Table of Contents

Cover Page

Whiskey Sour

Cover Book

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Excerpt 1

Excerpt 2

Excerpt 3

Praise 1

Praise 2

Acknowledgments

Also By

Copyright

Bloody Mary

Cover Book

Title Page

Dedication

Contents Book

Preface

Prologue

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

Acknowledgments

Also by

Copyright

Rusty Nail

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Box Book

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Also By

Copyright

Dirty Martini

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Box book

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Also By

Praise 01

Praise 02

Praise 03

Excerpt 1

Excerpt 2

Excerpt 3

Copyright

Fuzzy Navel

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Front Matter

4:38 P.M. KORK

4:57 P.M. MUNCHEL

5:32 P.M. JACK

6:12 P.M. JACK

6:21 P.M. MARY

6:42 P.M. JACK

6:46 P.M. MUNCHEL

6:49 P.M. JACK

6:53 P.M. MUNCHEL

6:54 P.M. KORK

6:56 P.M. JACK

8:02 P.M. KORK

8:15 P.M. JACK

8:18 P.M. SWANSON

8:22 P.M. JACK

8:30 P.M. JACK

8:38 P.M. KORK

9:03 P.M. SWANSON

9:07 P.M. JACK

9:08 P.M. HERB

9:09 P.M. MUNCHEL

9:10 P.M. JACK

9:21 P.M. PESSOLANO

9:22 P.M. JACK

9:28 P.M. JACK

9:31 P.M. PESSOLANO

9:34 P.M. MARY

9:56 P.M. SWANSON

10:00 P.M. HERB

10:06 P.M. PESSOLANO

10:11 P.M. JACK

10:13 P.M. KORK

10:15 P.M. JACK

10:22 P.M. MUNCHEL

10:25 P.M. JACK

10:31 P.M. PESSOLANO

10:33 P.M. HERB

10:43 P.M. JACK

10:42 P.M. KORK

10:46 P.M. SWANSON

10:49 P.M. JACK

10:52 P.M. PESSOLANO

10:54 P.M. JACK

11:00 P.M. PHIN

11:03 P.M. KORK

11:07 P.M. JACK

11:09 P.M. MARY

11:11 P.M. MUNCHEL

11:18 P.M. PHIN

11:31 P.M. KORK

11:36 P.M. JACK

11:44 P.M. PHIN

11:46 P.M. KORK

11:46 P.M. PESSOLANO

11:47 P.M. MARY

11:49 P.M. PHIN

11:49 P.M. JACK

11:49 P.M. MUNCHEL

11:53 P.M. JACK

11:53 P.M. KORK

11:53 P.M. MARY

11:55 P.M. MUNCHEL

MIDNIGHT JACK

12:07 A.M. PHIN

12:08 A.M. MUNCHEL

12:09 A.M. JACK

12:11 A.M. KORK

12:15 A.M. JACK

12:17 A.M. KORK

12:23 A.M. JACK

1:24 A.M. KORK

1:38 A.M. JACK

4:57 P.M. JACK

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by

Copyright

Cherry Bomb

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Front Matter

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

Acknowledgments

Also by

Copyright

Copyright

Whiskey Sour

A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery

WHISKEY SOUR

J.A. KONRATH

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Excerpt 1

Excerpt 2

Excerpt 3

Praise 1

Praise 2

Acknowledgments

Also By

Copyright

This book is for M.
I love you today, and everyday.

WHISKEY SOUR

1½ oz. whiskey
1½ oz. sour mix

Shake well with ice and pour into an old-fashioned glass.

Garnish with cherry and orange slice.

Chapter 1

THERE WERE FOUR BLACK AND WHITES already at the 7-Eleven when I arrived. Several people had gathered in the parking lot behind the yellow police tape, huddling close for protection against the freezing Chicago rain.

They weren’t there for Slurpees.

I parked my 1986 Nova on the street and hung my star around my neck on a cord. The radio was full of chatter about “the lasagna on Monroe and Dearborn,” so I knew this was going to be an ugly one. I got out of the car.

It was cold, too cold for October. I wore a three-quarter-length London Fog trench coat over my blue Armani blazer and a gray skirt. The coat was the only one I had that fit over the blazer’s oversized shoulders, which left my legs exposed to the elements.

Freezing was the curse of the fashion savvy.

Detective First Class Herb Benedict hunched over a plastic tarpaulin, lifting up the side against the wind. His coat was unbuttoned, and his expansive stomach poured over the sides of his belt as he bent down. Herb’s hound dog jowls were pink with cold rain, and he scratched at his salt-and-pepper mustache as I approached.

“Kind of cold for a jacket like that, Jack.”

“But don’t I look good?”

“Sure. Shivering suits you.”

I walked to his side and squatted, peering down at the form under the tarp.

Female. Caucasian. Blonde. Twenties. Naked. Multiple stab wounds, running from her thighs to her shoulders, many of them yawning open like hungry, bloody mouths. The several around her abdomen were deep enough to see inside.

I felt my stomach becoming unhappy and turned my attention to her head. A red lesion ran around her neck, roughly the width of a pencil. Her lips were frozen in a snarl, the bloody rictus stretched wide like one of her stab wounds.

“This was stapled to her chest.” Benedict handed me a plastic evidence bag. In it was a three-by-five-inch piece of paper, crinkled edges on one end indicating it had been ripped from a spiral pad. It was spotty with blood and rain, but the writing on it was clear:

I let the tarp fall and righted myself. Benedict, the mind reader, handed me a cup of coffee that had been sitting on the curb.

“Who found the body?” I asked.

“Customer. Kid named Mike Donovan.”

I took a sip of coffee. It was so hot, it hurt. I took another.

“Who took the statement?”

“Robertson.”

Benedict pointed at the storefront window to the thin, uniformed figure of Robertson, talking with a teenager.

“Witnesses?”

“Not yet.”

“Who was behind the counter?”

“Owner. Being depoed as we speak. Didn’t see anything.”

I wiped some rain off my face and unbunched my shoulders as I entered the store, trying to look like the authority figure my title suggested.

The heat inside was both welcome and revolting. It warmed me considerably, but went hand in hand with the nauseating smell of hot dogs cooked way too long.

“Robertson.” I nodded at the uniform. “Sorry to hear about your dad.”

He shrugged. “He was seventy, and we always told him fast food would kill him.”

“Heart attack?”

“He was hit by a Pizza Express truck.”

I searched Robertson’s face for the faintest trace of a smirk, and didn’t find one. Then I turned my attention to Mike Donovan. He was no more than seventeen, brown hair long on top and shaved around the sides, wearing some baggy jeans that would have been big on Herb. Men got all the comfortable clothing trends.

“Mr. Donovan? I’m Lieutenant Daniels. Call me Jack.”

Donovan cocked his head to the side, the way dogs do when they don’t understand a command. Under his left armpit was a magazine with cars on the cover.

“Is your name really Jack Daniels? You’re a woman.”

“Thank you for noticing. I can show you my ID, if you want.”

He wanted, and I slipped the badge case off my neck and opened it up, letting him see my name in official police lettering. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, CPD. It was short for Jacqueline, but only my mother called me that.

He grinned. “Name like that, I bet you really score.”

I gave him a conspiratorial smirk, even though I hadn’t “scored” in ages.

“Run through it,” I said to Robertson.

“Mr. Donovan entered this establishment at approximately eight-fifty P. M., where he proceeded to buy the latest copy of Racing Power Magazine . . . ”

Mr. Donovan held out the magazine in question. “It’s their annual leotard issue.” He opened it to a page where two surgically enhanced women in spandex straddled a Corvette.

I gave it a token look-over to keep the kid cooperative. I cared for hot rods about as much as I cared for spandex.

“Where he proceeded to buy the latest copy of Racing Power Magazine.” Robertson eyed Donovan, annoyed at the interruption. “He also bought a Mounds candy bar. At approximately eight fifty-five, Mr. Donovan left the establishment, and proceeded to throw out the candy wrapper in the garbage can in front of the store. In the can was the victim, facedown, half covered in garbage.”

I glanced out the storefront window and looked for the garbage can. The crowd was getting larger and the rain was falling faster, but the can was nowhere to be found.

“It went to the lab before you got here, Jack.”

I glanced at Benedict, who’d sneaked up behind me.

“We didn’t want things to get any wetter than they already were. But we’ve got the pictures and the vids.”

My focus swiveled back to the scene outside. The cop with the video camera was now taping the faces in the crowd. Sometimes a nut will return to the scene and watch the action. Or so I’ve read in countless Ed McBain books. I gave the kid my attention again.

“Mr. Donovan, how did you notice the body if it was buried in garbage?”

“I . . . er, Mounds was having a contest. I forgot to check my wrapper to see if I’d won. So I reached back into the garbage to find it . . .”

“Did the can have a lid?”

“Yeah. One of those push lids that says ‘Thank you’ on it.”

“So you reached into the push slot . . .”

“Uh-huh, but I couldn’t find it. So I lifted the whole lid up, and there part of her was.”

“What part?”

“Her, uh, ass was sticking up.”

He gave me a nervous giggle.

“Then what did you do?”

“I couldn’t believe it. It was like, it wasn’t real. So I went back into the 7-Eleven and told the guy. He called the police.”

“Mr. Donovan, Officer Robertson is going to have to take you into the station to fill out a deposition. Do you need to call your parents?”

“My dad works nights.”

“Mom?”

He shook his head.

“Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“Yeah. A few blocks down on Monroe.”

“Officer Robertson will give you a ride home when you’re done.”

“Do you think I’ll be on the news?”

On cue, a network remote truck pulled into the lot, faster than the crappy weather warranted. The rear doors opened and the obligatory female reporter, perfectly made up and steely with resolve, led her crew toward the store. Benedict walked out to meet them, halting their advancement at the police barricade, giving them the closed crime scene speech.

The medical examiner pulled up behind the truck in his familiar Plymouth minivan. Two uniforms waved him through the barricade and I nodded a good-bye to Robertson and went to meet the ME.

The cold was a shock, my calves instant gooseflesh. Maxwell Hughes knelt down next to the tarp as I approached. His expression was all business when I caught his eye, drizzle dotting his glasses and dripping down his gray goatee.

“Daniels.”

“Hughes. What do you have?”

“I’d put her death at roughly three to five hours ago. Suffocation. Her windpipe is broken.”

“The stab wounds?”

“Postmortem. No defense cuts on her hands or arms, and not enough blood lost to have been inflicted while she was alive. See how one edge is rough, the other smooth?” He used a latex-gloved hand to stretch one of the wounds open. “The blade had a serrated edge. Maybe a hunting knife.”

“Raped?”

“Not from what I can tell. No signs of semen. No visible trauma to the vagina or anus. But this isn’t an autopsy.” Max was fond of adding that final caveat, though I’d yet to see an instance when the autopsy didn’t corroborate every one of his observations.

“The mouth?”

“No apparent damage. Tongue intact, protruding slightly. Consistent with strangulation. No bite marks. The blood in the mouth seeped up through her throat after she died. That coincides with the pooling of blood in her face. She was stored upside down.”

“She was found face-first in a garbage can.”

Hughes made his mouth into a tight thin line, and then reached into his pocket for a clean handkerchief to wipe the rain from his glasses. By the time he tucked it away, the glasses were wet again.

“Looks like you’ve got a real psycho here.”

“We’ll need the report on this one right away, Max.”

He opened up the yellow plastic tackle box that housed the tools of his trade and began bagging the corpse’s hands. I left him to his work.

More cops and newsies and gawkers arrived, and the carnival atmosphere of an important murder got into full swing. It would offend me, if I hadn’t seen it so many times.

Benedict finished his impromptu statement for the media and began selecting uniforms for the door-to-door witness search. I went to pitch in. It boosted morale for the men to see their lieut pounding pavement with them, especially since it was probably futile in this instance.

The killer had dumped a body in a public place, where it was sure to be found. But he’d done it without attracting any attention.

I had a feeling this was only the beginning.

Chapter 2

MORNING. THE STALE SWEAT THAT CLUNG to me and the sour taste of old coffee grounds were constant reminders that I hadn’t slept yet.

As if I needed reminders. I have chronic insomnia. My last sound sleep was sometime during the Reagan administration, and it shows. At forty-six my auburn hair is streaked with gray that grows faster than I can dye it, the lines on my face shout age rather than character, and even two bottles of Visine a month couldn’t get all the red out.

But the lack of sleep has made me pretty damn productive.

Spread out before me on my cluttered desk, a dead woman’s life had been reduced to a collection of files and reports. I was combining all the information into a report of my own. It read like a test, with none of the blanks filled in.

Twelve hours had passed and we still didn’t know the victim’s name.

No prints or hairs or fibers on the body. No skin under the fingernails. Nothing solid in the door-to-door reports. But this lack of evidence was evidence in itself. The perp had been extremely careful.

The victim wasn’t sexually assaulted, and death had resulted from suffocation induced by a broken windpipe, as Max had guessed. The lesion around her neck was six millimeters thick. It didn’t leave fibers, which would indicate rope, and didn’t bite into the skin, which would imply a thin wire. The assistant ME suggested an electrical cord as a possible weapon.

Ligature marks around her wrists and ankles bore traces of twine. Staking out every store in Illinois that sold twine wasn’t too clever an idea, though it was mentioned.

The stab wounds were postmortem and made by a thick-bladed knife with a serrated back. There were twenty-seven wounds in all, of varying depth and size.

We were unable to pull any fingerprints from the garbage can Jane Doe was found in. Even Mike Donovan’s prints had been washed away by the rain. The contents of the can were an average assortment of convenience store garbage, except for one major item.

Mixed in with the wrappers and cups was a five-inch gingerbread man cookie. It was heavily varnished, like an old loaf of lacquered French bread that gourmet restaurants use for decoration. An elite task force of two people was assigned to Chicago’s hundred-plus bakeries to try and get a match. If they failed, there was an equal number of supermarkets that sold baked goods. Double that figure to include the neighboring suburbs. A huge job, all for nothing if it was homemade.

If this weren’t such a somber situation, the image of two detectives flashing around the picture of the gingerbread man and asking “Have you seen him?” would be pretty funny.

I took another sip of some coffee that the Gestapo could have used for difficult interrogations, and felt it bleed into my stomach, which didn’t approve. The caffeine surging through my veins left me nauseous and jittery. I gave my temples ten seconds of intense finger massage, and then went back to my report.

She was killed roughly three hours before Donovan discovered her body at 8:55. Depending on how much time the perp spent with her corpse, he could have killed her anywhere within a hundred-mile radius. That narrowed it down to about four million people. Take out women, children, the elderly, everyone with a solid alibi, and the 20 percent of the population who were left-handed, and I figured we had maybe seven hundred thousand suspects left.

So we were making progress.

Pressure from the mayor’s office forced us to involve the Feebies. They were sending up two agents from Quantico, special operatives in the Behavioral Science Unit. Captain Bains played up the technical end, extolling the virtues of their nationwide crime web, which would be able to match this murder up with similar ones from around the country. But in reality he disliked the Feds as much as I did.

Cops were fiercely territorial about their jurisdictions, and hated to have them trampled on. Especially by bureaucratic robots who were more concerned with procedure than results.

I went for another sip of coffee, but the cup was mercifully empty.

Maybe one of the leads would pan out. Maybe someone would identify the Jane Doe. Maybe the Feds and their super crime-busting computer would solve the case moments after they arrived.

But a feeling in my gut that wasn’t entirely coffee-related told me that before we made any real progress, the Gingerbread Man would kill again.

He’d done too much planning to make this a one-time-only event.

Herb walked into my office, carrying an aromatic cup of hot Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, a dark roast by the smell of it. But the way he poured it greedily down his throat made it apparent he hadn’t brought it for me.

“Got the serum tests.” He dropped a report on my desk. “Traces of sodium secobarbital found in her urine.”

