Quinn propped his cigar in the square glass ashtray on the desk corner. The ashtray was from the old Biltmore Hotel, maybe a collector's item. "I thought you'd be out on the golf course."
"I gave up golf. It was driving me insane. Now I'm deep-sea fishing, but that's driving me nuts, too. You ever see the shit you pull out of the ocean? Most of it doesn't even look like fish."
"Harley Renz came to see me yesterday."
"He still such an asshole?"
"That's what Pearl asked. The answer's yes."
"How is Pearl? You two still-?"
"We're not together. She's still Pearl."
"Hmm. Who did the leaving?"
"Pearl."
"Hmm. So what'd Renz want?"
Quinn told him.
"I'm in," Fedderman said.
Quinn was surprised by how quickly the answer had come. He'd thought Fedderman liked at least some part of retirement and would prefer it to looking at dead bodies and maybe being shot at.
"So when can I expect you?" Quinn asked.
"Soon as I can catch a flight to New York. That's the thing about condo living, you can turn the key in the lock and leave. Don't have to worry about the weeds taking over the lawn. I'm looking forward to seeing you and Pearl."
"Pearl's not in."
"You serious?" Fedderman sounded amazed.
"She said she's happy being a bank guard."
"Banks don't need guards. She knows that. Time I get to New York she'll have changed her mind."
"Pearl doesn't change her mind."
"She did about you."
Quinn felt a stab of annoyance. On the other hand, this was what he liked about Fedderman. They'd worked together a long time and were completely honest with each other. Fedderman had a way of driving to the truth and to hell with the cost.
"I'll call you when I get into town," Fedderman said. "Meantime, you work on Pearl."
He hung up before Quinn could reply.
Quinn replaced the receiver in its cradle and picked up his cigar from the ashtray on the desk. It had gone out. He relit it and settled back in his chair, thinking about what Fedderman had said. Thinking about Pearl. He'd worked with her, slept with her, lived with her, knew her.
Pearl doesn't change her mind.
He watched the smoke rise like a spirit and catch a draft up near the ceiling.
Pearl doesn't change her mind back.
4
Ida Ingrahm had a date.
Normally she wouldn't have made one with somebody she'd just met in a bar, but Jeff was different.
No, really different.
Seated at her mirror in her West Side apartment, she smiled at her reflection. Not unattractive, she thought. Full face with dark brown hair worn in bangs that made it look fuller. Not fat, mind you. And the rest of her was slim, except she didn't have much of a waist. Small breasts, legs okay. Especially with the right shoes.
Why do I have to appraise myself like this?
Ida knew the answer. Once they'd slept with her, men tended not to stick around. And she was way, way over thirty now. On the slide.
Time to panic?
She gave her reflection a brighter smile and decided, not yet. Hope lived. It wasn't that she wanted to get married. A lasting relationship was her goal. Modest enough, she thought. She saw other people achieve them. Meanwhile, life wasn't so terrible.
She liked her job as graphic designer for Higher Corporate Image, a company that produced promotional and motivational material for retail chains. It paid on the low side, if you didn't figure bonuses that were no sure thing, but there was a future. There was no glass ceiling at HCI. She could see her life ten years out, and it was okay, and would be better than okay if she had somebody steady. Somebody who cared about her.
She could learn to care about him.
I could learn…Stupid attitude.
Her smile faded, and for an instant her blue eyes did flash panic. Perhaps that was her problem, why men left her; her desperation shone through. Thirty-eight and alone in New York-scary. Then again, she knew there were millions of unhappy Midwestern housewives who'd give up their drudge lives in a New York minute for her situation.
Independence! Wa-hoo! She told herself, Quit being such a wimp.
She put on a sapphire pendant with a long silver chain that formed a V so her neck looked longer, her face thinner. Then she unfastened the top button of her blouse to reveal a suggestion of cleavage that wasn't there.
She wasn't a wimp. She was doing just fine, sticking in the big city, date with a guy like Jeff, living the life unlike the one she would have led back in Fort Taynor, Arkansas.
She'd thought she'd gotten rid of her southern accent completely, but Jeff had picked up on it right away and said he found it charming. Some of the other women in Loiter, the lounge where a crowd younger than Ida hung out, had glanced with envy at her, seeing her with Jeff. He was easily the best-looking man in the place, and he hadn't come in with a bunch of leering buddies whose goal for the evening was to score. He was nicely dressed in a dark blue suit that looked expensive. He was even the kind of guy who wore cuff links.
Nobody back in Fort Taynor wore cuff links.
She fumbled trying to fasten the clasp on her knockoff retro wristwatch, and almost dropped it when the intercom buzzed.
Ida squinted at the watch's tiny face. It was difficult to make out the time without her reading glasses.
Almost seven o'clock. Jeff was early. If it was Jeff.
She gave a final try to engage the miniature latch of the watch's silver-plated chain, and smiled in surprise when she was successful. A good omen? She hesitated, considering slipping into her high-heel pumps, then padded in her nylon feet toward the intercom. If it was Jeff, she'd have enough time to put on her shoes while he was coming upstairs.
A final glance in the mirror behind the sofa.
She winked at herself and whispered, "Hot!" Letting her tongue show.
Believing it a little.
As she moved toward the intercom, her gaze roamed around the tiny apartment, hoping it was neat enough, clean enough.
Being judged. Always being judged.
She pressed the button and tried to sound casual and sexy. "Who's there?"
"Jeff Davis."
Ida decided to hold her silence and simply buzz him in. Not make herself seem too interested and available. Too eager.
Be cool. Like he is.
As she struggled into her shoes that for some reason seemed too small, she imagined him standing in the elevator, rising to her floor.
One of her toenails that needed trimming cut painfully into the toe next to it.
Damn it! Feet swollen again. Should have taken a water pill.
The left shoe wasn't completely on, and she almost turned an ankle, as she hurried to answer his knock.
5
Renz was true to his word. Always a bad sign.
He'd found them office space on West Seventy-ninth Street, not far from the two-oh precinct on West Eighty-second. It had been used as a child welfare reporting center until the city budget had forced its closure. On one side of the old brick building was a dental clinic, Nothing but the Tooth. Renz had laughed about that one over the phone when he called to send Quinn to the address, thinking it a riot that a cop shop should share the building with a dentist with a sense of humor. Quinn didn't think dentists should joke about their work.
The entrances to the two office suites faced each other across a cracked concrete stoop, three steps up from the sidewalk. Quinn and Fedderman didn't know what the dentist's digs looked like, but their "suite" consisted of two adjoining rooms and a half bath. Gluts of truncated cable and smaller wiring protruded like weird high-tech vegetables out of the hardwood floor, Quinn guessed for phones and computers. Ghastly illumination was provided by dangling flourescent fixtures.