Night Kills Read Online Free Page A
Author: John Lutz
smile. There was nothing wrong with this guy. Not that she could see, anyway. He didnât look like the type whoâd need a matchmaking service. But then Shellie didnât see herself as that type, either.
She told herself again that there was nothing disreputable or dangerous about Internet hookups. Not anymore. This was a competitive and busy world, especially here in the largest and busiest of cities. People didnât have time to move tentatively in finding and developing relationships, as they often still did in Nebraska. Sheâd even known a girl in high school whose prospective suitors had to ask her parentsâ permission to date her.
Quaint, Shellie thought. And even if someone wanted to ask Shellieâs father for her hand, she didnât have a father. She had only herself. And she could make up her own mind.
The closer David Adams got to her table, the more sure she was that sheâd made the right decision in contacting E-Bliss.org.
âShellie?â he asked when he was within a few feet of her. Even that one wordâher nameâwas smooth and softly modulated. This was a gentle man, obviously. A bit hesitant and shy, like herself. A gentle man, but not at all effeminate.
âShellie,â she confirmed, then smiled and stood up. She felt the sole of one New Balance slide over the toe of the other. Not noticeable. âYou must be David.â
They shook hands. Gentle again.
Flesh upon flesh. Shellie hoped there might be some electricity there. Some arc of emotion that suggested a future truly meaningful. Physical attraction wasnât everything, except at first.
She wasnât disappointed.
5
The present
Cindy Sellers sat alone at a corner table in P.J. Clarkeâs on Third Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street. Around her were muted voices, the occasional clink of flatware on china, and laughter from the adjoining bar. The mingled scents of spices hung in the air.
The restaurant part of the venerable tavern was dim, with dark wood paneling, and there was something about the young woman seated in isolation before her bowl of stew and a Guinness that discouraged any of the rogues and business types at the bar or some of the other tables from approaching her. She was reasonably attractive, with inquisitive large brown eyes, short brown hair, and a trim figure, but there was an intensity about her that sometimes drove people away. She was very good at going after those people, overcoming their reluctance, and getting them to talk about matters they wouldnât have dreamed of telling anyone else.
It was still too early for the dinner crowd, and the place was quiet enough for her to think, which was why sheâd come here. Before her on the table were her notes on what sheâd chosen to call the Torso Murders, as well as a revised draft of what would be her story.
And a hell of a story it was. The time was near when sheâd no longer feel obligated to keep it all off the record, as sheâd promised Renz.
In fact, maybe the time was here.
Cindy took a sip of Guinness and allowed that the public had a right to know if a sadistic killer was in its midst and might kill again. It was, in fact, her professional obligation to inform the people, as long as it would sell papers and advance her journalism career. But Renz was police commissioner now, not just another workaday cop with rank, and he was riding a political high. Of course, he didnât know that he wasnât her only source, and that she was aware heâd called in retired homicide captain Frank Quinn, along with his detective team, that pushy bitch Pearl and the hapless but occasionally shrewd Fedderman, to work the case. There were people in the NYPD hierarchy who didnât like the prospect of semioutsiders covering themselves and Renz with glory so Renz could advance to an even higher office. These dissatisfied cops were people Cindy Sellers could and did use.
Certainly Renz wouldnât like
She told herself again that there was nothing disreputable or dangerous about Internet hookups. Not anymore. This was a competitive and busy world, especially here in the largest and busiest of cities. People didnât have time to move tentatively in finding and developing relationships, as they often still did in Nebraska. Sheâd even known a girl in high school whose prospective suitors had to ask her parentsâ permission to date her.
Quaint, Shellie thought. And even if someone wanted to ask Shellieâs father for her hand, she didnât have a father. She had only herself. And she could make up her own mind.
The closer David Adams got to her table, the more sure she was that sheâd made the right decision in contacting E-Bliss.org.
âShellie?â he asked when he was within a few feet of her. Even that one wordâher nameâwas smooth and softly modulated. This was a gentle man, obviously. A bit hesitant and shy, like herself. A gentle man, but not at all effeminate.
âShellie,â she confirmed, then smiled and stood up. She felt the sole of one New Balance slide over the toe of the other. Not noticeable. âYou must be David.â
They shook hands. Gentle again.
Flesh upon flesh. Shellie hoped there might be some electricity there. Some arc of emotion that suggested a future truly meaningful. Physical attraction wasnât everything, except at first.
She wasnât disappointed.
5
The present
Cindy Sellers sat alone at a corner table in P.J. Clarkeâs on Third Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street. Around her were muted voices, the occasional clink of flatware on china, and laughter from the adjoining bar. The mingled scents of spices hung in the air.
The restaurant part of the venerable tavern was dim, with dark wood paneling, and there was something about the young woman seated in isolation before her bowl of stew and a Guinness that discouraged any of the rogues and business types at the bar or some of the other tables from approaching her. She was reasonably attractive, with inquisitive large brown eyes, short brown hair, and a trim figure, but there was an intensity about her that sometimes drove people away. She was very good at going after those people, overcoming their reluctance, and getting them to talk about matters they wouldnât have dreamed of telling anyone else.
It was still too early for the dinner crowd, and the place was quiet enough for her to think, which was why sheâd come here. Before her on the table were her notes on what sheâd chosen to call the Torso Murders, as well as a revised draft of what would be her story.
And a hell of a story it was. The time was near when sheâd no longer feel obligated to keep it all off the record, as sheâd promised Renz.
In fact, maybe the time was here.
Cindy took a sip of Guinness and allowed that the public had a right to know if a sadistic killer was in its midst and might kill again. It was, in fact, her professional obligation to inform the people, as long as it would sell papers and advance her journalism career. But Renz was police commissioner now, not just another workaday cop with rank, and he was riding a political high. Of course, he didnât know that he wasnât her only source, and that she was aware heâd called in retired homicide captain Frank Quinn, along with his detective team, that pushy bitch Pearl and the hapless but occasionally shrewd Fedderman, to work the case. There were people in the NYPD hierarchy who didnât like the prospect of semioutsiders covering themselves and Renz with glory so Renz could advance to an even higher office. These dissatisfied cops were people Cindy Sellers could and did use.
Certainly Renz wouldnât like
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