“Seconal?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

I nodded. I’d researched every insomnia remedy going back to Moses. “I’ve read about it. Went out of vogue when Valium came around, which went out of vogue with Halcion and Ambien.”

I hadn’t ever tried Seconal, but had given the others a shot. The depression they caused was worse than the sleepless nights. My doctor had offered to prescribe Prozac to combat the depression, but I didn’t want to go down that slippery slope.

“Needle puncture on the upper arm was the entry point. ME said two ccs would put a hundred-and-fifty-pound person under in just a few seconds.”

“Is Seconal prescribed anymore?”

“Not much. But we caught a break. Only hospital pharmacies carry injectionals. Because it’s a Control two class drug, every order has to be sent to the Illinois Department of Professional Regulations. I got a list of all recent orders. Only a dozen or so.”

“Also check for thefts from hospitals and manufacturers.”

Benedict nodded, finishing his coffee. “You look like a bowl of crap, Jack.”

“That’s the poet in you, fighting to get out.”

“You keep pulling all-nighters and Don is going to hit the bricks.”

Don. I’d forgotten to call him and tell him I was staying late. Hopefully he’d forgive me. Again.

“Why don’t you go home, get some rest.”

“Not a bad plan, if I could.”

My partner frowned. “Then go spend some time with your gentleman friend. Bernice is constantly on me about working too much, and you’re here twenty hours a week more than I am. I don’t see how Don puts up with it.”

I met Don in a YMCA kickboxing class about a year ago. The instructor paired us up for sparring. I knocked him down with a snap-punch, and he asked me out. After six months of dating, Don’s apartment lease ran out, and I invited him to move in—a bold move for a commitaphobe like me.

Don was the polar opposite of me in the looks department; blond, tan, with deep blue eyes and thick lips that I would kill for. I took after my mother. Not only were we both five feet six inches tall, with dark brown eyes, dark hair, and high cheekbones, but she was a retired Chicago cop.

When I was twelve, my mother taught me the two skills essential to my adult life: how to use a liner pencil to make my thin lips look fuller, and how to group my shots from forty feet away with a .38.

Unfortunately, Mom relayed very little information when it came to the care and feeding of a boyfriend.

“Don goes out a lot,” I admitted. “I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.”

I closed my eyes, fatigue working slender fingers through my hair and down my back. Maybe going home would be a good idea. I could pick up some wine, take Don out to a nice lunch. We could try to openly communicate and work out the problems we’d been avoiding. Maybe I’d even score, as Mike Donovan had put it.

“Fine.” My eyes snapped open, and I felt a surge of enthusiasm. “I’m going. You’ll call if anything shakes loose?”

“Of course. When do the Feebies show?”

“Tomorrow, noonish. I’ll be here.”

We nodded our good-byes, and I stretched my cramped body out of my chair and went to go make a sincere effort with the man I was living with.

After all, the day could only get better.

Or so I thought.

Chapter 3

HE HAS THE WHOLE THING ON video. It’s playing right now on his forty-inch screen. The shades are drawn and the volume is maxed. He is alone in the house, sitting on the couch. Naked. The remote is clenched in a sweaty fist.

He leans forward and watches with wide eyes.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says on tape.

The girl screams. She’s on her back, tied to the floor, jiggling with fear. Completely his.

The light in the basement is clinically harsh; his very own operating theater. Not one freckle or mole on her nude body escapes his attention.

“Keep screaming. It turns me on.”

She chews her lips, her body shaking in an effort to keep quiet. Mascara leaks down her face, leaving trails of black tears. The camera zooms in until her eyes are the size of bloodshot volleyballs.

Yummy.

The camera zooms back out, and he locks it into position on the tripod and walks over to her. He’s naked and visibly aroused.

“You’re all the same. You think you’re hot shit. But where’s all that confidence now?”

“I have money.” Her voice cracks like puppy bones.

“I don’t want your money. I want to see what you look like. On the inside.”

She screams when he picks up the hunting knife, fighting against her bonds, her eyes bugging out like a cartoon. Nothing but an animal now, a frightened animal fearing for its life.

It’s a look he’s seen many times.

“Please-oh-God-no-oh-God-please . . .”

He kneels down next to her and wraps his free hand in her hair so she can’t turn away. Then he tickles her throat with the edge of the blade.

“So pretty. I’m only giving you what you deserve. Don’t you realize that? You’re an example to the others. You thought you were famous before? Now you’ll be even more famous. The first one.”

She trembles before his power, fear radiating from her body like heat. He sets down the knife and fetches the extension cord.

This is the good part.

“Beg for your life.”

More screaming and crying. Nothing coherent.

“You’ll have to do better than that. Do you even remember me?”

She catches her breath and stares at him. The moment of recognition is like candy.

Sitting on his couch, he pauses the tape on the scene, eating up her terror. Fear is the ultimate turn-on, and this is the real thing. Not an actress in some fake S/M porno flick. This is the genuine article. A snuff film. His snuff film. He lets the tape play.

“You can’t treat men like that. All of you think you can do that to me and get away with it.”

He twists the cord around her neck, pulling it tight, getting his shoulders and back into it.

It isn’t like in the movies. Strangulation isn’t over in fifteen seconds.

She takes six minutes.

Her eyes bug out. Her face turns colors. She bucks and twists and makes sounds like a mewling kitten.

But slowly, sweetly, the fight goes out of her. Oxygen deprivation takes its toll, knocking her out, turning her into an unconscious blob.

He releases the cord and splashes some water on her face to wake her up.

She’s even more terrified when she comes to. She fights so hard, he thinks she might break the twine. Her voice is raw and painful-sounding, but the screaming goes on and on.

Until he strangles her again.

And again.

He does it four times before something in her neck finally gives and she can’t breathe even when he takes the cord off.

She writhes around on the floor, a private death dance just for him. Wiggle and twitch, gasp and moan. Her eyes roll up and her tongue sticks out and she turns colors.

He climbs on top and kisses her as she dies.

Though excited and aroused, there is still more work to do before he can fully enjoy her. He goes off screen and comes back with the plastic tarp.

This next part is messy.

He uses the hunting knife like an artist uses a paintbrush. Slowly. With care.

Then he adds his signature.

He’s out of breath, slick with sweat and blood.

Satisfied.

For the moment.

“One down, three to go,” he says to the television.

All in all, a successful production. Perhaps a little quick, considering the weeks of careful planning it has taken to get to this point. But that can be blamed on excitement.

With the next one he will pace himself better. Make it last. Do the cutting while she’s still alive.

He’ll grab the next girl tomorrow and try out some new things.

In the meantime he rewinds the videotape to watch it again.

Chapter 4

DON, I’M HOME.” I hid the wine bottle behind my back in case he was sitting in the kitchenette next to the front door.

He wasn’t.

“Don?”

I did a quick tour of the place. It didn’t take long, because my apartment was about the size of a Cracker Jack box. Except there was no prize inside.

But I wasn’t discouraged. If he wasn’t home, I could catch him at the health club. Don had vanity issues. True, he had a good body, but the amount of time he invested in it seemed disproportionate to the benefits.

I went to chill the wine, when I noticed the note on the fridge.

Jack,

I’ve left you for my personal trainer, Roxy. We just weren’t right for each other, you were too into your stupid job, and the sex wasn’t very good.

Plus your tossing and turning all night drove me crazy. Please pack up all my stuff. I’ll pick it up Friday.

Thanks for fixing those parking tickets for me, and don’t worry. Roxy’s place is about ten times bigger than yours, so I’ll have somewhere to stay.

Don

I read the note again, but it wasn’t any nicer the second time. We’d dated for almost an entire year. He’d been living with me for six months. And now it was over, ended with a brief, indifferent letter. I didn’t even warrant the standard “I hope we can still be friends” line.

I hit the freezer and took out an ice tray. Three cubes went into a rocks glass, along with a shot of whiskey and a splash of sour mix. I sat down and thought, and drank, and thought some more.

When the cocktail was finished I made another. I was wading deep in the self-pity pool, but there was little sense of loss. I hadn’t loved Don. He was a warm body to hold at night and a partner for restaurants and movies and occasional sex.

The only man I’d ever loved was my ex-husband, Alan. When he left me, the pain was physical. Fifteen years later, I’m still wary about giving another person that much control over my heart again.

I eyed the half-finished drink in my hand. When Jacqueline Streng married Alan Daniels, she became Jack Daniels. Ever since, people have given me bottles of the stuff as gifts, each probably thinking they were being clever. I was forced to develop a taste for it, or else open up my own liquor store.

I gulped down the rest of the cocktail and was about to pour another, when I noticed my reflection in the door of the microwave. Seeing myself, sitting at my cheap dinette set with my sleepy red eyes and my limp hair, I looked like a finalist in the Miss Pathetic America Pageant.

Lots of cops I knew drank. They drank alone, drank on the job, drank when they woke up, and drank themselves to sleep. Law enforcement officers had a higher rate of alcoholism than any other profession. They also had the most divorces and the most suicides.

Divorce was the only statistic I cared to add to.

So I took off my blazer and my shoulder holster, replaced my skirt and blouse with a pair of jeans and a sweater, and went out to explore Chicago.

I lived on Addison and Racine, in a part of town called Wrigleyville. Rent was reasonable because it was impossible to park anywhere, especially since the Cubs started hosting night games. But I had a badge, so any fireplug or no-parking zone was fair game.

The neighborhood was loud and active, as expected. At any given time there were at least ten drinking-age college students per square foot, barhopping among the area’s forty-plus watering holes. Great if you were in your twenties. But a mature woman like me was out of place in these trendy clubs, where techno music shook the foundations and drinks like “Screaming Orgasms” and “Blow Jobs” were the house specials.

Don had once dragged me into a bar called Egypto, where the only lighting in the place came from several hundred Lava lamps lining the walls. He bought me a drink called a “Slippery Dick.” I told him the drink wasn’t stiff enough. He didn’t laugh. I should have known then.

So for a woman of my advanced years, Wrigleyville gave me only two real choices: the bar at the Westminster Hotel, or Joe’s Pool Hall.

I’d only been at the Westminster once, out of curiosity. It turned out to be the kind of place where old people gather to die. The entertainment that night had been Dario, a small hairy man in suspenders with an electric accordion. He did a disco version of “When the Saints Go Marching In” while geriatrics polkaed furiously. I felt old, but not that old.

So I wound up at Joe’s. They had good beer priced cheap and a dinginess that yuppies avoided. When I pushed open the door, I wasn’t assaulted by industrial dance music. Just the clackety-clack of pool balls and an occasional laugh or swearword.

My kind of place.

I went up to the bar, resting my forearms on the cigarette-scarred counter and propping a foot on the brass railing. A fat bartender took my beer order, which set me back a whopping two bucks, with tip.

I pulled off the bottle and took in the surroundings, searching for an open table through the dim lighting and the cigar smoke.

All twelve were occupied, all but two with doubles action.

Of the singles, one was being worked by an elderly black man who was having a heated discussion with himself. At the other table was a bald guy in jeans and a white T-shirt. He was a few years my junior and looked vaguely familiar.

I picked up a cue from a nearby rack and walked over.

He was hunched over the table, his stick gliding on the solid bridge of his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the cue ball with intense concentration.

“This may sound like a come-on, but haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He took the shot without looking up, banking the three ball into a side pocket. Then he righted himself and squinted at me, and I suddenly knew who he was.

“You arrested me six years ago.”

That’s one of the dangers of being a cop. People you think you remember from high school turn out to be felons.

“Phineas Troutt, right? Tough to forget a name like that.”

He nodded.

“And your name had something to do with booze. Detective José Cuervo?”

His face was blank, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Jack Daniels. I’m a lieutenant now.”

I noted his body language. His blue eyes were steady, and he held himself in a relaxed stance. I didn’t feel threatened by him, but at the same time I was aware I’d left my gun at home.

“You had brown hair before,” I said. “Long, in a ponytail.”

“Chemo. Pancreatic cancer.” He pointed his chin at my cue. “Can you use that thing, or do you hold it for some Freudian reason?”

That seemed like a challenge to me, and I was feeling a bit reckless. I recalled the bust vividly, because it had been the easiest arrest of my career. It had been an 818—gang fight in progress. When we arrived on the scene, Phineas dropped to his knees and laced his hands behind his head without even being asked. Strewn around him were four unconscious gang-bangers in need of medical attention. Phin claimed they jumped him, but since he was the only one without anything broken, we had to bring him in.

“Loser racks and buys the beers.”

“Fair enough.”

We played eight ball, calling shots, putting the eight in the last pocket called. He beat me an average of two games to one, so I wound up paying for most of the games and buying most of the drinks. We hardly talked, but the silence was companionable, and the competition was good-natured.

By the eighth game, the alcohol was starting to affect me, so I switched to diet cola. Phin, as he preferred to be called, stuck with beer, and it didn’t seem to affect him at all. Even after I’d sobered up, he continued to whup my butt.

I liked it that way; it made me play better.

Day became night, and Joe’s began to fill up. Lines formed at all the tables, forcing us to relinquish ours.

I thought about asking Phin if he wanted to get a cup of coffee, but it sounded too much like a date, and I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Instead, I offered my hand.

“Thanks for the games.”

His grip was warm, dry.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. It’s nice to have some quality competition. Maybe we’ll have a chance to do this again?”

I smiled. “Damn right. Bring your wallet, because next time you’ll be buying most of the beers.”

He smiled, briefly, and we went our separate ways. I made a mental note to check outstanding warrants on him. If he was wanted for something, I wasn’t quite sure what I would do. I liked the guy, even if he did have a rap sheet. These days it was rare for me to like anything. Could I arrest a pool buddy, especially one dying of cancer?

Unfortunately, yes.

Once home, my bed was uncomfortable, my mind refused to relax, and the clock mocked me with each passing minute.

I was tired, exhausted actually, but thoughts kept flashing through my skull and wouldn’t let me be. They weren’t even profound thoughts; just random flotsam.

I tried counting backward from ten thousand. I tried deep breathing and relaxation exercises. I tried to imagine myself asleep. Nothing worked.

Time marched forward, taking me with it.

By the time I was feeling the slightest bit drowsy, the sun peeked in through the blinds and I had to get up to go to work.

I sat up and stretched my tired bones, and then went into my morning exercise routine. A hundred sit-ups, with a promise to do two hundred tomorrow. Twenty push-ups, with a similar promise. Thinking about doing some barbell curls and rejecting the idea because the barbell was hidden in the closet. And then off to the shower.

I’d survived my first night without Don, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it might have been. It could only get easier with time.

Then I saw his toothbrush on the bathroom sink and was depressed the rest of the day.

Chapter 5

CUTTING OR SLICING DOESN’T WORK, because it’s impossible to close it up afterward.

The way to do it is to pinch each side of the wrapper by the seam and pull gently. This is tricky—opening the candy without ripping the package. Even the smallest tear is no good. People aren’t stupid. No one will eat candy with a torn wrapper.

Working on the candy itself is the exciting part. “Fun Size!” the bag proclaims. “Dinky” was a more appropriate description. The mini candy bars are scarcely a bite each.

But one bite is all it takes.

His average is good; he only ruins four wrappers out of twenty-four. He sets the chocolate on a tray and opens up the package of sewing needles. Needles and pins work best. They don’t mar the surface going in; just leave a tiny hole that is easily covered up with a dot of melted chocolate. He uses four needles per candy bar, on cross angles, so no matter where it’s bitten, at least one will draw blood.

After doing ten candy bars with needles, he cracks his knuckles and feels warmed up enough for some harder work.

Fishhooks take finesse. He holds the candy lightly in a latex-gloved hand and picks up a hook with needle-nose pliers. Pushing the barb into the bottom of the candy, he inserts the hook bit by bit, angling the pliers in a curving motion so the entire fishhook disappears through the entry hole.

