover narc, working a big case, and my client got his name and photo in the Post next day.”

“Your client’s name and photo?”

“No, the cop’s.”

“Jody! . . .”

“All my client did was—”

“Jody!” Pearl said. “Accept that you’re going to have protection—if the NYPD is still talking to you. It’s obvious that your client needs you.”

“Clients, plural. I’m representing PRR.”

“I thought they found homes for stray cats.”

“No, this one’s Public Restroom Relief.”

Quinn walked to the window looking out on West 75th Street. An NYPD radio car was parked at the curb, directly in front of the brownstone. Quinn turned and looked at the two main women in his life, along with his daughter Lauri, who lived in California.

Quinn felt a sudden chill. Did D.O.A. know about Lauri?

He carried his cell phone outside, exchanged nods with the uniform behind the cruiser’s steering wheel, then walked half a block down and pecked out Lauri’s phone number in California. He talked to her, then to her mother and his former wife, May. They both took him seriously and said they’d take precautions. Quinn then called an old friend in the LAPD, who said the budget was small and the city needed more police, but he’d do what he could.

And that was all Quinn could do, what he could.

He went back into the brownstone. Pearl knew whom he’d been talking to and didn’t ask him anything about the call. Though they were on the sofa, where and how he’d left them, both women were now drinking diet Coke out of cans.

He knew they’d be reasonably safe, but that there couldn’t always be a cop on duty simply to stand guard. Sal and Harold would do most of the guarding. Which would take them off the rest of the case.

Was that part of the killer’s strategy? The real reason for the attack on Nancy Weaver? A diversion?

Not likely, considering the risk, and the fact that he’d almost been shot. The killer had tried to torture and kill a cop. He must have known what that entailed. Was this another stratagem? If Weaver wasn’t safe, was Pearl any safer?

Was Quinn himself safe?

“I’m going to see Weaver, maybe Renz,” Quinn said.

Pearl said, “I’ll stay here with Jody.”

Quinn thought that was a good idea.

37

The killer had walked, then ran, away from Nancy Weaver’s apartment building. He hadn’t wasted any time leaving, his back muscles bunched as he waited for another shot to be fired. For all he knew, he’d been hit by the first shot and didn’t feel it yet. He knew bullet wounds could be like that. Bullets could be numbing, their effect not realized until whomever had been shot examined himself or herself later.

But if he could run—and he could—he probably hadn’t been shot.

He was reasonably sure he hadn’t been seen, though he did think he heard a few doors opening and closing behind him.

Out on the street now, back in the mist, he felt safe. A close call. A prospective victim with more resources than he’d imagined. He realized his mistake, thinking of Weaver as vulnerable because she was a woman, making light of the fact that she was also, and primarily, a well-trained, tough cop.

His heartbeat had slowed, and he was no longer breathing hard.

As he strode along Eighth Avenue, he unobtrusively passed his hand here and there over his body, probing for injuries. He knew he was lucky to have avoided a bullet. Luck was something he appreciated, but not something he could depend on. Not like fate. Luck could be fickle; fate was a long-term friend.

He tried to look on the bright side. He hadn’t achieved his objective entirely, but surely he’d rattled not only Weaver but the rest of his pursuers. He did feel a certain satisfaction in that.

In fact, as he walked, with every step regaining his ego and perspective, he felt a great deal of satisfaction. The near miss with Weaver would surely be on TV news, in tomorrow’s papers, above the fold. People would be impressed.

He’d wanted to question Weaver before letting her die, not just for his pleasure, but to find out if Q&A and the NYPD knew what Jeanine Carson had told him. Not that he suspected Carson might have lied to him. He was an expert in administering agony and using it to extract the truth. With every painful fiber of her body, for every extra second of life she could buy, with any currency she could think of, she’d told him the truth.