Night Kills Read Online Free Page B

it if the quasi-official presence of Quinn and his team was revealed too soon. On the other hand, he knew they’d be media subjects sooner or later—that was even the idea. They were, after all, part of Renz’s team—working for him in particular as well as for the city. And Renz wouldn’t be shocked by the fact that the NYPD had more than one leak.
    Still, he was the commissioner. Cindy understood and respected power. She would give it its due, up to a point.
    She took a long pull of Guinness and fished her cell phone from her purse on the chair beside her. Renz’s direct number was on her speed dial.
    No answer.
    She tried his cell phone.
    Apparently it was turned off.
    Cindy dialed the general number of the Puzzle Palace, her term for One Police Plaza, and was politely put on ignore. She sighed and drummed her fingers. Waiting patiently for anything wasn’t in Cindy’s nature.
    Hell with him, she thought, cutting the connection. She’d tried to give him a heads-up before releasing the story every other media outlet in the city probably knew about anyway but couldn’t confirm. The clock was ticking and she’d done what she could.
    Cindy had been here before and knew how it worked. When City Beat hit the newsstands and vending machines tomorrow morning, the hounds would be loosed. Renz as well as the killer would have to play the fox. Quinn and his detectives would occupy the area between hounds and foxes, perilous ground.
    Keyed up as she was with anticipation, Cindy wasn’t hungry. She took another long sip of Guinness and pushed aside her barely touched bowl of stew. Placing her half-rim reading glasses low on the bridge of her nose, she arranged the draft of her story—which was jotted down in her own custom shorthand that only she could read—before her on the table. Then she flicked down the menu on her cell phone and pressed the button that dialed her editor at City Beat .
    â€œAre you sitting down?” she asked when he picked up.
    Without waiting for an answer, she told him what she had and began reading aloud into the phone, but not so loud that anyone in the restaurant might overhear.
    Just as she’d thought, he loved it.
    By the time she flipped down the lid of her phone, Cindy’s appetite had magically returned. She pulled the still-warm bowl of stew back close to her from across the table and ordered another Guinness.
    Â 
    He’d sawn the broomstick in half. Now he finished sharpening one end and began the sanding. He enjoyed this part. He would use increasingly more finely grained sandpaper as he shaped the end into a gradually tapered fine point.
    For almost an hour he sanded, idly watching television as he worked. An old spaghetti Western starring Clint Eastwood was playing. The TV was on mute, so he could only read Eastwood’s taut dialogue in closed caption at the bottom of the screen. That was okay. He’d seen the movie half a dozen times and could practically fill in the dialogue himself. The rhythmic sound of the sandpaper on wood was soothing as he felt the tapering broomstick take shape in his hands.
    Finally, when his hands and forearms began to ache from the effort, he set the broomstick and sandpaper aside. He ran a finger along the shaft of the broomstick, all the way to its point. The wood was smooth now and would require only about an hour’s more sanding with the finely grained paper. Then he would go over it with tack cloth, and later he’d apply a good oil and rub it in well. Not too much oil. He wanted the sharpened broomstick smooth, but not too smooth. Feeling the resistance, that was part of it.
    It wasn’t supposed to excite him; that hadn’t been part of the plan. But it did. There was no denying it. And it made him wonder, did they have to be dead?
    His throat was tight. He swallowed.
    Amazing, he thought, the things you discovered about yourself. It was his job that kept opening doors in