It is difficult work, but he’s had years of practice. His personal record is eleven hooks in one small candy bar. He liked to prepare for Halloween weeks in advance, and when the big day arrived, he’d find a neighborhood house that was empty and set up his bowl full of lethal treats next to their door. Sometimes he also put a sign that said Only Take One! next to the bowl. A nice ghoulish touch.

After rigging five pieces with fishhooks, he opens a box of X-Acto knife blades and pushes several of those into the remaining bars. X-Acto blades leave a bigger entry hole, but with a cigarette lighter and an extra chocolate bar, he can hide the hole from even the most intense inspection.

After finishing all twenty candies, he places them carefully back into their wrappers. A few drops of Super Glue seal them back up. Then he puts the bars into the plastic bag they came in, one by one, through a small one-inch slit in the side. When he’s done, he puts four untainted candies from a second bag into this one, so it holds the correct total of twenty-four.

Holding it in his hand, it looks like an ordinary bag of candy bars, ready to be consumed.

He plugs in a hair crimper, lets it get hot, and then carefully crimps closed the slit he’s made in the bag. The crimper melts the plastic edges together somewhat unevenly, so he trims away the excess plastic with a razor blade.

Perfect.

Now it’s time to see whom the treat will go to. He turns his attention to the photos on the table, flipping through them to find the two he wants.

They are both close-ups of faces. He’d taken them at the 7-Eleven the other day, while standing in the crowd and watching the stupid pigs trample around his crime scene. One is of a fat man with a mustache. The other is of a thin woman with nice legs.

One of these is the officer in charge of his case. They were the only two cops there who weren’t wearing uniforms, so they had to be the top guys. But which one is the head honcho? The one who, by the luck of the draw, has become his nemesis?

A simple phone call to the police will reveal who heads the case, but he doesn’t want to call from his home phone. The pigs can trace phone calls instantly, and he doesn’t want it to lead back to him somewhere down the line.

Nothing will lead back to him.

His plan is flawless. Perfect. Every last detail has been worked out. Stalk. Abduct. Destroy. Dispose. Repeat. He has the perfect cover, has their schedules down pat, even has a contingency plan if the police ever find him. Not that they will, but it pays to plan ahead.

So he takes a walk to the nearest pay phone, on the outside of a Mini-Mart, and calls Information to find out what police station is nearest to Monroe and Dearborn—the corner where he dumped the first whore.

Armed with the district number, he calls the officer on duty and identifies himself as a reporter from the Herald.

“Can you spell out the name of the detective in charge?”

“Daniels, first name Jack.”

“Jack Daniels? For real?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he on the heavy side, has a mustache?”

“No, that’s Detective Benedict. He’s Daniels’s partner. Jack is a woman. Short for Jacqueline, I think. She’s a lieutenant.”

“Thanks.”

Hanging up, he feels excitement crackle through his body like electricity. He rushes back home to his pictures, leafing through them until he finds one of Daniels leaving the scene in her crappy Chevy Nova.

“I know who you are.” The Gingerbread Man rubs his finger over her face. “And I know what you drive. But I’ll know more. Much more.”

He smiles. Chicago thinks a simple bitch like that can catch him?

Think again.

He checks his watch. Nine in the morning. He isn’t going to grab the second girl for another two hours. What time does the good lieutenant go to work? Is she there right now?

He decides to check. Picking up the bag of candy with pliers to avoid leaving fingerprints, he carries the gift to his truck and takes a meandering path to the 26th District.

It looks like any other building in Chicago, except this one houses cops rather than offices or apartments. There is a parking lot next to it with a big sign that reads “Police Vehicles Only.” On his third trip around the lot, he spies Jack’s Nova, near the back, between two patrol cars.

“Hey, buddy!”

A cop flags him down. He almost hits the gas in panic, but when the pig approaches, it’s obvious what he wants.

“It’s on me, Officer.” The Gingerbread Man smiles, handing the cop his selection. “I appreciate you keeping the city safe.”

The pig doesn’t even thank him, waddling off down the street, letting the biggest arrest of his life drive away.

The Gingerbread Man parks in front of a meter and puts on some leather gloves. Cradling the bag of goodies in his jacket, he walks briskly back to the police station and enters the parking lot as if he belongs there. Two uniformed patrolmen give him a glance, and he nods a hello, confident and at ease. They return the nod and walk on.

Adrenaline threatening to make his heart explode, he approaches Jack’s car and pulls the slim-jim out of his pants leg. It’s a long strip of thin metal with a forked end. He forces it between the driver’s-side window and the weather stripping, and jams it down into the inner workings of the car door. By feel, he finds the lock mechanism and pushes down.

Up pops the button, in about the same amount of time it would have taken to open it with a key.

The interior smells faintly of perfume. Even though he’s in a hurry, he climbs behind the wheel and savors the moment.

Violation is such a rush.

“I’m in your car, Jack.”

He sniffs the steering wheel. Hand cream and hair spray.

It tastes salty.

On the floor is an empty cardboard coffee cup. He picks it up and licks the smudge of lipstick on the rim.

His eyes close, and he can see Jack, tied up in his basement, naked and bloody and screaming.

Such an excellent idea.

Another look around proves the parking lot is still empty. He places the package on the passenger seat and searches through the glove compartment for the lieutenant’s vehicle registration. He memorizes the address, grinning at how easy this is.

“I’ll be seeing you, Jack.”

His lingering has put him a few minutes behind schedule. He doesn’t want to be late grabbing the second whore. He has a bunch of new things he’s just aching to try out with her.

He makes sure no one is watching, then he gets out of the car and strolls back to his truck, a spring in his step.

What a day this is turning out to be.

Chapter 6

I WAS FINISHING MY THIRD CUP of coffee when the FBI walked in.

They didn’t immediately announce themselves as Feebies when they entered my office, without knocking. But both wore tailored gray suits, Harvard ties, spit-shined shoes, and crew cuts. Who else could they be—yearbook committee?

“Lieutenant Daniels?” The one on the right continued before I acknowledged him. “I’m Special Agent George Dailey. This is Special Agent Jim Coursey.”

Special Agent Coursey nodded at me.

“We’re from the Bureau,” Special Agent Coursey said.

Special Agent Dailey nodded at me.

Dailey was slightly taller, and his hair a shade lighter, but that minimal difference was negligible. They could have been clones. And knowing our government, they might have been.

“We’re both ViCAT operatives of the BSU.”

“The Violent Criminal Apprehension Team of the Behavioral Science Unit.”

“We’ve done a profile of the perpetrator, and we have a printout of possible related cases with percentile rankings of same suspect likelihood.”

“Are we going too fast for you?”

I said, “You’re early.”

They looked at each other, then back at me.

“The sooner we give your people an idea of what we’re looking for, the sooner we catch him,” Dailey said.

Coursey dropped his briefcase onto my desk and snapped it open, pulling out a packet of neatly stacked paper. He handed me the top sheet.

“Are you familiar with profiling?”

I nodded.

“Profiling of repeat and recreational killers is done with the ViCAT computer at Quantico.” Dailey had apparently missed my nod. “We enter specific details about the murder, including but not limited to the condition of the corpse, location it was found, method of demise, signs of ritualism, physical evidence, witness testimony, and any beforehand information about the deceased. The computer analyzes the data and gives us a rough description of the suspect.”

“For example,” Coursey took over, “our suspect is a male Caucasian, between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-nine. He’s right-handed, and owns a station wagon or truck. He’s blue collar, probably a factory worker, possibly in the textiles industry. He is an alcoholic, and prone to violent rages. He frequents western bars and enjoys line dancing.”

“Line dancing,” I said.

“He also wears women’s underwear,” Dailey added. “Possibly his mother’s.”

I felt a headache coming on.

“As a juvenile he set fires and committed relations with animals.”

“With animals,” I said.

“There’s a high probability he’s been arrested before. Possibly for assault or rape, probably on elderly women.”

“But he’s impotent now.”

“He may also be gay.”

I lifted my coffee cup to my lips and found it was empty. I lowered it again.

“He hears voices.”

“Or maybe just one voice.”

“It could be the voice of his mother, telling him to kill.”

“Maybe she just wants her underwear back,” I offered.

“He may be disfigured or disabled. He might have severe acne scars, orscoliosis.”

“That’s a curvature of the spine,” Dailey added.

“Is that a hunch?” I asked.

“Just an educated guess.”

I thought about explaining the joke to them, but it would be wasted.

“He may have been dropped on his head as a child,” Coursey said.

He probably wasn’t the only one.

“Gentlemen.” I wasn’t sure where to begin, but I gave it a try. “Call me a skeptic, but I don’t see how any of this is going to help us catch him.”

“First of all, you should start staking out western bars.”

“And local textile factories that have hired someone with a criminal record within the last six months.”

“I could stake out the zoo too,” I said. “He may be sneaking in at night and committing relations with animals.”

“I doubt it.” Coursey furrowed his brow. “The profile says he’s impotent now.”

I rubbed my eyes. When I finished, the two of them were still there.

“Of course, the profile may change slightly as more data becomes available,” Dailey said.

“If he kills again.”

“When he kills again.”

They looked at each other and nodded smartly.

I wondered, in all seriousness, what would happen if I pulled my revolver and shot one of them. Would the other one arrest me, or would he wait to see if my profile showed the proper aptitude for the crime?

“Here’s the statement we’re releasing to the press.” Coursey handed me another piece of paper. “Now that we’re assigned to the case.”

“We still have jurisdiction.” I let some irritation show. “No state borders have been crossed.”

“Not yet. Until then, we’re just consultants.”

“Simply a tool for you to use.”

“To help make things run smoother.”

There’s a laugh for you.

“This”—Dailey handed me more papers—“is a list of reasons why we’ve pegged the murderer as organized rather than disorganized. You’re familiar with the concept of grouping serial criminals as either O or DO?”

I nodded. He went on, paying me no heed. I had a feeling this entire meeting could have been conducted without my presence.

“DO, or disorganized criminals, usually have little or no planning stage. Their crimes are spur of the moment, either lust- or rage-induced. Signs of guilt or remorse can usually be found at the scene, such as something covering the victim’s face; an indication the killer doesn’t like the accusation of a staring pair of eyes. Clues in the form of physical and circumstantial evidence abound, because the DO type doesn’t stop to cover them up, or only does as an afterthought.”

“I’m familiar with the labels.” I stated it, distinctly, precisely.

“The organized type,” he went on. Perhaps I hadn’t been clear enough. “Usually spends a lot of time on the planning stage. The perp may spend days beforehand fantasizing about the murder, plotting out every detail. He won’t leave evidence intentionally, and usually the victim bears no sign of savage, uncontrollable violence. The injuries, while they can be sadistic, are more focused and controlled.”

“We’ve come up with one hundred and fifteen reasons why we believe this killer is the organized type,” Coursey said. “And we’d like to take an hour or so to go over them with you.”

I was ready to fake a heart attack to get them to leave, when Benedict walked into my office, saving me the trouble.

“Jack, we got a lead on that Seconal. Sixty milliliters were purchased by a Charles Smith on August tenth of this year at the Mercy Hospital pharmacy.”

“Have we found him?”

“He gave a fake address. There are seventeen Charles Smiths in Chicago and twelve more in the rest of Illinois, but it looks like the name is fake too.”

“What about the doctor?”

“That’s how we nailed it down. The doctor’s name was Reginald Booster.”

The name was familiar.

“The unsolved murder from Palatine a couple months back?”

“That’s him. He was killed at his home on August ninth. I had the file faxed to us and I’ve called his daughter. We’re meeting her at the house at one.”

“Let’s go.” I stood up and grabbed my jacket, thrilled to be actually doing something on this case.

“We’ll go over this when you get back,” Dailey said.

It sounded more like a threat than a promise. I left without acknowledging them, but felt no moral victory in being rude.

They hadn’t noticed.

Chapter 7

HE KNOWS WHERE SHE LIVES.

He knows where all of them live, but this one was easier to find than the others. It was just a matter of looking her up in the phone book. T. Metcalf. Did women really think they were fooling anyone by only allowing the first initial of their name to be published? Who else but women did that?

He watches her apartment from his truck. Theresa Metcalf. The second whore to die. He’s parked across the street, binoculars aimed at her window, peering through her open blinds. There’s movement in the apartment. He knows it’s her, getting ready for work.

He has her schedule down better than she does. As usual, she’s running late. When she finally hits the street, it will be in a rush. But she never runs, and she never calls a cab. Work is five blocks away. She always walks the same route. Human beings are creatures of habit. He’s counting on that.

He looks at his watch again. She’s later than normal today. His palms are sweating. It’s been a thrilling morning so far; preparing the candy, leaving it for Jack, getting her address. Now comes uncertainty.

The Gingerbread Man leaves very little up to chance, but grabbing a person has too many variables to account for them all. He’d originally intended for Theresa to be the first, but when the day came to snatch her, she’d uncharacteristically walked to work with her roommate.

Potential witnesses, the weather, traffic, and unpredictable human nature all conspire to make an abduction very delicate and tricky. He doesn’t know if she carries Mace. He doesn’t know if she has a black belt in karate. He doesn’t know if she will scream and attract attention. All he can do is plan as best he can, and hope for luck.

He watches the blinds close in the window. Good. She’ll be coming down the stairs in a few minutes.

“You open?”

He quickly drops the binoculars and looks to his right. A boy, no more than ten, is staring in at him. Black kid, big head, wide eyes.

It had been a long time since he’d killed a child. Almost another life. Before prison. The last one was a little girl. She’d been playing in front of her house. He grabbed her on impulse. She was so fragile and small. Screamed like an angel.

“What do you want?”

“Bomb Pop.”

He reaches into the cooler behind him and pulls out a Bomb Pop. First sale of the day, not including the freebie he’d given that cop earlier. It sells for two dollars. He pays a dime wholesale. Since he works independently and the truck is his, the only overhead is gasoline. Not only does he have the perfect urban camouflage, but he’s even making a profit.

The kid pays him in change, counting it carefully. Little shit has no clue how close to death he is. Just a quick tug on the shirt, and the boy could be his. He scans down the street for witnesses and sees nary a soul.

But not today. Today he has other plans.

The kid lopes off, licking his ice cream.

The front door to the apartment opens, and the whore strides out. He runs through the grab one more time in his head. Pull out in front of her. Jump out. Stick her with the needle and haul her in back. Shouldn’t take more than ten seconds. Then he’ll have her for his use, for as long as he can keep her alive.

Tapping his foot, impatient, he lets her get a block ahead of him before he starts the truck. His hands are sweating and he has a sudden attack of the giggles. The syringe is in his pocket, filled with fifty milligrams of Seconal. Not much, but a little goes a long way. He’ll pump it straight into her arm, and it’ll begin to take effect within five seconds.

First she’ll become drowsy and disoriented. Then she’ll begin losing muscle control. It takes about five full minutes before she will be under completely, but until then he should be able to handle her without difficulty. Seconal has a soothing effect, and so far everyone he’s used it on has remained compliant, if not downright helpful.

He practiced on winos when he’d first gotten the Seconal. There are plenty littering the streets of Chicago, begging for handouts. The first one he gave six ccs, killing him almost instantly. He halved the dosage, and the next one never woke up. One to 1.5 milliliters turned out to be the right dose for women, depending on how chunky they were. These whores aren’t chunky. They’re racehorses. Whorses. He giggles.

The alley is coming up. He pulls into it ahead of her, taking in everything. There’s no one nearby. Perfect. She approaches the truck without even noticing it.

Wait! She’s crossing the street! He’s watched her walk to work almost a dozen times, and she’s never crossed until she reaches the intersection. His mind races. Call it off, or improvise?

“Theresa?”

He’s out of the truck, coming at her on an angle, syringe palmed in his right hand.

