Mister X by John Lutz

where to find him, but they wouldn’t have bothered him unless the call was at least somewhat important.
    He knew where the phone was mounted on the wall near the doorway to the kitchen, at the end of the counter. As he approached it he saw that the receiver was unhooked and lying on the floor. He gripped the cord and hand-over-hand pulled up the receiver like a fish he’d caught and held it to his ear.
    “That you, Quinn?” Pearl’s voice.
    “Me,” Quinn said. “Straight from my tuna melt and coffee. Tell me this is important?”
    “As your sandwich, you mean?”
    “I’m getting enough crap from Thel, so don’t push it. What’s going on?”
    “Thel? You mean that woman hasn’t been fired by now? With her attitude and that mouth?”
    “ You hang on—why not her? Why’d you call, Pearl?”
    “Harley Renz phoned here. He wants you to get back at him at his office like yesterday or sooner.”
    “Get back at him?”
    “ To him. You know what I meant, Quinn.”
    Thel has infected us all. “Renz say what it is he wanted?”
    “You, to call him.” Pearl sighed her loud telephone sigh, as if dealing with a teenage obscene caller. “He is the police commissioner, Quinn. Maybe you should deign to return his call.”
    “You got a point,” Quinn said, and hung up.
    He depressed the old wall phone’s cradle button, then let it bounce up before he punched out Harley Renz’s direct line at 1 Police Plaza. This was no time to goof around with Pearl. Harley was police commissioner, so maybe he did have something important to say.
    Or ask.
    Or demand.
    As he listened to the phone chirp on the other end of the connection, Quinn glanced over and saw that Thel had gone from where she’d been wiping down the counter and eavesdropping on his conversation. Now she was standing by his table, which she’d completely cleared, and was ignoring him while scribbling on her order pad, figuring his total.
    And her tip.
    The chirping in Quinn’s right ear was replaced by Harley Renz’s impatient growl.
    “’Bout time you returned my call.”
    “What’s this about, Harley?”
    “Your investigation,” Renz said. “I want you to stop it. Refund your fee. Tell your client it’s over.”
    “Can’t.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Can’t find my client.”
    “You mean she’s lost? Like missing keys?”
    “Like a missing client.”
    After a long silence, Renz said in a soft but strained voice. “Just stop your investigation, Quinn. As of now, this phone call. I don’t care if you never find your client. Never, never, never. Do I make myself clear?”
    “Never,” Quinn said, and hung up.
     
    Mary Bakehouse had gotten over most of the uneasiness about the time she’d come home and found her computer on. She simply must have left it on that morning and not realized it. There was no point in looking for things to make herself afraid.
    On the surface, her situation was getting better. A couple of job interviews had left her with the impression the human resource directors might actually call her. And the tobacco smoke smell was finally out of her apartment. Or was she simply getting used to it?
    She couldn’t be sure sometimes that after being away for a while and entering the apartment, she didn’t for just a second catch a whiff of the awful scent. Mary hated smoking. Her favorite teacher in primary school, a heavy smoker, had died of lung cancer when Mary was ten. It had left quite an impression on her, as well as a loathing for the tobacco industry and smoking in general. Maybe that was all she was smelling, her hate.
    The city itself seemed harder for her now, more dangerous. She hadn’t felt that way until she’d been accosted last week by a homeless man who’d politely asked for any loose change she might have. Mary hadn’t had any change, but the man wouldn’t take no for an answer. His attitude quickly changed, and he’d grabbed the sleeve of her raincoat and yanked her back toward him when she tried to