Slaughter by John Lutz

same person,” Quinn said.
    â€œNot much chance of that,” Fedderman said.
    â€œâ€˜The Gremlin,’ some newscasters are calling him,” Anna said. “A kind of ghost in the machine, causing trouble.”
    She apparently believed the single-killer-arsonist theory.
    â€œGremlins have been known to tinker with electronics or engines and bring down airplanes,” Fedderman said.
    Quinn looked at him. “Who told you that? The FAA?”
    â€œHarold.”
    Of course.
    â€œThose media people who tagged the killer the Gremlin,” Quinn said. “Was one of those mouthy newscasters Minnie Miner?”
    Anna said, “How did you know?”
    Quinn wasn’t telling.
    Minnie Miner had cooperated, and the rapacious little newshound would surely want something in return.
    But right now Quinn was trying to keep a lid on things, and gremlin was a kinder word than terrorist .
    â€œâ€˜Gremlin,’” he said. “Very descriptive.”
    â€œWe wouldn’t want it to become a household word,” Fedderman said.
    â€œWe wouldn’t,” Quinn said, “but the killer might.”

11
    â€œA bout half an hour before the fire in the Village,” Renz said, “there was a similar fire uptown.”
    It was the next morning, and he and Quinn were in World Famous Diner on Amsterdam, having coffee and doughnuts. Renz had a large red napkin tucked under his chin so as not to get powdered sugar on his Ralph Lauren tie, tan silk suit jacket, or white shirt. Quinn could see the tiny roughness of sugar on the part of the shirt that showed, like lumps of something under a recent snowfall. Probably all the sugar would drop onto Renz’s pants when he stood up.
    â€œCoincidence?” he asked Renz.
    Renz shook his head, causing sugar to drop from his napkin to somewhere beneath table level. “Diversion. Same arsonist.”
    â€œHow do we know that?”
    â€œThe fire was in a dry cleaners only a few blocks from a firehouse. It didn’t get a chance to burn very long before the FDNY arrived in full force and extinguished the flames.”
    â€œStart with an incendiary device?” Quinn asked.
    â€œYesh,” Renz said around a mouthful of chocolate-iced doughnut. “Alsho an alarm clock timer. The firebug didn’t splash a lot of flammable liquid—probably plain old gasoline—around the place. Enough, though, that the blackened clock didn’t yield any prints or anything else. It was the same kind of job as down in the Village, only on a smaller scale. Like a warm-up as well as a diversion that would rob the larger conflagration of firefighters and equipment.”
    â€œAny casualties?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œSame amateur touch?”
    â€œOh, yes. Almost certainly the same arsonist. It was almost like a practice run.”
    Quinn sipped from his white coffee mug. “Witnesses?”
    â€œNot of any value. One guy in the building across the street claimed he saw somebody or something running from the fire about an hour before it even began to look like a fire.”
    Hope moved in Quinn’s heart. Not a lot of hope, because he knew how much an eyewitness report from someone glimpsing something from a window across the street was worth.
    â€œHe just got a quick look, doesn’t know if there’s any connection with the fire. But the guy was moving fast, as if trying to get away from the area without drawing a lot of attention to himself.”
    â€œYou think this witness is worth talking to?” Quinn asked.
    â€œDefinitely.”
    â€œSmall guy?”
    Renz stared at him. “Yeah. Somebody else see him?”
    â€œMaybe somebody downtown.” Quinn looked into his coffee mug, as if for answers, found only questions. “Anything else your witness notice about the uptown guy?”
    â€œThat suggests he was also the Village firebug?” Renz glanced around as if to make sure they