“Theresa?”

She stops and looks at him. He smiles brightly. Smiles disarm people. His pace is fast, but he puts some bounce in his step and tries to look in a hurry rather than threatening.

“I thought it was you. Charles, remember?”

He says it at normal speaking level, which is too low for the twenty-foot distance between them.

“Pardon me?”

She cranes her neck forward a bit. Her posture isn’t defensive, but her expression is confused. She isn’t sure if she recognizes him or not.

He takes two more steps. “I’m sorry, you don’t remember me, do you? I’m Charles.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, trying to place him. “Sorry, I . . .” She shrugs.

“You mean you don’t even remember the truck?” He takes three more steps and makes a grand sweeping gesture toward his ice cream truck. “I thought you’d remember the truck.”

“Look—I’m late for work . . .”

“At Montezuma’s. That’s where you work, right?”

“Have I served you before?”

“No.” The Gingerbread Man grins. The smile is genuine now. “But you will.”

The girl doesn’t like his leer and subconsciously shifts her weight away from his approaching form. He detects the subtle change, and knows that if she bolts or screams, he won’t get a second chance.

“Here, let me . . .” Reaching into his pockets, he pulls out a handful of quarters. Trying to look clumsy, he lets the change spill from his hand and all over the curb.

“Aw . . . my boss is gonna kill me!”

He kneels down and begins picking up coins, hoping he looks really pathetic.

He must, because she only watches for a few seconds before coming over to help.

“Thanks. This is a whole morning’s work here.”

She crouches down, picking up a quarter. “What did you say your name was?”

He checks for witnesses. A guy on the end of the street, walking past, not paying attention.

“Charles.”

“And where do I know you from?”

She reaches out to hand him some coins. He snatches her wrist and yanks her to him, jabbing the needle home, hugging her close so to any casual observer it looks like an embrace.

She tries to twist, but he has sixty pounds on her and his hold has taken away her leverage. Leaving the syringe still sticking in her arm, he brings his hand up to the back of her head and crushes her face to his, drowning out the cry welling up inside her with a kiss.

He tastes fear. She has the nerve to try to bite him, and that gets him excited. He likes to bite too. He sinks his teeth into her lower lip, and then her body begins to relax.

Half pulling, half carrying, he gets her over to the truck. A cab rolls past, but doesn’t slow down. Once she’s in back, he handcuffs her to the metal bar he’s bolted to his freezer. Then he removes the needle from her arm and puts it back in his pocket.

Theresa Metcalf shakes her head, as if she is trying to clear it. When she notices the handcuffs, she screams.

In the driver’s seat, Charles flips on the music. A recorded pipe organ version of “The Candyman” trumpets through the speakers at full volume. He checks his mirrors and carefully backs out of the alley. She screams again, but he’s confident that he’s her only audience.

“I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” He giggles.

Quite a day. Quite a day indeed. And quite a night it will be as well.

He’s bought three new videotapes. He’s planning on filling them all.

“Wait till we get back to my place,” he tells T. Metcalf. “Then you’ll have something to scream about.”

She is too drowsy to hear him.

Chapter 8

HOW DID YOU KNOW,” HERB SAID, smacking his lips, “that I was in the mood for candy?”

I glanced over at Benedict. He was clutching a bag of chocolate, eyes twinkling.

“Do you keep an emergency supply in your jacket?” I asked.

“Me? These are yours. They were on the seat.”

“Where?”

“In your car here, on the passenger seat.”

I started the Nova and frowned, puzzled.

“They’re not mine. Was there a note?”

“Nope. Just candy. Maybe it was Don.”

I shook my head and pulled out of the parking lot.

“Don left.”

Benedict mulled it over, cradling the candy in his hand. “How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you love him?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure. No.”

“Remind me never to get romantically involved with you.”

I turned left on Jackson and headed toward Mercy Hospital, where Herb had traced the Seconal prescription and where the late Dr. Booster had kept an office until the ninth of August. The Booster case was still listed as open, even though the investigation had gone cold. The detective in charge was a Palatine cop named Evens. Herb had left him a message, telling him to get in touch.

“So who gave you the candy?”

I shrugged. “Haven’t the slightest. Maybe someone put it in my car by accident.”

“Accidents like that never happen to me.”

“Have you checked your car? Maybe you have a bag too. Maybe your entire backseat is crammed full of chocolate products.”

“Stop it. You’re getting me excited.”

I tried to think it through. My car was unlocked when we got in. Had I left it unlocked? I must have. How likely was it that someone broke into my car just to leave me candy? Especially in a police parking lot.

“Mind if I . . . ?”

“Go right ahead.”

Benedict ripped open the plastic bag and withdrew a mini bar, holding it up to his nose.

“Smells okay. I don’t think they’re laced with arsenic.”

“Would that even matter to you?”

“Probably not.”

My partner opened up the candy and popped the entire bar into his mouth. He chewed for almost a full minute, making cooing noises.

“Maybe it was Bill, in Evidence.” Benedict’s mouth was still half full. “He’s always been sweet on you. This could be his way of expressing his love.”

“Bill is almost seventy.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Jack. Want one?”

“I’ll pass. But feel free.”

He grunted a thanks and opened another.

“There’s no one you know who would give you candy?”

“Nobody. I’m all alone in this big cruel world.”

“Geez, Jack. That’s really sad.”

“If there were an award for the world’s biggest loser, I wouldn’t even win that.”

“At least you don’t dwell on it.”

I hit the gas and cruised through an intersection just as a yellow light was turning red. It was an unnecessary risk, but I didn’t get to be a lieutenant in the male-dominated world of Chicago law enforcement without taking chances.

“You could try Lunch Mates,” Herb said.

“What?”

“It’s a dating service.”

“Jesus.”

“I’m serious.” He took a bite of the candy, smacking appreciatively. “You make an appointment to meet with an agent and answer questions about yourself. Then they arrange for you to meet for lunch with a compatible man. It’s all prearranged so there’s no pressure.”

“I could also meet men by putting on some hot pants and walking along Twenty-third and Stony. At least I’d be the payee instead of the payer.”

Benedict popped the rest of the chocolate into his mouth.

“I just read an article about it in the Chicago Reader. It seems like a good idea.”

“Only weirdos meet people like that.”

“Not at all. Just people with full-time careers who are sick of the bar scene.”

“They’d match me with some weirdo.”

“I think that both parties have to agree to meet before the lunch takes place. What have you got to lose?”

“My dignity, my self-respect . . .”

“Bullshit. You don’t have any dignity or self-respect.”

“Jesus.”

I hung a left and swung into the parking lot of Mercy, where I parked in a loading zone. As Benedict and I extracted ourselves from the less-than-spacious confines of my beater, a parking lot attendant sauntered over, oozing attitude. I flashed my badge. Instant respect.

We strolled up to the doctors’ building, a large oppressive brick edifice that competed for the ugly award with the equally oppressive hospital. They stood side by side, large and brown, with crumbling brickwork and rusty fire escapes. Chicago was a city filled with great architecture, but every garden had a few weeds.

“I see you couldn’t leave your compulsion behind,” I said to Herb, indicating the candy in his hands.

“I was thinking about passing it around the children’s ward. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I must say I’m touched by your unselfish nature.”

“Bernice says if I gain any more weight, she’s cutting off the nookie.”

“The No Nookie Diet.”

It was a welcome shock to find the interior of the doctors’ building both brightly lit and pleasant. After consulting the front desk, we were directed to the fifth floor.

Dr. Booster had been a general practitioner. He shared an office with Dr. Emilia Kuzdorff and Dr. Ralph Potts, an OB-GYN and a pediatrician, respectively. We got into the elevator with an attractive blond woman and her sniffling daughter. Watching the child sniffle made me aware that I had a slight runny nose as well. Serves me right for not dressing properly.

I searched my pocket for a Kleenex—while on the job, I didn’t carry a purse. Too cumbersome. That’s why I favored blazers with big pockets. Today I was wearing a gray Donna Karan and a matching skirt, with a blue blouse and black flats. Heels were another hindrance to the job.

Sadly, my pockets were without any tissue. I briefly considered using Benedict’s tie, which was a green-and-orange–striped monstrosity that was too wide by at least thirty years. It was also covered with chocolate stains. Herb may be out of style, but he’s messy to make up for it.

Benedict must have guessed my intent, because he produced a pack of tissue from his pocket for me.

We located office 514 with no major difficulties. Dr. Booster’s name was still on the plaque next to the door. The waiting room was full of screaming children and frustrated mothers. I approached the front desk and got the attention of a nurse.

“I’m Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict. We have a few questions concerning Dr. Booster.”

She looked up at me with the greenest eyes I’d ever seen. It took me a moment to realize they must be contacts.

“Have you caught him?”

“No, ma’am. Not yet. You knew Dr. Booster?”

“I worked for him for seven years. He was a good doctor. He didn’t deserve that.”

“Can I get your name, ma’am?” Benedict had his notepad already in hand.

“Rastitch. Maria Rastitch.”

The phone rang. She picked it up, said a few words, and transferred the call.

“We’re hoping to look at a patient list.”

“We already supplied that other officer with a list.”

Which we’d seen. There was no Charles Smith. No one even had Charles as a first name.

“We wanted to see a list that cross-referenced names with prescriptions. Dr. Booster wrote out a prescription for a large amount of Seconal before he died. Were any of his patients taking Seconal?”

She frowned and swiveled her chair over to the computer. After a few seconds of punching keys she shook her head.

“Nope. No Seconal.”

Benedict said, “How about patients of Dr. Kuzdorff and Dr. Potts?”

“This includes them. There’s no one. Years ago we used Seconal for sleep disorders, but flurazepam is the preferred method of treatment now.”

“Do you have copies of all Dr. Booster’s prescriptions?”

“The ones he fills out here, yes. It would be on the computer. Our database lets us pull information by patient name, social security number, illness, visitation date, appointment date, and prescription.”

“Is it possible that the doctor wrote a prescription after office hours?”

“For Seconal? It would be odd. It’s a Control two drug. I don’t see why he would prescribe it at all, in the office or out of it.”

“But it’s possible?”

“Sure. All he’d need is the prescription paper.”

“Doesn’t the pharmacy call here to confirm prescriptions?”

“Sometimes. But if it’s after office hours, they may fill it without calling. The hospital pharmacy never calls. The pharmacists there know all of the doctors.”

I handed her my card.

“Thank you, Ms. Rastitch. Please call if you think of anything that may help. If it isn’t too inconvenient, we’d like to speak to a few other employees.”

“Not at all. I’ll announce you.”

Herb and I spent another hour talking to Booster’s staff and fellow doctors. They all echoed what the green-eyed nurse had said. No one knew why Booster would write a prescription for Seconal, and no one knew any patient who took it.

But Booster had written the prescription, as confirmed by the Illinois Department of Regulations, and someone calling himself Charles Smith had filled it and presumably used it in the abduction of our Jane Doe. If no one in Booster’s office remembered him, maybe the pharmacist who filled the prescription would.

Benedict and I left the doctors’ building, walking over to its ugly twin, where the hospital pharmacy lay in wait. There was a line. But one of the many perks of having a badge was the ability to bypass lines. This seemed to irritate the dozen people we cut in front of, but you can’t please all the people all the time.

The pharmacist looked like I’d picture a pharmacist to look: balding, fortyish, WASP, with glasses and a white coat. His name was Steve, and he informed us he’d been working there for three years.

“Were you working here last August tenth?”

He double-checked his schedule and informed us that yes, he was indeed working that day.

“Do you remember filling out a prescription for sixty milliliters of liquid Seconal on that date?”

His brown eyes lit up. “Yes. Yes, I do. It practically depleted our stock.”

“Could you describe what the individual looked like?”

He furrowed his brow. “It was a man, I remember that much. But what he looked like? I’m drawing a blank. I fill hundreds of prescriptions a day, and that was two months ago.”

“Was there anything unusual about his appearance? Very tall or short, old or young, skin color, eyes?” Herb asked.

“I think he was white. Not old or young. But I’m not sure.”

“Was he a hunchback?” I asked, bringing up the FBI’s profile.

Benedict shot me a glance, but honored my rank by not questioning me in front of a civilian.

“You mean like Quasimodo?” Steve asked.

I felt silly, but nodded.

“No, I would have remembered it if he was.”

“Did he also get syringes with the Seconal?”

“I’m not sure. Let me check.”

He went to his computer and hit a few keys.

“Here’s the prescription.” Steve pointed at his screen. “Under the name Charles Smith. He isn’t listed anywhere else in our computer. No needles, either. All he got from us was the Seconal.”

“Do you have the original handwritten prescription?”

“Nope. We throw them away at the end of the week.”

“How do you know if a prescription is real or faked?”

“I suppose it’s possible to counterfeit prescriptions, but who else but a doctor would know how many mgs of tetracycline are used to fight a respiratory infection? As for the Class B and C drugs, the ones that could be sold on the street, we call on them.”

“Did you call for this one?”

“No. I remembered considering it, but it was eight in the evening and Dr. Booster’s office was closed. I also recognized Dr. Booster’s signature. Even though the amount was strange, it seemed authentic.”

I sniffled, puzzling it over.

“Catching a cold?” Steve asked.

“Not on purpose.”

“I’d suggest an over-the-counter antihistamine. Stay away from nasal sprays. They’re addictive.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I handed him my card. “If it’s convenient I’d like you to come in after work today and sit down with a police artist. See if we can get a picture of this guy.”

“I really don’t remember him.”

“Our artist is good at helping people remember. This is extremely important, Steve. This Charles Smith has been linked to the brutal murders of two people. Anything at all you can give us is more than we had before.”

He nodded, promising to stop by. Herb and I left to the sour looks of the people we’d cut in front of. One old woman in particular gave me a sneer that could curdle milk. I considered sneering back, but that would be petty. We left the hospital without incident.

“What about the candy?” I asked Benedict when we got into my car. “What happened to giving it to sick kids?”

“I decided that candy is bad for the teeth and generally all-around unhealthy. Not something sick kids should be exposed to.”

“How gallant of you, bearing that unhealthy burden all yourself.”

“Want one?”

“Yeah. If you can part with it.”

“Just one. I’m looking out for your health, Jack.”

He handed me a candy bar and I pulled out of the parking lot. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I tore the wrapper off with my teeth and was about to pop it into my mouth when Herb yelped.

At first I thought he was vomiting.

But it wasn’t vomit.

It was a lot of blood.

Chapter 9

HERB GOT ELEVEN STITCHES IN THE mouth. A shot of Novocain made it painless, but watching the curved needle stitch in and out of his squirming tongue was torture to see. I could have waited by the emergency room entrance, but I wanted to witness what some sick bastard had done to my friend.

“Thanth.” Benedict nodded at the doctor when the last knot was tied.

I eyed the bloody candy bar in the metal tray next to Herb’s bed. The edge of an X-Acto knife peeked out through the caramel, shining in the fluorescent light.

“One more favor, Doc. I know this is unorthodox, but I don’t have access to an X-ray machine at the station.”

I explained my request and he agreed, sending me and Herb out into the waiting room. While Benedict filled out forms, I went through my mental files of all the enemies I’d made throughout my life.

There were more than I’d care to mention. Anyone I’d ever busted from my patrol days up until now could have nursed a grudge. I’ve also pissed off a few people in my personal life. But I couldn’t think of anyone, even murderers I’d put away who swore they’d break out and kill me, who would leave me such a horrible gift.

It could have been just bad luck. Some random freak I never met decides to express his hatred for cops by dropping off treats in the police parking lot. But an earlier call to the district killed that theory. No one else seemed to have gotten candy. I faced the disturbing truth that it was meant for me specifically.

“How about rethent catheth?” Herb asked.

“Recent cases?”

