Night Kills by John Lutz

Nobbler said. “Most doors have locks.”
    That was all he said or had to say. He knew locks were seldom a problem for Greeve, who had been an officer in the old Safe and Loft division investigating burglaries. In fact, locks were something of a challenge to Greeve, who would probably pay a late-night visit to the office on Seventy-ninth. Late night was his time, and darkness his good friend. He could see like a cat in the dark, which was another reason for his nickname. Greeve was viewed by his fellow officers as being a little spooky.
    â€œWhat about my caseload?” Greeve asked. He removed the toothpick and reinserted it, this time in the right corner of his mouth.
    â€œI’ve reassigned it. You’ll be on this more or less full-time. Report to me daily, or if anything notable needs to be shared.”
    â€œUnderstood,” Greeve said.
    â€œNeedless to say, for now this is just between the two of us.”
    â€œNeedless,” Greeve agreed.
    Nobbler felt a slight twinge. He couldn’t be sure sometimes if Greeve was taking him seriously or secretly making fun of him. Well, that was simply Greeve’s personality, or lack of same. One way or another, the man was useful and reliable.
    Nobbler picked up a blue ballpoint pen and started playing with it using both hands, his elbows on the desk. He stared at the pen as if he’d never seen any kind of writing instrument before. He often did that with common objects. It gave the impression he was thinking of something other than what he was talking about, and was speaking in the abstract. “To be something like frank,” he said, “I’m not sure a police commissioner should run his own team of detectives, brought in and controlled by him as temporary employees of the NYPD.”
    â€œI know others in the department who feel the same way, sir.”
    Nobbler held the pen vertically and studied it, as if gauging it for angle. “Damned shame, but there it is.”
    â€œYes, sir. And splashed all over the media for everyone to see. There’s not much you can say, though. As a politician and media darling, Renz is golden.”
    â€œThere might be plenty we can do without saying anything,” Nobbler said. “It’s just a matter of deciding what, how, and when. There’s not much question about why.” He pressed the top of the pen and the point clicked out. Here was magic, his expression seemed to say. “I guess we’d both better get busy, Sergeant. The bad guys never take time off.” He dragged over some papers from the corner of his desk so he could sign them.
    The conversation was over. A conversation that would never be referred to, because it hadn’t taken place. Like the tree that had fallen in the woods without anyone there to hear it. Anyone who mattered.
    Greeve had experienced several such conversations with Deputy Chief Nobbler. The toothpick did a little dance and he almost smiled as he moved toward the door. “We’re on the same page, sir.”
    Which didn’t mean they were going by the book.

8
    Two weeks earlier
    What the hell?
    Shellie Marston stood before her open closet door and stared at her meager wardrobe. The black dress with the gray polka dots was still in its plastic bag from the dry cleaners, but she was sure she’d hung it yesterday on the opposite side of the closet rod.
    In fact, some of her other clothes seemed to be out of place. The white blouse with the lace collar—she wouldn’t have jammed it between the two business blazers she seldom wore these days. And look, one of the lapels was bent.
    This was damned odd. In fact, it made her flesh creep.
    She recalled now the morning a few days ago when her cosmetics seemed to have been rearranged. Not drastically. Maybe a jar or bottle transposed or otherwise out of place. A can of hairspray she recalled as still useful had been dead when she picked it up, without the usual sputtering and