Urge to Kill Read Free Page A

means is you quit soon enough not to lose.”
    “That why you stopped me? You riding in one of the traffic cars so you can collect graft from poker winners?”
    “Seeing as I’ve become police commissioner, you should speak more respectfully to me.”
    Quinn didn’t bother answering. He was wondering why Harley Renz would be interested enough in his poker night to follow him when he left the game.
    “So what’s this about?” Quinn asked. “You want in?”
    “I know some of those guys you’re playing cards with, Quinn. They cheat.”
    “Your kind of game.”
    “Even so…”
    Quinn waited, tired of word games. He actually did have a sliver of respect for Renz, even though Renz represented authority and bureaucracy. Renz had at one time been a tough and effective homicide detective, and now and then it showed. And both men knew Renz was commissioner because of Quinn’s work on the Torso murders, for which Renz had skillfully garnered most of the credit. Quinn didn’t care about that. In fact, it had been part of the arrangement. The enthusiastically devious and ambitious Renz had used his newfound fame to become the most popular police commissioner in the city’s history. A media darling of monstrous proportions, his high standing in the polls translated into leverage he didn’t hesitate to use.
    “I want to tell you a story,” Renz said.
    “About speeding?”
    Renz waved a hand dismissively. “You were going way too fast, but we can forget about that.”
    Quinn pressed a button, and the window on his side of the Lincoln glided down. Sultry night air mingled with exhaust fumes tumbled into the car. He took a final pull on the cigar and tossed the glowing butt out into the street, watching it bounce and spark like a miniature fireworks display.
    “Littering,” Renz said. “Illicit cigars, gambling, speeding, and now this. Jesus, Quinn! You’re a one-man crime wave.”
    “It gives me something to do in retirement.” Quinn sighed and brushed cigar ash off his shirt. “It’s still hot out there.”
    “Hotter than you know.”
    Quinn left the window down to let in plenty of heat so maybe Renz would leave sooner and the car would air out. He leaned forward so he could reach the ignition key and killed the motor.
    “This story of yours,” Quinn said. “Go ahead and tell it. And try not to be so cryptic.”
     
     
     

5
     
     
    The car was uncomfortably hot within minutes. Quinn suffered gladly, knowing it would hasten Renz’s departure. He had a hunch what kind of story he was about to hear, and where it would lead. Quinn was uneasy about that last part, where it would lead.
    “A month ago,” Renz began, “a hedge fund manager named George Manders was shot to death in a crowded SoHo club.”
    “Never heard of him,” Quinn said. Maybe he could hurry Renz along.
    “That’s okay, you’re not a suspect.” Renz made a face and wrinkled up his nose. It was probably a reaction to the cigar smoke smell in the car, somehow made stronger by the humid night air. Maybe Renz had a bloodhound nose as well as the looks of the breed. “At the time of the shooting,” Renz continued, “Manders was dancing with a woman he didn’t know. At least according to her. They’d just met ten minutes ago, and he’d asked her to dance. The dance floor was illuminated by those colored strobe lights that make everything look fast and herky-jerky, and the music was so loud nobody heard the shot from a small-caliber gun.”
    “How small?” Quinn asked.
    “Twenty-five caliber.”
    It wasn’t an
un
common size bullet, but more rare than a .22 caliber when it came to small handguns.
    Renz said, “The way the light was flickering, and the sound of the shot being drowned out by all that noise that passes for music, nobody realized at first that Manders had been shot. When he went down, they thought maybe it was some kinda tricky dance step and he was gonna pop right back up. Then witnesses said they saw someone bend