Urge to Kill by John Lutz Read Free Book Online

usually after Fedderman had written something down. Quinn thought it might be because he dragged his hand a certain way when he used a pen or pencil and it worked the cuff button loose.
    Fedderman ran his long, pianist’s fingers through what was left of his light-colored hair. That seemed to remind him he was getting balder by the day. He lowered his hand and glanced at it as if he might find errant hair. “Galin was a guy kinda kept to himself,” he said. “Seemed friendly enough, just…I dunno, private.”
    “I was in the two-oh doing a report a long time ago,” Pearl said. “Galin walked past and pretended he’d pinched me on the ass. Made a big thing of it. It got him some laughs.”
    “Sure,” Fedderman said.
    “But he didn’t really pinch you?” Quinn asked.
    “I said he didn’t.”
    “What’d you do?” Fedderman asked.
    “Shoved him into a desk anyway. He had to wave his arms around to keep from falling. That got the biggest laugh. I heard the two-oh guys called him ‘Windmill Galin’ for a while after that.”
    “I take it you didn’t like him,” Quinn said.
    Pearl shrugged. “He was no worse than most. They get kinda wild sometimes, the guys doing undercover. No way some of that shit doesn’t rub off on you. You do that kinda work, you better have some…”
    “Moral equilibrium,” Fedderman suggested.
    Pearl looked at him as if he were a lesser primate that had spoken. “That’s exactly right, Feds. Good boy!”
    She sat up straighter, making her large breasts strain the fabric of her white blouse. She clapped once, as if to suggest they return to business, then rubbed her hands together as if to warm them. “I guess we rule out suicide.”
    “No gun in the car,” Quinn said, “other than the nine-millimeter in Galin’s holster, and it hadn’t been fired.”
    “Holster strap wasn’t even unsnapped,” Fedderman said. “Galin either knew who shot him, or he was taken completely by surprise.”
    “Our guy do this?” Pearl asked Quinn.
    “I don’t doubt it,” Quinn said. “Nothing seems to have been stolen from Galin. His wallet had over ninety dollars in it and wasn’t touched. He was still wearing his wristwatch.”
    “Piece of crap,” Fedderman said. “Galin liked to shop down on Canal Street, buy imitation name-brand watches. His watch said Movado, but it was probably worth about ten bucks.”
    “Free to the shooter,” Quinn said “and he still left it.” He leaned back in his desk chair, swiveled an inch or two this way and that. The chair’s mechanism made a tiny squeak each time it moved clockwise. “That inside-out pocket in his suit coat. Something was snatched out of that pocket fast, probably after Galin was dead.”
    The desk phone jangled. The sudden noise made Fedderman jump. Pearl didn’t move. Both detectives watched Quinn as he picked up the receiver, then said “yeah” six times and hung up.
    “That was Renz,” he said. “They got the slug out of Galin’s head. Twenty-five caliber. Ballistics said it doesn’t match either of the bullets removed from the two previous victims.”
    “It was a warm night,” Fedderman said, “and with gas high as it is, it costs a bundle to sit in a parked car with the engine idling and the air conditioner running. Lots of retired cops live on the cheap. Galin might have been sitting there with his window down, taking what breeze there was, and the shooter just worked in close and shot him in the head.”
    “Then he raised the window?” Pearl said.
    “Maybe. Before he died.”
    Quinn wasn’t buying it, about the window. “More likely the shooter approached the car, yanked open the door, and shot him. Then slammed the door shut and left.”
    “More likely,” Fedderman admitted. “But who the hell’d walk up on him and shoot him?”
    “Somebody who knew how to move,” Pearl said. “Galin spent time on the streets. It’d take somebody with skill to work in on him unseen and unheard, open his car