He nodded. Herb’s lower lip had swelled up from the stitches, causing him to pout. His tongue was also swollen, making him look like his mouth was full. But a full mouth was the normal look for Herb, so it didn’t detract too much.

“The only cases we’ve had in the last few weeks are gang deaths and suicides. Except the Gingerbread Man case. But how would he even know who I am?”

“Newth?”

“I don’t think I’ve been mentioned in the news.”

He shrugged. A line of drool was running down his chin; Herb was still too numb to feel it. I made the universal wiping motion on my own face, and he got the hint and cleaned himself off.

“Do you want to keep our appointment with Dr. Booster’s daughter, or call it a day?”

“Bootherth daubder.”

I nodded, glancing to the right as Benedict’s doctor approached. In one gloved hand was the bag of candy bars. In the other was a manila folder.

“This may sound callous,” he said, handing us the folder, “but you got very lucky. Not only could it have been much worse, but it might have been fatal. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

I opened the folder, taking a look at an X ray of the twenty-one remaining candy bars, including the one I’d almost bitten into.

“Jethuth,” Herb said.

“We counted over forty needles, thirty fishhooks, and ten X-Acto blades.” The doctor shook his head. “Only one candy out of the bunch was untampered with. If a hook or a blade got lodged in the throat, it might have easily severed an artery.”

I stared mutely at the X ray, feeling myself grow very cold. Someone had spent a long time doctoring up this candy. Hours. I tried to imagine that person, hunched over a table, inserting fishhooks into chocolate bars. All this trouble, hoping I’d eat just one. Or maybe hoping I’d pass them out to people. I thought about Herb, almost dropping off the candy at the children’s ward. Both my hands clenched.

“So, Doctor”––I tried to keep a lid on my rage—“if we find the person who did this, in your professional opinion, could we charge him or her with attempted murder?”

“Lieutenant, there’s no question in my mind. I would say that you’d have a better chance of surviving a gunshot than one of these candy bars.”

I thanked him, making sure I got his card in case we needed to talk again. Herb and I walked out to the parking lot in silence, leaving Mercy Hospital for the second time that day.

“Lunch?” I asked.

Benedict nodded. Eleven stitches in the mouth weren’t nearly enough to stop him from eating.

Before we ate, we stopped at Herb’s house so he could get cleaned up. I waited in the car. I liked Bernice, his wife, but her idea of small talk was asking dozens of personal questions, none of which I felt like answering at the moment.

When Herb came out, his bloody shirt had been replaced and he wore a new tie, this one too thin by at least twenty years.

We went to a sub place, where I got a meatball sandwich and Herb got a hoagie with double meat and cheese.

“How is it?” I asked.

Benedict shrugged. “I can’t tathte anything. But it smellth great.”

After feeding ourselves, we headed for Reginald Booster’s house in Northwest suburban Palatine. To do that we had to get on Interstate 90 going west. It was also called the Kennedy. The other big expressways in Chicago were the Edens, the Eisenhower, and the Dan Ryan. Naming them after politicians didn’t make them any more endearing.

The Kennedy had been under construction for the last two years, so the normally awful traffic was twice as bad. But then there has never been a time when at least one expressway wasn’t being repaired. “Expressway” was a misnomer.

Even with my cherry on the roof and the siren wailing, I couldn’t get past the single-lane traffic. Driving up on the median was another perk of being a cop, but the medians were swarming with construction workers and yellow machines. I beared it, but I didn’t grin.

Benedict went over the file with me as we drove, his lisp improving as he practiced his enunciation. On August 9, a person or persons unknown broke into Dr. Reginald Booster’s house at 175 Elm Avenue in Palatine. Booster lived there alone, his wife having passed away three years earlier in a car accident. The perp tied up Dr. Booster and slit his throat. Before death, he was stabbed in the chest and abdomen area twelve times, not deeply enough to kill.

The reason I’d recalled Booster’s name was that he was all over the news as the “Palatine Torture-Murder.” The media loves a torture-murder.

Booster’s body was discovered the next day by a weekly maid. There was no sign of anything stolen. No suspects, no witnesses, no apparent motive.

“What was he tied up with?” I asked Benedict.

He flipped through the report. “Twine.”

Twine fibers were found embedded in Jane Doe’s wrists and ankles. A possible link.

“Was the weapon serrated?”

“No. The wounds were smooth. But they weren’t as deep as the girl’s.”

I thought about this. “The jagged edge on a hunting knife, it doesn’t start until a few inches up on the blade. At the tip, it’s like a double-edged knife.”

“So it could be the same knife.”

“How did he get in?”

“Means of entry unknown. Place was locked when the maid arrived. She had a key.”

“Did they run that angle?”

“To death. The maid, no pun intended, was clean. In her deposition, she mentioned Booster sometimes kept his patio door open at night to let the breeze in.”

That struck me as odd, but I was a city girl. Suburbanites didn’t have a lock-and-key mentality. Pay half a million for a house in a nice neighborhood and you figure crime will never happen to you.

“No prints at the scene, right?”

“No. But a few smudges on his body that could indicate latex gloves.”

“Does the daughter live there now?”

“Nope. She lives in Hoffman Estates. She’s a kindergarten teacher.”

“Brave woman,” I said, recalling all of the screaming children back at the doctor’s office.

“So what was that bit with Quasimodo at the pharmacy?”

“Oh. That was Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber.”

“The Feebies?”

“They’re profiling again.”

Herb shook his head. He’d had some run-ins with the Féderalés last year on a murder case. Sixteen-year-old girl shot in the head, the same MO as another murder in Michigan. The FBI BSU ViCAT profile predicted the killer was a sixty-year-old white male truck driver, former enlisted man, bearded, and a bed-wetter.

The perp turned out to be two clean-shaven black gang members under eighteen, with no military experience between them, both untroubled by enuresis. Neither Herb nor I had much faith in profiling. In fact, neither of us had much faith in the FBI.

“So they profiled the Gingerbread Man with a curved spine.”

“It’s just a hunch,” I said.

Herb didn’t laugh at the joke either, but at least he got it.

“Well, maybe we’ll get an ID now,” Herb said. “People are bound to recognize the name Quasimodo.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he rings a bell.”

I winced.

“That one actually hurt.”

“Well, Hugo your way, and I’ll go mine.”

“Let’s not talk for a while.”

We came to a toll booth and I found forty cents in change in my ashtray. State troopers didn’t have to pay tolls, but us lowly city cops weren’t immune. Yet another reason to avoid the suburbs.

The Kennedy intersected Route 53 with the usual cloverleaf, and I took the leaf going north toward Rolling Meadows. Finally out of construction traffic, I released some pent-up tension and gunned the engine. It didn’t startle Herb too much. Probably because the acceleration on my Nova was comparable to pushing a boulder up a hill.

Palatine Road going west took us off the expressway and into the heart of middle-American suburbia. I drove past housing developments, and strip malls, and shopping centers, and more housing developments, and a strip mall development, and finally found Elm Street without difficulty.

It was a little before two o’clock when we pulled into Dr. Booster’s driveway, sandwiched between two mature spruces. The house was two stories and brown, partially obscured by an overgrowth of trees and bushes that needed trimming. The unkempt lawn was covered with brown leaves, and they crunched underfoot as we walked up to the front door.

Melissa Booster answered after the first knock, apparently having seen our approach. She was robust—add a hundred pounds to Rubenesque and you’d have her figure. I suppose the PC term would be glandularly imbalanced or calorically challenged. She wore a red housedress that hung on her like a set of drapes. Her makeup was simple and expertly applied, and her brown eyes crinkled at us through the layers of doughy skin that made up her face. Her three chins waggled in a cheerful smile and she invited us in.

“Sorry we’re late.” I offered my hand. “I’m Lieutenant Daniels, this is Detective Benedict.”

“No apologies needed, Lieutenant. It’s been a while since the police have contacted me. I’m happy to know the search is still on.”

She spoke in the singsong voice that people used when reading to children. I suppose that being around five-year-olds all the time made it hard to switch off. We followed her to the living room, where she sat us on a sofa in front of a dusty table and waddled off to the kitchen, insisting on getting us coffee.

Herb nudged me quietly. “That’s a whole lot of woman.”

“Spoken by a man with a forty-six-inch waist.”

“Are you referring to my washboard stomach?”

“Don’t you mean washtub stomach? Shh, she’s bringing doughnuts.”

Melissa Booster returned, carrying two mugs of coffee on top of a Dunkin’ Donuts box.

“I hope I’m not offending you.” She handed me a cup.

“Miss?”

“With the cop/doughnut thing. I don’t want to play on a stereotype.”

“No offense at all.” I smiled.

“Got any jellies?” Benedict reached for the box. He fished out something sticky and emitted a satisfied grunt. Other people would be wary of food after taking a bite out of an X-Acto knife blade, but not Herb.

“I’m sorry about the house.” Melissa plopped her bulk down on the love seat opposite us. The framework screamed in protest. “The maid never came back after finding Dad dead, and things have gotten dusty. This is the first time I’ve been back myself. I guess enough time has passed, but I’ve kept putting it off. Any new news?”

“Possibly. We’re following a lead on another case that may be related. Did your father ever fill out prescriptions off duty?”

“Sure. Whenever there was a family get-together he brought his prescription pad with him. Half the hypochondriacs in Illinois are related to me. That’s probably why Dad became a doctor.”

“What did he prescribe for family members?”

“The usual. Painkillers, sleeping pills, laxatives, cold medication, acne cream, birth control, all the standards. The current hot ones were Propecia and Viagra. He didn’t seem to mind the family doing it to him. Both my grandmothers thought he was a saint.”

Benedict finished enough of his doughnut to aid in the inquiries.

“Did he ever prescribe injectionals?”

“You mean like for diabetics?”

“Any at all.”

“Not to my family. Most of my relatives would faint at the thought of getting a shot.”

I sneezed thoughtfully, if such a thing is possible.

“How about Seconal?” I asked. “It’s a powerful sedative, like Valium.”

“Not to our family. Not that I know of.”

“We believe your father may have written a very large prescription for Seconal the night he died, possibly for someone who knew him. Do you know anyone named Charles or Chuck?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Any relative with that name, or friend of your father’s?”

“No. Not that I know of.”

“Ms. Booster . . .”

“Melissa.”

“Melissa, this is a hard question, but do you think there was any chance that your dad may have been selling prescriptions?”

She shook her head, as if saying no to a child. “Dad? No way. Look around you. It’s a nice house, but not extravagant. My father made good money, but it’s all accounted for. He lived within his means. Besides, Dad just wasn’t like that. I had it drilled into my head from a baby on that medication and drugs were very serious and dangerous.”

She reached into the doughnut box and removed a powdered, biting into it gently.

“Would he have had a prescription pad in the house?”

“Probably. His desk is in the den. Would you like to see it?”

“Please.”

Melissa placed the doughnut on the table and rocked twice on the sofa, pulling up her considerable body on the third try. We followed as she waddled to the den, down a hallway, and into a room the size of a large closet.

“Actually, this is just a large closet,” Melissa said. “Dad put a desk in here and it became the den.”

She didn’t enter, probably because if she did, she wouldn’t have room to turn around. I thanked her and went in alone, leaving Herb behind to small talk.

The desk was old and bore the traits of many years of faithful use. It was a rolltop, with five drawers and half a dozen cubbyholes to squirrel away bills or mail. I gave it a quick toss, finding a lot of junk for my efforts, but no prescription pad.

“A prescription pad wasn’t listed as items in evidence taken during the original investigation, was it?”

Benedict glanced at me and shook his head, then resumed his conversation with Melissa. They were talking, go figure, about food.

I went to the file cabinet next to the desk and commenced a once-over, finding tax forms, a few medical charts, and a smattering of appliance instruction manuals. No prescription pad.

“Pardon me.” I interrupted an argument about stuffed pizza. “But which room was your father’s body found in?”

“In the master bedroom. It’s down the hall and up the stairs to the right. If you don’t mind, I really don’t want to go in there.”

“I understand.”

Herb gave me a look, but I shook my head, indicating he didn’t have to tag along. I found the bedroom without difficulty. It was large, with two picture windows, a king-size four-poster bed, and a matching armoire and dresser. The curtains, bedding, and carpeting were all color coordinated, tan and dark brown.

The bed was unmade. Next to it was a chair, part of the bedroom set where Mrs. Booster would sit and do her makeup, and where Dr. Booster was bound and murdered. The Palatine PD had taken the twine used to tie him, but the chair remained, still stained with blood. The carpet under it was equally stained, brown and splotchy.

If Booster was found here, chances were good this was where he wrote the prescription. I checked the top dresser drawer.

Sitting on top of some underwear, waiting for me, was a prescription pad and a pen. Using a pair of tweezers I keep in my jacket for this purpose, I picked up the pen and placed it in a plastic bag, which I also keep in my jacket. Then I tweezed the prescription pad, holding it up to the light. The top sheet had indentations on it, left over from the pressure of the pen used to write the previous prescription.

If I wanted to play Sherlock Holmes, I could lightly rub a pencil over the paper. The lead would fall into the depressions, giving me a readable impression of the missing sheet above it.

But the lab boys would have fits if I did that. These days, infrared do-hickies and other complex stuff could read it without getting graphite all over everything. I bagged the pad and went through the rest of the drawers, searching for other clues. I came up empty, but the little optimistic knot in my belly refused to go away.

Downstairs, Herb and Melissa were in a heated discussion about where to get the best chili dogs. I butted in, sharing my discovery and promptly giving Melissa a receipt for the items I took.

“So he was killed for a lousy prescription?” Her eyes glassed over and she began to sob. Two months wasn’t enough time to get over the death of a parent. Some people never get over it.

Benedict, having shared his thoughts on food, now shared a hug with the young woman. She calmed some, and even managed a watery smile in the middle of her tears.

“Please find the man who killed my daddy.”

I could have said “We’ll do our best” or “We’ll stay in touch.” But instead, I nodded and replied, “We will.”

Then Benedict and I got back into my car and began the long and tedious trip back to Chicago.

Chapter 10

AT 2:35 THAT AFTERNOON THERESA METCALF regains consciousness.

Then he begins.

He tries many new things.

By 5:15 she can’t scream anymore.

By 6:45 she’s finally dead.

Chapter 11

THE FBI WAS WAITING TO SHOW me more paperwork when we got back to the station. Benedict had deserted me, electing to bring both the lethal candy and the pad and pen to the lab. Occupying my office without permission was annoying enough, but Special Agents Heckle and Jeckle had also appropriated my desk.

“Good news, Lieutenant,” Dailey said. “The ViCAT computer has given us a list of possible suspects.”

I frowned. “That’s my desk.”

They looked at each other, then back at me. I wondered if they practiced that move at home.

“There isn’t any other place to put all of this data.”

I knew a place they could put it, but I played nice and resisted the urge to tell them.

“I need some coffee.” I turned around, intending to leave. There was an excellent coffee place on the other side of town.

“Got some.” Dailey opened his briefcase, on my desk, and took out two polished aluminum canisters. “Regular or unleaded?”

Both Coursey and Dailey chuckled. Exactly three chuckles each, and then they stopped simultaneously. Eerie.

“Regular.” I sighed, sitting in the chair opposite of mine.

Dailey took a Styrofoam cup from his briefcase and filled it with the steaming contents of container number one.

“Cream or sugar?”

I shook my head and forced a polite smile.

“Let’s begin.” Coursey cleared his throat, preparing for lecture mode. “There have been several terminal occurrences over the past ten—”

I had to interrupt. “Terminal occurrences?”

“Murders.”

Jesus.

“As I was saying, there have been several terminal occurrences over the past ten years in the United States that may have possible connections to the Jane Doe found here two days ago.”

Dailey jumped in. “Serial or recreational killers usually have distinct patterns and modus operandi that make it possible, with the help of Vicky—”

“Vicky?” I asked.

