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detectives Kasner and Fedderman. Nobbler wasn’t crazy about the three of them, and in his mind they were no longer NYPD. Especially Quinn, who shouldn’t be able to get anywhere near the department. They gave him a ton of money and cut him loose, so what the hell else did he want? Nobbler didn’t so much resent Quinn because he was bent, more because he was bent in the wrong direction. He turned his thoughts to Kasner and Fedderman, but only briefly. Couple of losers.
    What power did Renz have, to call these three retreads in as his private detective squad to solve a case that would benefit him politically?
    But Nobbler knew what power—that of position and popularity. No one in or out of city government wanted to cross Renz, and strictly speaking, it wasn’t illegal for the NYPD to hire outside contractors or temporarily reactivate former cops. Especially if they were acting under the auspices of the commissioner.
    Right now Renz was on a roll and wanted to stay that way. Ambitious bastard. Not that Nobbler could hold that against him.
    Disgusted, he tossed the paper on top of the Times and sat back and sipped at his coffee, which was now almost too cool to drink. The information in the City Beat article was probably all over TV and radio news, and late-edition papers would pick it up. Nobbler knew how it would go, now that the media had a hand to play, and he knew how he’d deal with them if he were in charge.
    But he wasn’t in charge. He didn’t like having what he considered his turf trespassed upon. And that was exactly what was happening. He was sure as hell going to do something about it.
    For a long time he sat sipping cool coffee and thought about just what it was that he could or would do. There were possibilities, always possibilities. And future opportunities to be seized.
    Whatever it took, he’d figure out something so that Renz and company would find themselves in a quagmire.
    No, not a quagmire. Quicksand.
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    â€œIt seems to have hit the fan,” Fedderman said, as he claimed the chair he’d sat in last night in Quinn’s den. The room was brighter today, with yellow sunlight spilling in between the opened drapes. There were a lot of dust motes swirling softly in the sunlight. Just looking at them made Pearl feel as if she had to sneeze. She figured Quinn didn’t clean very often.
    Pearl sat in the armchair again but didn’t draw up and cross her legs this time. Her sensible black shoes were planted firmly on the floor, her hands resting lightly on her thighs. She was dressed in dark slacks, a white blouse, and a gray blazer with black buttons. She looked like a cop.
    Like Fedderman, she was carrying this morning’s edition of City Beat. “It’ll be all over the TV news, too,” she said. “Some of those talking heads read things other than their prompters.” She twisted her newspaper into a roll and wielded it as if she wanted to hit someone.
    She was right. Quinn had checked New York One TV before going out and walking to the Lotus Diner for an early breakfast. They were already broadcasting from the places where the two torsos had been found. Then, when he’d returned to his apartment, he’d looked in on CNN and Fox News. The story had already gone national. He wasn’t surprised that news of the murders had hit so soon and with such impact. It was a sensational story, like one of those TV cop shows, only real. That was why political-and media-savvy Renz had been so desperate to hire them.
    â€œHad time to go over the murder books?” Quinn asked, settling down behind his desk. The unlit Cuban cigar was still in the ashtray. He was smoking less and less these days, like other New Yorkers, being systematically backed into a physical and psychological corner by the mayor and his minions. Quinn reminded himself that the mayor had his health and well-being in mind. It kept him from disliking the mayor.
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