Free Mister X by John Lutz Page B

drawer closed. His cigar was smoked down to a nub, so he took a final pull on it, then snuffed it out in the ashtray. A sample sip of his coffee revealed it to be too cool to drink.
    He was weary, but not tired in a way conducive to sleep. Maybe he should walk over to the Lotus Diner, drink a hot chocolate, and trade insults with Thel, if she was working late.
    Better, he decided, to lock up the apartment and call it a night. That way he could sleep on what he’d written on his legal pad. Maybe something would occur to him in his dreams, and he’d remember it tomorrow morning and everything would make sense.
    Then he remembered that nothing ever entirely made sense and went to bed.

15
    The first thing Quinn saw when he entered the Lotus Diner the next morning was Thel. She was in her usual acerbic mood, which was somehow reassuring.
    After a breakfast of biscuits, a three-egg cheese omelet, bacon, and two cups of coffee, Quinn walked from the Lotus Diner to the office on West Seventy-ninth Street. Dr. Gregory, whom Quinn infrequently saw at the doctor’s medical service over on Columbus, would hardly have approved of the meal, but he’d endorse the walk.
    The morning hadn’t yet heated up and was beautiful. Sun glinted off the buildings and made vivid the canvas canopies over entrances and outdoor restaurants. Produce and fresh-cut flowers in outside stands sweetened the air. The bustle and rumble of the city was background music for millions of dramas. The city in its entirety was a bold and brassy Broadway musical and didn’t know it.
    Even the exhaust fumes smelled good to Quinn. It was the kind of morning that promised hope, at least for a while, though he realized it could be a con, like the rest of the city. New York liked to trick people. Even astound them.
    Pearl and Fedderman were already in the office. Pearl was hunched over her computer, dark eyes fixed on the monitor, her outstretched right hand deftly moving her mouse on its pad as if playing on a Ouija board. The low-tech Fedderman was slouched at his desk reading a newspaper. The trespass and assault at Mary Bakehouse’s apartment was mentioned in the Post police blotter section, but it hadn’t made the Times. Not that it would have meant anything to Fedderman, who was reading the Times anyway. He’d probably be too busy today to read any other newspaper.
    Nor would it have meant much of anything to Quinn, who had other things on his mind.
    “No phone messages,” Pearl said, glancing over at him.
    Quinn grunted and went over to the table where the occasionally gurgling brewer sat. He poured himself his third coffee of the morning.
    “We thought maybe our missing client Chrissie might have called,” Fedderman said.
    Quinn wandered back to stand between their desks, sipping coffee that would never be as good as the stuff at the Lotus Diner.
    “Feds and I have a bet,” Pearl said. “He thinks we’ll never see Chrissie Keller again. I think we will, and there’ll be an explanation for her disappearance.”
    “What kind of explanation?” Quinn asked.
    Pearl smiled. “Not necessarily one we’ll believe.”
    “What if she can’t contact us because the Carver’s made sure it’s impossible?”
    Pearl had considered that and saw it as unlikely. But there was no ruling it out. “It’s something to keep in mind,” she said, “but I do lean the other way. From the beginning, Chrissie struck me as the disappearing type. Not playing straight with us from word one.”
    “Meanwhile,” Quinn said, “she’s still our client. We’re spending her money, so we’ll continue to work the case, no matter what Renz says.”
    They both looked at him.
    Fedderman folded his paper closed and said, “Renz?” As if a rare and unpleasant ailment had been mentioned.
    Quinn told them about yesterday evening’s phone call.
    When he was finished, Fedderman said, “Is that guy ever, for even one second, not a self-serving prick?”
    Quinn shrugged. “He’s a