“The ViCAT computer.”

“Ah.”

“That make it possible, with Vicky’s help, to find links between victims.”

“You mean terminal occurrences,” I corrected.

“Exactly.”

I sipped my coffee, and noted with annoyance that it was very good.

“You read through our report on why we believe the perp is organized rather than unorganized, correct?”

“Absolutely.” I recalled dropping it in the garbage on the way to my car.

“Here’s another report, a list of related crimes that Vicky has linked with the pattern established by our RK here.”

“RK?”

“Recreational Killer.”

“Ah.”

I wondered if there was a special branch of the FBI whose sole function was to make up acronyms.

“Vicky has also listed probability percentile rankings.”

Dailey nodded smartly, as if waiting for a cookie or a pat on the head. They must have taken my silence for deep thought, because they waited patiently for me to say something before they went on.

“Mmm,” I said.

They went on.

“There are seven possible connections on this list.”

“We’ll give them to you in ascending order of probability.”

“First, on May first in 1976 in Hackensack, New Jersey, there was a double shotgun homicide where the suspect was unknown.”

I wouldn’t be baited.

“What’s the connection, you’re thinking?” Dailey asked.

Actually, I was thinking that once, when I was younger, I had actually considered joining the FBI. We’re all entitled to moments of stupidity, I suppose.

“The connection is that after the murders, the bodies were mutilated,” Coursey said.

“With a fork,” Dailey added.

“Six point three percent probability it’s the same guy.” Coursey nodded smartly. I think they practiced nodding smartly in the mirror.

I rubbed my eyes, getting some eyeliner on my fingers. For what I paid for eyeliner, it shouldn’t come off that easily.

“Gentlemen, I have a lot of work to do. If you’ll just leave the paperwork, I’ll go over it as soon as I can.”

“Your captain assured us that you’d give us your full cooperation, Lieutenant.”

“And I intend to, Agent Dailey.”

“I’m Coursey.”

“I intend to, Agent Coursey. But my captain also expects me to have all of my reports done on time. I have a backlog of six cases I still haven’t transferred, and there were two more shooting deaths in my district last night that need to be attended to.”

“Were those shotgun deaths?” Coursey raised his eyebrows.

“No. Now thanks for your help, but right now I’ve got other things to do.”

I stood up. Dailey and Coursey did their looking at each other thing, and then got to their feet as well.

“I just hope we treat you with greater courtesy when the jurisdiction for this case is turned over to us.” Dailey nodded curtly.

Coursey added a curt nod of his own.

“I’m sure you will.” I walked around my desk and sat down in my chair, which was unpleasantly warm. They gathered up their respective papers and headed for the door, but a lingering thought made me stop them.

“Guys—your computer, Vicky, does it handle more than just terminal occurrences?”

“Yes. It is also a nationwide database for felonies such as rape, arson, and bank robberies.”

“How about poisoning? Product tampering?”

They nodded as one. I told them about the package I’d gotten earlier, ending the story by showing them the lethal X ray.

“Would your computer be able to locate other tamperings like this one?”

“I believe so. Can we keep this?”

I nodded, giving them directions to the lab so they could check out the goods themselves. Maybe, for the first time, the FBI would help out rather than get in the way. Hope springs eternal.

I wasn’t lying about the backlog of cases, and after making a few calls and filling out a few reports, I transferred them all so I could devote my full attention to the Jane Doe murder. Going over the case again from the beginning didn’t yield any new information, but it helped me organize the info I did have.

Lab report pending, I was 99 percent sure that Dr. Booster and our Jane Doe had been killed by the same perp. He was calling himself the Gingerbread Man, and after forcing Booster to write him a prescription for Seconal, he used it to abduct Jane Doe.

The note and the cookie were messages to the police, and there was a good indication that there would be more deaths. Sixty mls of Seconal was enough to knock out twenty to thirty people. Why ask for that much if he didn’t intend to use it?

I scribbled a note to myself to call the DEA and check to see if they had any stats on Seconal ODs. I also wanted to call up Vice and see if Seconal had been used in any recent rapes. Jane Doe may be the first murder, but she may not be the first person our perp used Seconal on.

I picked up the packet of pictures from the crime scene and looked through them for the hundredth time. Something in my subconscious made me linger on a photo of the girl in the garbage can, her rear end sticking out. I studied it further. There was garbage covering almost the whole body, except for the buttocks. But why so much garbage, if it hadn’t been in the can for more than an hour or two?

Maybe he arranged the garbage like that. Almost as if he were saying that he threw away a piece of ass. The FBI called it posing, and I was surprised I hadn’t received a lecture on that as well. Positioning the body like this was the perp’s way of showing how clever he was, and how much contempt he had for the victim. So did he take the time to do this in plain sight, or . . .

I picked up the report with the itemized list of all the garbage found in the can with the body. Mixed in with the cans and bags and wrappers and bottles were twelve receipts. The prices on the receipts were noted on the list, but not what I was after.

I picked up the phone and called Evidence.

“Bill? Jack Daniels.”

Bill had been caretaker of the evidence room since I was a rookie. He was older than God.

“Jack? How are you? I was thinking about you this morning, in the shower.”

“You should be ashamed, a man your age.”

“Chris is on his break. You could come down now. We’ll go behind the storage lockers.”

I laughed. “You’re too much man for me, Bill, but I could use a favor. I need you to look up something from case 93-10-06782. Receipts that were found in the garbage can with a body.”

“That the Jane Doe got all cut up?”

“Yeah.”

“Hold on.”

He put down the phone, and I heard the sliding gate unlock and imagined him walking through the aisles of shelves in the evidence room, looking for the proper case number. I finished my coffee while waiting, then regretted my haste because now I’d have to drink the awful station slop. Eventually I would break down and get a coffeemaker, because the stuff from the vending machine tasted like brewed sewage.

I put off getting more coffee and looked at the latest sheet the Feebies left. Their number one suspect match had a 48.6 percent probability rate that it was our guy. The murder and mutilation of three women with a hunting knife was unsolved, and I was ready to call the Feds and ask for more info on this case when I noticed it took place in 1953. In Nome, Alaska. I filed the paper, throwing my empty coffee cup in after it.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Ooohh, your voice makes my toes curl. I found the receipts for you, lamb chop. What do you need?”

“Look at one. Other than the date, does it have numbers in the upper corners?”

“Yeah. Two. The left-hand corner, 193, the right one 277.”

“Try another receipt.”

“Left 193, right 310.”

“Keep going.”

He read all twelve receipts, and the number in the left-hand corner was 193 in eleven out of the twelve. On the odd one, the number was 102.

“Can I do anything else for you, honey? Anything at all?”

“That should do it. Thanks, Bill.”

“My pleasure.”

I got on the horn with Information and was charged thirty-five cents to get the number for the 7-Eleven on Monroe and Dearborn. I already had the number somewhere, but like all public servants I’d been rigorously trained to waste taxpayers’ money at every opportunity.

“Seven-Eleven,” answered a voice with an Indian accent.

I found the deposition on my desk of the manager who’d been watching television while the Jane Doe was dumped in front of his store.

“Mr. Abdul Raheem?”

“No. This is Fasil Raheem. Abdul is my brother.”

“This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago Violent Crimes. I’m sure your brother told you about the body discovered in your outside trash.”

“He has not stopped talking about it. Is it true he chased the murderer away by showing him karate moves he learned from Van Damme movies?”

“I believe he was watching TV the whole time.”

“I thought as much. What can I do for you?”

“Tell me what the two numbers are in the top corners of your receipts, please.”

“Simple. The top right-hand number is the order number. The top left-hand number is the store number.”

“Are you store number 193?”

“No, Lieutenant. We are store number 102. I believe store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue. Let me check the book.”

He hummed to himself, tunelessly, and I felt a tingle of excitement in my gut because my hunch had paid out.

“I was correct. Store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue.”

“Thank you, Mr. Raheem.”

I hung up, satisfied. Benedict strolled in, handing me a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of Dr. Booster’s prescription pad, except now it had writing on it.

“That was quick.”

“We used fingerprint powder on it, and it clung to the depressions. No prints, but the writing stood out.”

The prescription was for sixty mls of sodium secobarbital, written out by Dr. Booster.

“Handwriting matches previous prescriptions he’d written.” Herb held up the Booster case file.

“So he was killed for the prescription, like we’d guessed.”

“It gets better. We found something else.” Benedict handed me another photocopy. “This was written twenty or so pages into it. Maybe it was just a doodle, or maybe Booster had left a note for us while the killer was there.”

It was a chicken scratch, only two words, practically illegible. It said “Buddy’s Son.”

“So the killer is Buddy’s son?”

“Could be. Or maybe his buddy’s son. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything. I called Melissa Booster and she doesn’t know anyone named Buddy.”

I puzzled over it.

“How about the patient list? Someone with the first or last name Buddy?”

“I checked. Nothing even close.”

“Let’s have Booster’s entire life checked out, see if he ever knew someone named Buddy.”

“Tall task.”

“We’ll give it to the task force.” I grinned, changing the subject. “I know how the killer dumped the body in the can without being seen.”

Benedict raised an eyebrow. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that; raise one eyebrow in silent inquiry. Unfortunately, both of my brows are hooked up to the same muscle, and whenever I try to raise one I do an involuntary Groucho Marx waggle.

“He swiped a garbage can from a 7-Eleven on Lincoln, took it home, and arranged the body in it, then dropped it off at the 7-Eleven on Monroe and took the other can with him. He could have switched cans in twenty seconds, if he had a ramp and a hand truck.”

“Maybe a garbageman?”

“Maybe. Check through Booster’s patient list again, check out occupations; garbagemen, mailmen, delivery men, anyone who drives a truck. Check with the DMV as well, run down all truck owners on his list.”

The phone rang, and I snatched it up and slapped it to my ear.

“Daniels.”

“This is Detective Evens, Palatine PD. I hear you’re picking through the Booster case.”

I ran it down for him, ending with the discovery of the prescription pad.

“I can’t believe we missed it.”

“You weren’t looking for it. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“Buddy? Nope. Can you fax it over, along with the prescription form? My cap’s gonna rip me a new one for not finding this.”

“How many interviews did you do?”

“Over thirty. Friends, neighbors, relatives. Anyone who knew the guy since high school.”

“Any suspects?”

“You’ve got the report.”

“It doesn’t list hunches. Any interview strike you as an oddball?”

“Half of his family were oddballs. But not in the murdering sense. Everyone liked the guy. We couldn’t find a reason someone offed him.”

“I take it you’ll be looking closer now.”

“Now that we know he died for a prescription? Hell yeah. Now I can start pulling in dealers, junkies, a whole slew of people.”

“We’re looking for someone who owns or drives a truck. I could float some manpower your way, you need it.”

“Nope. This murder really pissed people off here. Palatine’s a nice little town. We got more than enough guys who’d like to take another crack at this case.”

“Keep in touch, Evens.”

“Right back at you.”

I put the phone back in the cradle and sneezed. I fished out another of Herb’s tissues. “So let’s check out the 7-Eleven on Lincoln, see if they saw anything. Did you run into the Feebies at the lab?”

“Yeah. Thanks for sending them. I had to fake a case of diarrhea to get away from them and their nonstop monologues.”

“Did it work?”

“No. They followed me into the can.”

“Any prints on the candy?”

“None that we could find. But they’re going to run some tests.”

“How’s the mouth?”

“It hurts, but I’ve got my taste back. You up for a bite?”

“I’ve got more reports to go through, then I was going to call it a day.”

“Since I’m going out, I’ll check the 7-Eleven on Lincoln. If memory serves, it’s right next to a great Mexican place.”

Herb’s stomach rumbled, seconding the motion.

“See you tomorrow, Herb.”

“Bye, Jack.”

Benedict left. I attacked the pile of paperwork in front of me, including typing up the results of our hospital visit and our trip to Melissa Booster’s. This was the computer age, but I still used a standard electric typewriter, aware that fellow officers regarded me as a dinosaur in that aspect. Even if I did go high tech, I don’t see what good a computer would do me. Ten words a minute is ten words a minute, no matter what I’m typing on.

When I was done I remained sitting there, staring at the page.

There wasn’t anything else I could do at work, but I had no compelling reason to go home. I had no family there, no boyfriend waiting for me. It was just a place where I kept my meager possessions, ate, and tried in vain to rest.

“All I’ve got is you,” I told the report.

The report didn’t answer.

I sighed, then got up and left, resigning myself to yet another sleepless night.

Chapter 12

HIS CELLMATE HAD SPOKEN OF THIS place, during the long, boring night hours when rambling was the only way to kill time.

“Just go to the bartender, bald guy named Floyd. Tell him you need a TV repaired.”

The Gingerbread Man had taken it with the same grain of salt he took all prison bullshitting. Besides, if he ever needed someone taken care of, he was more than happy to take care of them himself. If doing time taught him anything, it was self-reliance.

But this situation is different. He doesn’t want to be connected with the act in the slightest way. Doing the job personally, though rewarding, is too risky. Besides, it feels godlike to be pulling the strings while staying safely behind the scenes. It adds more awe to his persona.

The idea came to him after violating the whore. He really hurt her. Brought her so close to death so many times. Payback for the humiliation, for the defiance, for picking on the wrong guy.

After he had finished, when he was lying naked with the body, he thought of his adversary, Jack Daniels.

Had Jack gotten the candy yet? Had she eaten it? Maybe she shared it with her squad, and fifteen or twenty pigs all got deadly little surprises. He had to know.

So he placed another call from the pay phone.

“This is Peters from the Herald. I’m following up on an anonymous tip. Were any police officers injured at work today?”

“We’re not disclosing any details at this time.”

“So you’re confirming the rumor?”

“Sorry, this is part of an ongoing investigation.”

“How about off the record?”

“Off the record, we got a detective with eleven stitches in his mouth.”

“A detective? My source said it was a lieutenant.”

“Your source is wrong.”

So Jack hadn’t eaten any. All that work for nothing.

The Gingerbread Man seethed. He’d imagined her with needles in her tongue, and this was a giant letdown.

There had to be another way to get her attention. To show he was taking their rivalry seriously. To put her in the hospital without exposing himself to unnecessary risk.

And then he remembered this place.

The tavern is dark and smells like cigarette smoke, even though it’s empty this time of day. Behind the bar is a skinny guy named Floyd, the man his cellmate told him about.

The Gingerbread Man hands Floyd a photograph of Jack, the one he’d taken during the crime scene visit on Monroe. He also gives him Jack’s address, license plate number, the calling card, and five hundred bucks.

The normal price to beat someone senseless was four hundred, but Jack is a cop, so it’s higher.

Leaving the calling card is risky, but there’s been no mention of it in the papers yet. He wants Jack to know who did this to her. Even more, when this is all over, he wants the cops and the world to know that they could have stopped him, if they’d only been smarter.

But they’ll only see the connection after he’s long gone.

Floyd takes everything, making an obvious effort not to look directly at his face. Smart business.

“Whaddaya want done to her?” he says, eyes on a TV at the end of the bar.

“Break her knees.” The Gingerbread Man grins. The idea that Jack will be forever crippled is appealing. When he calls on her, she won’t be able to run.

Floyd says he’ll get someone on it right away, maybe even tonight.

In the meantime, he has to dump the whore. It’s been a delightfully busy day, and he’s tired, but if he keeps her around too long she’ll begin to stink. More than one killer has been caught because neighbors complained of the smell coming from the death house.

So he has to do the garbage can trick again. Labor intensive, but effective. While it would be much easier just to dump her in the sewer, he wants the body to be discovered right away. The networks will eat it up.

Something for Jack to watch on TV while she’s recuperating in the hospital.

Chapter 13

MY ANSWERING MACHINE WAS BLINKING WHEN I got back to my apartment. It was Don. He didn’t want me back, but he did want the rest of his furniture, and for me to arrange having it put into storage. I was to call with the storage location.

