Chapter Five

      “I’M STARTING TO think I should be more worried about you than the damned bust,” Larue said, heaving an exhausted sigh as he sank into the chair behind his desk.

      Quinn shrugged. “I’m not saying what’s real and what’s not—just that death follows that bust.”

      “Or you—when you’re looking for it,” Larue muttered. “Another two dead, another precinct involved—and no bust and no explanation,” he said. “What happened to bring you out there just in time for that particular murder?”

      “I told you. I was in a bar. I asked a couple of guys if they’d heard anything. Larue, listen. There’s a buyer somewhere in the city and I need to find out who. Word’s out that someone—with money—wants the bust. As long as down-and-outers, as well as habitual criminals, know there’s a buyer, people will keep killing others over the bust.”

      “Why kill the hooker?” Larue asked.

      He had crime scene photos in front him on the desk. One photo of the man dead in the yard and the other of the woman Quinn had watched die.

      “Because she was there,” Quinn replied.

      “The first guy—”

      “Check out your forensic evidence. I think you’ll find that the dead man is the thief who broke into Gladys Simon’s house as she was busy committing suicide,” Quinn said.

      “So, whoever killed the thief and the hooker now has the bust. That’s what you’re telling me?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you have any idea of this person’s identity?”

      “Sure. It’s another thief thinking he can buy his way out of the ghetto.”

      “You don’t happen to have a name for him, do you?”

      “No.”

      “Or a way to learn a name?”

      “No.”

      “So, while I’m looking for a killer, without the least conception of who it might be, you’re going to be looking for the same man—because you think he has the bust.”

      Quinn lifted his hands in a vague motion. “Thing is, when you find your killer, you still won’t stop the killing.”

      “Because of the bust?” Larue sounded tired and skeptical.

      “To someone out there, it’s a rare commodity and the offer for it is high,” Quinn said.

      “Why didn’t this buyer just contact Hank or Gladys Simon?” Larue asked.

      “Maybe they didn’t know in time that the Simons had the thing. I didn’t know myself until I heard about Vic Brown being in jail, ranting and raving. If a smart thief has a lead on an object, he won’t share that information.”

      “So you have no direction you can give me?”

      “All I can give you is what you already have as a good cop, Larue,” Quinn told him. “Find out about our dead thief and his girl. Find out who the hell else knew what he was up to. It was taken by someone in his circle. Someone who knew what he was going to do—and where he was planning to make the sale.”

      Larue picked up a folder and tossed it back down. “Dead man—Leroy Jenkins, arrested three times for possession, out on probation once. His girlfriend? Ivy Hunter, three arrests, all for prostitution. Known associates? Half the dealers in the city, including the new group that poured in to take advantage of the open market after the storms.”