Free Other Than Murder by John Lutz Page B

hand.
    Quinn looked him in the eye and shook the hand, wishing he could wrench it off Malvin’s wrist.
    “I like the way you think,” Malvin said.
    Quinn shrugged. “I’m a businessman, just like you.”
    “You’re just some kid working on the docks,” Malvin said.
    It didn’t surprise Quinn that Malvin knew that. He smiled. “I didn’t say I was a businessman with a business.”
    Malvin returned the smile. “Maybe at some point you and I can do business.”
    “Maybe,” Quinn said to the man he knew had killed his brother.
    He turned to go.
    “Don’t worry about Colin,” Malvin said reassuringly behind him. “Or yourself.”
    “I’m betting I can trust you,” Quinn said, looking back and nodding good-bye.
    Leaving the office he almost ran into Heap, who was standing right outside the door on the landing and holding a sawed off shotgun. The bodyguard followed closely as Quinn went down the stairs toward the street door. Heap watched him all the way out but said nothing.
    It had begun to snow from a low sky the color of lead--large, heavy flakes that looked like the ones in those glass globes you shake. One of the flakes lit on Quinn’s right eyelash like a gentle cold kiss.
    Half a block away, Colin stood, dressed much like Quinn in a dark suit and overcoat, waiting for Quinn, shivering and hunched against the cold. He was a smaller version of Quinn in build, lean-waisted and broad through the chest and shoulders, but with their mother’s sweet face and curly blond hair.
    “It go all right?” he asked eagerly, as Quinn approached.
    “It did that,” Quinn said.
    Colin began flexing his gloved hands into fists. “That bastard killed Brendan. Whenever I think about him—“
    “Time for that later,” Quinn said.
    “My God, you’re a cool one.”
    “I think right now we both are,” Quinn said. He stepped into a nearby phone booth, shutting the folding door against the cold. Colin stood staring at him from outside the booth, his breath fogging before the face that looked so much like his mother’s.
    When Quinn had finished his call he left the booth and stood next to Colin, leaning against a brick wall that blocked at least some of the wind. They both stared silently down the block. The snow stopped as if to give them a clearer view.
    Within five minutes an NYPD radio car passed them and parked near the building Quinn had just left. Another arrived and parked behind it. Neither car had its roof-bar lights flashing. Two unmarked cars arrived, and men in coats piled out. One of them, in a long brown leather coat, appeared to be in charge. They didn’t knock when they entered the doorway leading upstairs to Malvin’s office.
    Almost immediately a uniformed cop emerged with Heap. Heap’s hands were cuffed behind him, and he appeared calm. He’d gone through this before. First the law, then the lawyers, then back on the street.
    “I hope to hell they actually find dope up there so they can nail Malvin,” Colin said.
    “I didn’t give him all of Brendan’s notes,” Quinn said. “I kept the one that said Malvin, like a lot of dealers, doesn’t do drugs.”
    “That’s no surprise. But he still might have some of the product around.”
    “He isn’t sloppy or careless,” Quinn said. “Other than murder, he doesn’t seem to have any bad personal habits.”
    Colin was staring at Quinn inquisitively
    Quinn said, “He is in fact a teetotaler who hasn’t touched liquor in years.”
    “What’s that got to do with whether they find white powder in Malvin’s office?”
    “Oh, they’ll find some. And along with Brendan’s notes it’ll be enough to put him away for life twice over.”
    Quinn drew a stainless-steel thermos bottle from his pocket and handed it to Colin. “Have a slug of this to keep you warm,” he said. “It’s fine Irish whiskey.”
    The two of them, standing in their mourning clothes and passing the thermos back and forth, watched while a handcuffed Malvin was led none