Right. And then I might also slip him a few bucks.

I decided to be fair and meet him halfway. I called him back and got a deep female voice on the answering machine that identified itself as Roxy. I informed her and Don that I would move all of his things . . . out into the hall.

He had a lot of crap, and it took almost two hours. When I was finished the apartment looked barren. Except for my grandma’s rocking chair, a beanbag, the bed, and my cheap dinette set, every other stick of furniture was his. I was shocked to find out I only had one lamp. It was a crappy lamp too, with a switch that didn’t work unless you wiggled it. I must have had more lamps before he moved in, so what the hell happened to them?

The only conclusion I could draw was that once he moved his things in, he began moving my things out. I suppose I never noticed because I never paid much attention. Or maybe it was because I was rarely home.

It’s a wonder he left me.

I checked the fridge for food products and managed to put together a salami and mustard on rye. The mustard was Don’s, some imported brand that cost more per ounce than silver. It was too tangy. When I was done with the sandwich I tossed the mustard into the hall with the rest of his things.

Flipping through my mental appointment book, I checked out my itinerary for tonight. It would be a titillating evening of television, then tossing and turning in bed trying to fall asleep.

Be still my beating heart.

I considered making a drink and drawing a bath, but then I was seized by a fit of spontaneity and decided to actually go out and do something. Two nights in a row. I’m such a party animal.

Changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, I once again took the route to Joe’s Pool Hall. The night was crisp, and it being Friday, the streets were packed with kids. I passed a group of guys who were tossing out catcalls to every girl that passed.

They didn’t catcall me at all, the little snots.

Joe’s was busier than usual, but Phineas Troutt had secured a corner table, methodically pocketing ball after ball. He wore khakis and an open flannel shirt over his T-shirt. I bought two beers and carried them over.

“Are you looking for a game, or do you want to play with yourself all night?” I asked.

He banked an eight into the side pocket.

“You willing to put money on it?”

“I got two bucks says I kick your butt.”

“That’s a boastful two bucks.”

I let him see the color of my money, tossing two singles on the rail as if they were hundreds. Phin sunk his final ball and squinted at me.

“Loser racks. And if memory serves, you lost our last game. The last several, in fact.”

I handed him a beer.

“All part of the hustle. I’ll own your car by midnight.”

He took a pull on the bottle.

“Thanks. I’m really glad you stopped by.”

“Got a thing for older cops?”

“Actually, I have to piss like a racehorse. Didn’t want to leave the table because I’d lose it.”

He excused himself and trotted off to the bathroom.

While he was occupied, I racked the balls and executed a sledgehammer break, pocketing a stripe and a solid. I chose to keep solids, putting in three more before Phin returned.

I pointed to the far left pocket and knocked another solid down.

“I see you’ve taken advantage of my absence by cheating your ass off.”

I politely told him to engage in a carnal impossibility, and pocketed another solid.

Running a table isn’t easy. Not only do you have to sink the balls, but you have to position the cue ball to have a shot at the next ball. I had a good eye for the game, and knew how to plan ahead, but sometimes my talent wasn’t up to my knowledge.

I chalked my cue and walked over to my next shot, a tricky bank into the far corner. Just as I brought the stick back, I was shoved roughly from behind.

“What the hell?” I turned around, irritated.

Staring down at me was a very big and very ugly man. He had scar tissue for a face, and a flat, crooked nose that was no stranger to being broken. I could smell the mean on him like I could smell the booze. As he narrowed his little eyes at me, I was reminded of Bluto from Popeye fame. Except that Bluto was smaller. And a cartoon.

“You spilled my beer, you little bitch.”

He said it loud enough for the whole bar to hear, spittle flecking off his fat lips.

Phin, who is no shorty himself, grabbed the guy’s shoulder and looked up at him.

“Cool it, buddy. She’s a cop.”

The big man shrugged Phin off, focusing on me again.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Bluto snarled. Then he spit on my shoes.

We all live by rules. Cops have more rules than most, especially when dealing with irrational people. One of those rules was never to provoke them, especially when they’re bigger than a small town.

But rules, as they say, are meant to be broken.

“You need a breath mint,” I said evenly. “I’d suggest you go buy yourself a pack. Right now.”

Bluto sneered. I was aware that people around us had stopped playing to watch. Like a fool, I hadn’t worn my gun, even though regulations stated I should wear it off-duty. But I wasn’t even sure that a gun would make a difference with this guy. He had to go six seven, and anything short of a bazooka probably wouldn’t slow him down.

“You want me to leave, pig?” He smiled.

Then he sucker punched me in the gut.

I barely had time to clench my abs and twist my torso to deflect some of the blow. It still knocked me off my feet, and I wound up on all fours, trying to suck in a breath.

Phin was already in motion before I landed. Doing his Sammy Sosa impression, he smashed Bluto across the back of the head with the heavy end of his cue, getting for his efforts a cue in two pieces.

The big man turned on Phin, throwing a hard roundhouse that hung in the air forever. Phin ducked it and gave him a smack to the jaw that didn’t even make the giant blink.

I shook away a few stars and got to my feet, knees wobbling under me. A woman didn’t get to be a Violent Crimes lieutenant in America’s third largest city without being able to take a punch.

Or without knowing how to punch back.

I threw a hard right into the man’s kidney, trying to drive my fist through him, putting every one of my hundred and thirty-five pounds behind it.

Bluto grunted, doubling over. Phin took the opportunity to kick him in the face. Something small bounced off me that I later found out was a tooth.

The giant hit the ground, and that would have been the end of it if the bastard hadn’t had friends.

They were the type of guys an asshole like this was bound to hang out with. One had black hair, slicked back, and a grubby little goatee. I counted five earrings, all of them skulls, and a matching skull pinkie ring.

The other was shorter and stocky, his fair hair in a crew cut. He wore a tank top that revealed heavily muscled arms, slathered with tattoos of guns.

I had never noticed that my favorite bar boasted a rather shitty clientele.

Tattoo Boy moved in toward Phin quick and loose, like a trained fighter. He threw a right that was so quick, I thought for sure it would take Phin out.

But Phin was fast too, and he rolled into the punch, taking it on his shoulder. I saw Phin jam an elbow into the guy’s chin and then I had to deal with my own problem.

He came at me low, goatee curved in a grin. I raised my fists and clenched my teeth.

“I’m a cop, you jackass.”

“I eat cops.” He ran his tongue over brownish teeth and charged at me.

I brought up my knee, smacking him in the center of his ugly face, and I couldn’t resist grunting, “Eat this.”

I could feel his nose go mushy, but he still had enough momentum behind him to lift me up and onto the pool table. He landed on top, bleeding all over my shirt and face, throwing wild windmill punches at my sides.

As he hammered away, I tried to roll over. No good—I was pinned. I shoved, straining with all I had, but he was too heavy.

Then his hands found my throat.

I pulled at his fingers, but couldn’t pry them off. To my left, on the table, several balls were jostled by our struggle. I wrapped a hand around the eight ball and smashed it into the side of his skull.

His eyes rolled up and he crumpled onto the edge of the pool table. Odd ball, corner pocket.

I sought out Phin, who was having difficulties of his own. Bluto had gotten back up, and he gripped Phin around the neck while Tattoo Boy circled, looking to land a jab through Phin’s swinging fists.

“Police! Don’t move!” I yelled.

They kept moving. Some guys had no respect for authority.

I weighed the eight ball in my hand, planning on pitching a slider at Bluto’s back. My baseball days were long behind me, but I figured he was so big a target I couldn’t miss.

I missed.

Luckily, Phin didn’t need to be rescued. He pivoted on his hip and judo- threw the big man onto his back.

Tattoo Boy moved in, but Phin swiveled around and caught him on the chin with the heel of his foot.

Tattoo Boy ate the floor. But Bluto, who seemed extremely angry at having been thrown, got to his feet and picked Phin up. Not in a bear hug, but as if Phin were a sack of potatoes. He hoisted my friend up over his head, ready for a slam dunk.

I launched myself at the giant, tackling his midsection, my head and hands sinking into doughy flab. He umphed, and dropped Phin on top of me, then began a kicking frenzy on our prostrate forms.

I caught one particularly vicious boot to the head that made my vision swim. While I scrambled to get away from the flying feet, I noticed Tattoo Boy had gotten back up, and he was approaching with a look on his face that was anything but pleasant.

This is what I get for trying to have a social life.

Phin untangled himself from me and rolled gracefully to his feet, diving at Bluto, hooking a forearm into the giant’s throat.

Tattoo Boy flexed his pecs, making the machine guns dance. I got up slowly and blinked away the tiny motes dancing before my eyes.

“You’re under arrest,” I tried.

He laughed at me, flexing again. Must have spent a lot of the time in the gym to have definition like that.

I put up my fists and feinted with a left, bringing the right cross into his jaw. It didn’t seem to bother him much. I followed up with a right-left combination, working the body. He shot out with a jab of his own, catching me above the eye.

“Jack!”

I turned to see Phin soaring at me, his face total panic. He flew past and smacked hard into Tattoo Boy. They rolled to the floor.

“Now it’s your turn,” Bluto spat. He grinned, exposing several gaps where teeth used to live, and picked up a bar stool like it was made of balsa.

I backpedaled until I found a stool of my own. Bluto charged, raising his stool above his head and bringing it down on me like a war hammer. I managed to block it, but the force knocked me onto my ass. Pain shot up from my coccyx to the base of my skull, traveling along my spine like a lightning bolt. My vision blurred. I blinked away tears. Never, in my whole life, had my butt hurt so much.

A huge hand reached down and grabbed my sweatshirt, hauling me up to my feet. I focused on the other hand, cocked back in a fist the size of my entire face.

Not able to twist away, I turned my head down. Knuckles met the top of my skull. Everything went black for a moment. Then I was on the floor.

I heard sirens in the distance, getting closer. Bluto was howling, holding his bleeding right hand by the wrist.

I blinked. Phin walked up to the giant, taking a pool cue from a nearby table. He bounced the heavy end of the cue off of Bluto’s temple. Bluto’s eyes fluttered briefly and then he crumpled to the ground.

Phin tossed the cue to the floor and picked up his beer from the table rail. In all the excitement, it hadn’t fallen off. I looked to the right and saw Tattoo Boy sprawled out like a throw rug, his leg at a funny angle.

And the good guys win it in overtime.

“You okay?” Phin asked.

“Assholes ruined the best pool game of my life.”

He took a sip of beer and then handed me the bottle. I drained the rest.

People began to gather, coming out of their hiding places now that the trouble was over. I took a few tentative steps forward, testing my body. I hurt in a dozen places, especially my butt and my head, but nothing seemed broken.

Cop mode switched on, and I went to Tattoo Boy and patted him down for weapons. He had a switchblade, which I took. I did the same with Goatee, and got a knife and a set of brass knuckles for my efforts.

Finally, I bent over the sleeping giant and my heart skipped a beat.

In his jacket pocket, broken in three large pieces, was a gingerbread man cookie.

Chapter 14

THE QUESTIONING BEGAN AT THE HOSPITAL. After a doctor looked me over and declared I’d live, I joined my fellow officers in the interrogation process. Captain Bains had shown up, as had Benedict, the Feebies, several people from the mayor’s office, and the assistant state’s attorney.

We went by the book and wore our kid gloves to avoid messing up a possible conviction. A judge was called and warrants were issued to search the suspects’ homes. Lawyers were present during questioning, and in a rare turn of events, they felt full confessions were in the best interests of their clients.

The guy with the earrings had sustained a concussion from the eight-ball sandwich I’d fed him, and he’d be out for a while. But Bluto and Tattoo Boy were conscious and able to talk. And talk they did.

But when all was said and done, with all of our caution and persistence, we were left with little more than when we’d begun.

Bluto and his buddies had been hired to break my legs. They’d been given a photo of me, my address, and cash to share among them. I’d been tailed to Joe’s from my apartment, which they’d been watching, and after finishing their intended beating they were supposed to leave the gingerbread man cookie with me.

They didn’t know the man who hired them. They didn’t know about the Jane Doe murder. Their residences were searched and came up clean. Their alibis for the time of Jane Doe’s murder were tight. Their only crime, other than assault and battery on a police officer, was extreme stupidity at having stumbled into so much trouble for so little cash. It wouldn’t even begin to cover their doctor bills, let alone legal representation.

They’d been brokered by a man named Floyd Schmidt, who operated a goon-for-hire service out of a bar on Maxwell Street. Floyd was initially uncooperative when we brought him in, but he quickly agreed to talk about anything and everything to avoid being implicated in the Jane Doe murder.

A man had come to see him at the bar, offering five hundred dollars to cripple me. Floyd could give no description other than the fact that he was white, average height, between twenty and forty years old.

“I swear, I never looked at the guy. This business, you look at people, they get uncomfortable, don’t want to use your services.”

No one was too surprised.

The gingerbread man cookie was the same type as the one found with Jane Doe’s body. The picture of me had been processed by someone in a private darkroom rather than a commercial house. We managed to recover two of the original hundred-dollar bills used to pay for Floyd’s service. We used an ALS to try and photograph fingerprints, but only lifted a set from Bluto.

In other words, we had zip.

I was exhausted, aching, and generally cranky. Herb suggested I go home. Seeing no reason to argue, I did.

And of course, I couldn’t sleep.

Some Tylenol helped with my various aches, many of which had stiffened up since the fight. But even with my energy meter at 0.0, I couldn’t completely relax.

He was out there. He knew where I lived. He knew I was after him.

He even took a picture of me.

While it was a close-up, I could tell it was taken at night, while raining, and I’d been wearing my trench coat. It was yet to be determined the type of camera and lens he’d used, but I knew when he’d taken it. At the Jane Doe crime scene.

The Gingerbread Man had been there. He’d picked me out as his adversary. And now he was playing some kind of warped game.

The Feebies had touched on it during a break in the interrogation process.

“There’s a high certainty that this man was also the one who gave you the candy,” Dailey had said.

“Vicky should have a printout this afternoon on similar product-tampering cases.”

“This man has singled you out as his enemy. Be prepared for some personal contact anytime soon. A letter, or a phone call. Maybe he’ll even meet you face-to-face, without you knowing it’s him.”

“You should be under surveillance, Lieutenant.”

I politely declined, saying it hadn’t escalated to that level yet.

But now, alone in bed, I couldn’t help but feel a bit paranoid. In all the years I’d been hunting down killers, I’d never had one decide to hunt me.

The thought left me anything but drowsy.

I replayed the videotape of the Jane Doe crime scene in my head, an easy feat to do because I’d seen it dozens of times. I hadn’t noticed any of the onlookers carrying a camera, but another viewing was certainly warranted.

I switched over from my back to my side, which was a bad thing to do because I immediately took note that Don wasn’t next to me. When I’d arrived at the apartment a little earlier his furniture and things had been removed from the hallway. It had been Don, rather than a thief, because he’d left me a message written on my door in black marker.

“Your an asshole, Jack,” had been the message.

Spelling was never one of Don’s strong points.

But I still missed him. Or maybe not him exactly. I missed having a warm body lying next to me. I suppose we had more of an arrangement than a relationship. I got to hold him at night, and he got a free apartment.

There have been marriages built on less.

I flipped onto my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to let sleep overtake me. Gradually, slowly, eventually, drowsiness set in, pulling me into sleepyland.

Then the phone rang.

I bolted out of bed like a startled fawn and had the phone to my face before I was fully awake.

“Daniels.”

“Hope I didn’t wake you, Jack. We’ve got another one.”

I closed my eyes and gave my head a shake. The clock told me it was a little past noon.

“Where?”

“A 7-Eleven on Addison,” Benedict said. “About a block away from you.”

I blinked and nodded, weighing the news.

