Free Darker Than Night by John Lutz Page B

was a study in contrasts of light and dark, a mass of black hair framing a pale face from which dark eyes glared, lips too red, a gray skirt and a black blazer despite the warm morning. It was as if a small child had been given only black and white crayons and told to draw a woman, and here she was, with a compact completeness about her and a vividness almost unreal.
    Quinn stood up from the bench, feeling the sun warm on his shoulders. “Hello, Feds.”
    Fedderman smiled. “Quinn! Back in harness where you belong!”
    The two men shook hands, then hugged. Fedderman slapped Quinn on the back five or six times before they separated.
    â€œMake the most of this chance, buddy!” he said.
    â€œCount on it,” Quinn told him.
    â€œI’m here,” Pearl said.
    Quinn looked at her. “So you are. Sorry if we ignored you. Fedderman and I are old—”
    â€œI know,” Pearl said, “you go back a long way. You’ve watched each other’s backs, broken bread together, flirted with the same waitresses, fought the same fights. Fedderman filled me in.”
    Fedderman grinned at Quinn. “This is Pearl. She’s a fighter.”
    Quinn stepped back and regarded Pearl. Despite her sarcasm, she was smiling with large, perfect white teeth. “I’ve heard that about you, Pearl. A fighter. Also that you have talent as a detective.”
    â€œAnd I’ve heard about you, Lieutenant.”
    â€œJust Quinn will do. Officially, I’m only doing work-for-hire for the NYPD.” Quinn buttoned his sport coat to hide ketchup he’d already dribbled on his new tie. “So, everybody’s heard about everybody else, except maybe for some things I might tell you about Fedderman. And we all know why we’re meeting here.”
    â€œBecause your apartment’s a shit hole,” Pearl said.
    Fedderman shook his head. “Pearl, dammit!”
    â€œMine’s a shit hole, too,” Pearl said. “Tiny, hot as hell, and thirsty for paint.”
    â€œRoaches?”
    â€œThey won’t tolerate the place.”
    Quinn grinned at her. She was still smiling, a dare in eyes black enough to have gotten her burned as a witch four hundred years ago. Probably, Egan would like to burn her now. There was something in her favor. What kind of pain is driving you?
    â€œAm I the boss?” he asked her. “Or are we gonna have a contest?”
    â€œIt’d only be a waste of time,” Pearl said.
    Quinn decided not to ask her what she meant. “You two go ahead and sit down,” he said. “I’ve been sitting awhile.”
    When they were on the bench, Fedderman slouched with his legs apart. Pearl sat stiffly, with her notepad in her lap, looking as if she were about to take dictation.
    Quinn told them what he’d learned from the Elzner murder file, and what he speculated.
    Pearl made a few notes and listened intently. He got the impression her eyes might leave scars on him.
    â€œThe jam bothered me, too,” she said when he was finished. “An almost full jar in the refrigerator, and they bought two more identical jars when they went grocery shopping.”
    â€œWhich means they didn’t know how much jam they had,” Fedderman said, “or they were gonna hole up in their apartment for a few weeks and live on strawberry jam, or someone else did the shopping for them. Someone who didn’t know what kinds of foods they were out of.”
    â€œOr someone who thought they just couldn’t have enough gourmet jam,” Pearl said. “I lean toward your possibility number three, that somebody else bought the groceries.”
    Fedderman leaned forward and scratched his left ankle beneath his sock. Quinn wondered if he still wore a small-caliber revolver holstered to his other ankle. He looked up at Quinn, still scratching. “So, we working on the assumption somebody killed both Elzners?”
    â€œIt’s the