He raised his gaze to look at Pearl. She seemed calm, standing there with her Glock still in her hand. The hand and gun were as steady as if they were sculptured stone.

“You never were one to wait in the car,” Quinn said.

Pearl looked down at him. “Lucky you.”

A uniformed cop walked over and bent low, found the stray gun beneath the killer’s body, and slid the weapon ten feet away. He didn’t straighten up, but stayed still with his head bowed, listening to something the dying killer had to say. Then the killer turned his head toward Quinn, but his eyes were closed, his mouth half open, as if he’d been interrupted mid-word.

Then, incredibly, the mouth smiled.

The uniformed cop sauntered over to Quinn and squatted down near him. He motioned with his head toward D.O.A. “He’s good as dead. On his way out even if the paramedics pump blood in him by the gallon.”

“Good,” Quinn said.

The cop smiled thinly. “I wouldn’t contradict you.”

Pearl laid her hand on Quinn’s forehead. “Have we got medical transport on the way?”

“We do,” the cop assured her.

“He whispered something to you,” Quinn said, gripping the cop’s sleeve as the man started to straighten up.

The cop nodded. “Told me to give you a message. Said I should tell you checkmate. Just that one word.”

Quinn looked over and still couldn’t be sure the killer was dead.

“I think he’s gone,” the cop said.

Quinn clenched his teeth against the pain and fought to stand up on his good leg. The cop helped him, even though Quinn pushed him away at first.

“Checkmate,” the cop said again.

Quinn ran out of strength and sat down again hard on the pavement.

“Go tell him royal flush,” he said.

But the D.O.A. killer was dead, in a pool of his own blood, seduced by a woman.

82

Two days after the shoot-out at the Far Castle, Renz dropped by the Q&A office and informed Quinn that tests had established that the Bellezza bust found buried beneath the thornbush outside the restaurant was less than ten years old. The letters, which had been artificially aged, were also phony.

Another imitation.

Quinn wasn’t surprised.

“Any word on where Winston Castle or Maria are?” he asked.

“Blown in the wind,” Renz said, “like the answers to a lot of questions. The Ohio family members—or whatever they are—know from nothing.”

“I have a feeling Castle and his wife—if Maria’s really his wife—will turn up again. There aren’t any warrants out for them.”

“There would be if I could think of some charges,” Renz said. Not meaning it. Why stir up this mess and make it politically radioactive again?

“What about the restaurant?” Quinn asked. He adjusted his bandaged leg where it was propped on a low hassock.

“The Far Castle is closed. Sign in the window says it’s temporary, for remodeling. Doesn’t say for how long.” Renz glanced around the office. He and Quinn were the only ones there. “Pearl okay?”

“Physically, yeah. But she’s got a lot of mental baggage to rummage through.”

“Feds?”

“Minor wounds,” Quinn said. He smiled faintly. “They seem to have saved his marriage.”

“Weaver’s out of the hospital already,” Renz said. “She’s a tough lady.”

“Pearl visited her there,” Quinn said. “That’s probably as well as those two will ever get along. And it won’t last.”

“Tough ladies,” Quinn said. “That’s what brought D.O.A. down.”

“Poetic something,” Renz said. “Justice would have been if we could have let Pearl, Weaver, and Feds’s wife, Penny, team up with all the victims and beat the bastard to death.” Renz raised both hands. “I know, I know. ‘Then we’d all be just like him.’ ”

“No,” Quinn said, “I wasn’t going to say that.”

This was the second time Pearl visited Nancy Weaver. They were alone in the room, which was on the fifth floor and let in too much traffic noise.

“It’s nice of you to come by,” Weaver said. She was resting on her back in bed, an IV tube snaking to the back of her right hand. What was visible of her body showed bruises that were every color of the spectrum

“We’re on the same floor,” Pearl said. “So it’s no big deal.”

Weaver didn’t nod. Didn’t move.

“It’s not like us to get along this well,” Pearl said, for a moment wondering what the hell she was doing there.

“I’m not hurt as bad as I look,” Weaver said. “I’ll be out of here soon.”

“Same for me,” Pearl said.

Weaver shook her head. “God, you almost died. You can’t just walk out of here after a few days.”

“We both almost died,” Pearl said.

“Occupational hazard.”

Pearl wondered if Weaver was as far along on the recuperative scale as she thought. Like she might disentangle herself from all those tubes, struggle out of bed, and stroll out of here.

“Are you two plotting something?” a woman’s voice asked.

Both women looked at a hefty nurse in a blue uniform. She was holding a clipboard and staring over it at Pearl and Weaver. A plastic tag pinned to her uniform declared that her name was Florence.

“Should you be out of your room?” the nurse asked Pearl, fixing her with a Quinn-like look.

“Doctor said it was okay,” Pearl lied.

“I’d like for you to step out for a while,” Florence said.

Pearl nodded, moved to the bed, and squeezed Weaver’s hand. “You’re a good cop,” she said.

Weaver smiled up at her. “We both are.”

Pearl was in her room, fully dressed, when Florence knocked and then entered.

Florence’s eyes widened and became hard. “What do you think you’re doing out of your hospital gown?”

“Checking myself out,” Pearl said. “Going home.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can,” Pearl said. “I’m a cop. I can do whatever I want as long as it’s legal.” She pushed past Florence and felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“If you impede me in any way,” Pearl said, “I’m going to handcuff you to the bed and leave you there.”

Pearl felt the hand on her shoulder become lighter. She walked out from beneath it and went out the door.

Florence followed her into the hall. “I know there’s something going on between you and Nancy Weaver. Some kind of competition. I could see it in the two of you. This isn’t the time or place for that kind of nonsense.”

“What kind of nonsense would you suggest?”

“Anything that won’t turn relatively minor injuries into something more serious.”

Pearl stopped and stood so she was facing the nurse, holding her ground. “You really can’t stop me, you know.”

“I know. But I should be able to. For your own good. Some of those wounds might become infected.”

“Doubt it,” Pearl said. “But if they do, I’ll come back. I promise.”

Florence watched her as she walked down the hall, toward the elevators.

Then the concerned nurse headed for Weaver’s room, praying that she wasn’t dressed in street clothes.

“Lord save them from themselves,” she murmured.

83

The week after D.O.A. died, Quinn was at his desk at Q&A, leaning back in his swivel chair and barely keeping it upright by using his new cane. There was a space of about half an inch where perfect balance was achieved with the cane’s tip only slightly touching the floor. He was getting tired of that game and wondered if he could remove the cane altogether and remain upright, when his desk phone rang.

The sudden noise surprised the hell out of Quinn, and he and the chair almost went over.

He managed to remain upright, dug the tip of the cane into the floor, and swiveled the chair around to where he could reach the phone, answer it, and identify himself.