“Be there in five.”

“There’s something else. Maybe you should prepare yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“He left another note. It’s addressed to you.”

“What does it say?”

Herb cleared his throat and read in a monotone.

“‘Number Two. Dear Jack, I saw you at Joe’s. Not bad for a bitch. I didn’t get my money’s worth, but it was fun anyway. Too bad that bald guy helped you out. I think you would look beautiful in a wheelchair. But there’s still time for that.’”

I said, “Christ.”

“There’s more. ‘I will keep killing these sluts. It’s my mission. I’ve left you another present, but it’s deeply hidden. Run, run, as fast as you can, Jack. You can’t catch me . . . but I’ll catch you. The Gingerbread Man.’”

“The crowd, Herb. Make sure we get close-ups of everyone. I bet the little weasel is there right now, watching. See you in a bit.”

It only took a few minutes to throw on a suit and get over there. I didn’t even need to drive. The crime scene was practically in my backyard.

Four squad cars had preceded me, parked in front of the entrance to the store, cutting off the lot. Several uniforms were securing the scene, taping it off. Another was keeping the crowd and the growing number of reporters at bay. I hung my badge around my neck and entered the circus.

Herb, who always managed to beat me to crime scenes even if they were only a block away from me, was standing next to the garbage can at the storefront. The lid was off, and something bloody was sticking out into the air. In Herb’s hand was the note, bagged in a large Ziploc.

I found a tissue in my pocket and wiped my runny nose, trying to overtly scan the crowd. If I was obvious about it, I might scare our man away. And I was sure he was nearby, watching.

No one jumped out at me.

“You look like a train wreck,” Herb offered.

“Thanks for caring.”

I turned my attention to the garbage can. It was another woman, her ass rising up out of the refuse like a bloody mountain. Without trying to absorb too much detail, I could see that her buttocks, vagina, and rectum had been mutilated almost beyond recognition.

My stomach began to twist and I looked away, grateful that my nasal congestion masked the death smell.

This was someone’s daughter. She’d suffered, died, and was now rotting away. All for the amusement of some sick son of a bitch.

“Who found her?” I asked Benedict.

“Owner. Guy named Fitzpatrick. He’s the one who called it in. Patrolman recognized the MO, called up our district.”

Which was an indication of how big this case was. Districts in Chicago were incredibly jurisdictional, and only an order from the police superintendent could force them to relinquish cases to one another. The order had been given after last night’s fiasco.

“Witnesses?” I asked.

“Not yet.”

“Owner inside?”

A nod.

I left the body and pushed open the glass door, Herb in tow. Fitzpatrick was sitting in a chair behind the counter, a sad expression painted on his face. He was portly, balding, and had several food and beverage stains on his work shirt. Two uniforms flanked him, one of them taking notes.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick,” I announced, “I’m Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict.”

“Help yourself to some coffee, Lieutenant. Everyone else has. They say I’ll be closed all day.”

Much as I longed to pity the man and his temporary loss of income, I held firm and didn’t break into tears.

“We should have things taken care of here in an hour or so,” I told him. “Besides, with the news coverage, the whole neighborhood will be by later to see your shop. I’m sure more than one of them will buy something.”

He brightened greatly at the entrepreneurial potentialities. Maybe he was thinking of having T-shirts made up.

“When did you notice the body, Mr. Fitzpatrick?”

“I noticed the lid was off. Sometimes kids, they steal them. God knows what they do with garbage can lids.”

“What time was this?”

“At five to twelve, maybe a little after. There was no one in the store, so I went outside to look for the lid and I saw . . .” He made a gesture with his hands at the garbage can through the storefront window. “Then I came in and called 911.”

The patrolman on his left, with a name tag proclaiming he was Officer Meadows, glanced at his notebook.

“Call came at eleven fifty-seven. Jefferson and I arrived on the scene at twelve oh three.”

“Did you notice anything unusual beforehand?” I asked Fitzpatrick.

“No, nothing really.”

“How about earlier today? Did any garbage trucks come into your lot? Vans? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nothing, except some guy who almost died in my store about an hour ago.”

Benedict did his eyebrow thing, prompting an explanation.

“Some kid. Teenager. Had some kind of fit or seizure or something. Threw himself down on the floor by the pop machine, started shaking and foaming at the mouth. I thought he was gonna die right there.”

“Did you call for an ambulance?”

“I was gonna. But the kid told me not to. Had these attacks all the time. After a minute or two he just got up and left, no problem.”

I nodded at Herb, who went off to phone Mr. Raheem at the first 7-Eleven to check for a similar happenstance. Some guy foaming at the mouth would easily draw attention away from the parking lot.

“Can I have the surveillance tapes?” I pressed. “The ones for the last two hours?”

“Sure. But that kid didn’t dump no body. I watched him leave.”

“How much later did you notice the lid off the garbage can?”

“Few minutes, I guess.”

I turned to Meadows. “Print him after he gives the deposition.”

“I didn’t do nothing!” Fitzpatrick thrust his jaw at me.

“We’re doing that to rule out your prints if we find any on the garbage can.”

He nodded, as if he knew that all along. I went back out into the fray, my headache pulsing with every heartbeat, my eyes feeling as if they’d been rubbed in sand. Maxwell Hughes was peering at the body in the can with professional detachment that can only come from constantly being around corpses. On his nod, two gloved assistants tipped the garbage can over.

The girl plopped onto the sidewalk, cocooned in a shell of bloody garbage. Two uniforms moved in, bagging and tagging, while Hughes knelt down and searched for a pulse that he knew wasn’t there.

I walked over, staring down at the body, trying to imagine it walking and talking and being a person. I couldn’t do it. Death robs people of their personalities. It turns them into, for lack of a more sympathetic word, an object rather than a human being.

This girl had hobbies and dreams and hopes and friends. But none of that meant a thing anymore. All that was left was the further indignity of an autopsy, in the hopes that her corpse would somehow lead to her killer.

From dreamer to evidence. And it was no easy trip.

I’d seen a thing or two. Shotgun deaths. Gangland murders. A guy who killed his kid with a hot iron. But as the garbage was peeled away, I had to turn away for fear of losing my stomach.

It was obscene, the traumas inflicted on this poor girl.

“We’re missing some parts,” Hughes said to his men. “I’m looking for two ears, four fingers, and all ten toes. Check inside cans and wrappers.”

“Tell me this was done after death,” I said to Max.

“I don’t think I can appease you there, Jack.” He spoke sadly. “See these cuts on her palms? From her own fingernails digging in while she clenched her fists. Consistent with most torture deaths. I don’t see any ligature mark around her neck like the first one either. My guess would be she died of shock as a result of massive blood loss.”

I blinked away the image of organs oozing up through the slits in her belly.

“Lieutenant,” someone said.

Happy to focus on something else, I gave attention to one of the patrolmen sifting through the trash. He was holding, in his gloved hand, a gingerbread man cookie.

I wiped my nose and rubbed my temples and stared a challenge into the crowd of onlookers, daring one of them to meet my gaze. None did.

“I talked to Mr. Raheem.” Herb was putting away his cell phone. “He also had a kid in the store who had some kind of attack, about two hours before Donovan found the body.”

I gave myself a mental kick in the ass for missing that.

“The surveillance tape?”

“We’ve got it in Evidence. We checked it up until an hour before the body was found. Maybe we should check the whole thing.”

“We know this guy hires outside help. He proved that with me last night. He might have hired the same kid to do both distractions . . .”

“Then maybe he has a partner.”

“And maybe we have a lead.”

It was still iffy at best. The kid might not have a record, and we might never find him. Even if we did, there was a chance that he was hired the same way Floyd was, with little or no information about our perp.

But at least now we had something to do other than wait for new victims.

Herb eyed me sympathetically. “You want to meet me later, get some rest first?”

“Naw. Wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. I could use something to eat, though. Hungry?”

“When am I not hungry?”

I looked at his stitches. “Doesn’t it hurt to eat?”

“Hurts like hell. But a man doesn’t give up breathing just because he has a cold. I know a place that serves great falafel.”

“Falafel?”

“No, I don’t feel awful.” Herb grinned. “I feel pretty good.”

I gave him deadpan. Herb pouted.

“Come on, Jack. I’ve been waiting two weeks to use that joke.”

“Should have kept waiting.”

We took Herb’s car, buying some White Castle cheeseburgers at a drive-thru and eating them back at my office. I called up Evidence, and Bill was only too happy to bring up the surveillance tape from the first 7-Eleven.

“I hear you’re a free woman again, sugar buns.” Bill grinned at me, showing off his unnaturally white dentures.

“I’m not free, but my rates are reasonable.”

“How much for, say—three and a half minutes?”

“I don’t talk money. You’ll have to settle it with my business manager.”

“You can have her for two bucks,” Herb said. “That includes my cut.”

Bill grinned wickedly, and I watched in amazement as the sixty-eight-year-old rolled his hips. They made a cracking sound.

“Unfortunately,” I cut in before he pounced, “the taxpayers require my time first.”

“You’re a tease, Jack, getting an old man all hot and bothered and then turning him away.”

He pinched my cheek and walked out.

I turned to Herb. “Thanks for informing Bill of my recent availability.”

“Payback for siccing the Feds on me. You want the last burger?”

I shook my head and popped the tape in the VCR. As expected, the quality was poor. It was black and white, grainy from having been reused several hundred times, and speeded up so one six-hour tape could accommodate an entire day.

There was a time code in the lower left-hand corner, in military time, and I rewound to 1800 hours and let it play.

Lo and behold, at 18:42 a young man entered the store, made a beeline for the magazine rack, and then fell over and started shaking like a leaf. The two other patrons who were in the store, along with the clerk, went over to take a closer look.

The seizure lasted almost two minutes, or about twenty seconds on the speeded-up copy we had, and then the kid got up and left the store, keeping his head down, avoiding the overhead camera with obvious experience.

“If that was a real seizure, I’m trying out for the ballet,” Benedict said.

I pushed the image of Herb in tights out of my mind and rewound the tape, letting it run in slow motion so it was closer to real time. As evidence, the tape was practically inadmissible. The picture quality was that bad. I took it out and plunked in the tape from the 7-Eleven earlier today, hoping for a better quality.

Sometimes wishes come true.

This time the tape was in color, crystal clear. Rather than the annoying pan back and forth of the previous tape, this tape used four different cameras to record four different parts of the store, which broke the screen up into quarters.

“This is more like it,” Herb said.

I rewound to the part where the kid walked in, and he gave us a perfect full frontal face shot. Then he went from one screen to the next, and we watched as he popped something into his mouth and went into the familiar convulsions.

“Looks like he’s spitting something up.”

“Alka-Seltzer. It’s an old trick, makes you look like you’re foaming at the mouth.”

“Let’s get some uniforms up here to look at this.”

Benedict got on the horn and rounded up half a dozen or so officers on duty. They piled into my office and watched the tape. No one recognized the kid.

“This has got to be an MO he’s used before,” I told them. “Probably shoplifting, maybe causing a distraction while his partner made off with some goods. Ask around, see if anyone’s heard of a petty thief who fakes seizures.”

After they’d left, the desk sergeant called and informed me that we now had a composite sketch of our suspect, drawn from descriptions given by Steve the pharmacist and Floyd the leg-breaker broker. Herb went down to get it, because the vending machines were en route. I put in the video of the first crime scene and scanned it for gawkers with cameras. Nothing.

Benedict came back a few minutes later, sans foodstuffs but with telltale chocolate smears in his mustache. He handed me the sketch, which was vague enough to look a little like every average middle-aged white man in the world. The eyes were closer together than most, and the head was more triangular, giving the perp a ratlike appearance. But under low lighting conditions, after a couple of drinks, the picture might have been of Don, or Phin, or half my squad. We could rule out Herb because the face was lean.

The phone rang, and Benedict graciously picked it up for me.

“It’s Bains.” He hung up the receiver only seconds after putting it to his ear. “He requests the company of your presence in his office as soon as you have a moment.”

I got up and stretched, wincing as all of my aches and pains came to life. Perhaps the captain wanted to discuss the fight last night, or our progress on the case, or my brush-off of the Feds, or my unauthorized overtime, or to tell me he liked my outfit.

I was right on four of the five.

“Jack, have a seat.”

I sat across his desk and faced the man. Captain Steven Bains was short, stout, about ten years my senior, and had a hair weave that looked unrealistic because it had no gray in it, whereas his mustache did. He finished peering at the paper in front of him and removed his reading glasses to look at me.

“You weren’t carrying last night.”

“I know. Maybe it was a good thing, because if I had my piece I might have killed one or more of them.”

“Wear it from now on. It looks like this guy is gunning for you.”

I nodded.

“Tell me about the second victim.”

I ran it down for him, and he asked questions when appropriate.

“The pressure is mounting,” he said when I finished. “The police superintendent and the mayor’s office want to turn the case over to the Feds.”

I made a face. “We’re not lacking for manpower or resources. The only thing we’re lacking is leads, because this guy doesn’t give us any to follow.”

“That’s why I refused. But after the media kicks into gear today, it won’t be long before my authority is usurped. If you want to keep this one, Jack, you’ll have to dig up something more to go on.”

“We’re doing a restruct of the second vic. Maybe we’ll get an ID.”

“Hedge that bet.”

I knew what he meant. In 99.9 percent of murder cases, the killer knows the victim, and links can be found. But the Gingerbread Man could be picking up random women. If that were the case, even positive IDs might not help us catch him.

“Any idea what he meant in the note, about leaving you another hidden present?”

“No. Another victim, maybe? But he doesn’t hide them, he likes to put them in public places. Maybe . . .”

I rolled it around in my noggin. I left you another present, but it’s deeply hidden. He’s implying that the present was there, with the body, hidden deep. Deep in the body?

“What if he hid something inside the bodies?”

“Wouldn’t the autopsy have picked it up?”

“Maybe not something deeply hidden.”

Bains picked up the phone and got the assistant Medical Examiner, Phil Blasky. He asked him to recheck the first Jane Doe, looking for anything that might have been placed inside the body.

“He’s on it.” Bains hung up and scratched his mustache. “Special Agents Coursey and Dailey spoke with me yesterday.”

I waited.

“They told me they don’t believe you’re giving them your full cooperation.”

I chose my words carefully. “The FBI would profile Hitler as Jewish.”

Bains smiled briefly, an unusual move for him.

“No one likes an asshole, Jack, until you have to move your bowels.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“And the letters, I want them analyzed.”

“They’re at the lab now.”

“I meant by a handwriting expert.”

“We’re already sure that the letters match.”

“That’s only part of it. The mayor’s office is sending an expert to look over the letters to get a profile of our suspect.”

I made a face. “Another profile? Are we going to consult a psychic next?”

“I’m sure you’ll give him your full cooperation, Lieutenant.” Bains said it with the full weight of his authority. Then he dismissed me, and I stood up to leave.

“Jack?”

“Cap?”

“Watch out for the overtime too. You’re no help to the case when you’re too exhausted to see straight.”

I left, irritated. Being on the force for over twenty years, I’d had my share of big cases, and the corresponding media and political pressure. But being forced to work with the FBI, and now some snake oil handwriting expert, made my work all the more difficult.

“Look at it this way,” Benedict said when I filled him in. “You get paid whether you catch the guy or not.”

“Your attitude leaves something to be desired, Detective.”

“It’s just a job, Jack. Don’t take it personally. It’s what you do to make money, so you can live your life. I want to catch this guy as much as you do. You saw what he did to those women. Hell, look what he did to my mouth. But when I walk out that door, I leave work behind.”

“This particular work seems to be following me wherever I go.”

Herb frowned. “Get some rest. Take a day off. Call up that dating service and find a nice guy and get laid. Do something, for God’s sake, other than police work. Fifty years from now, when you’re dead and buried, you want the epitaph on your tombstone to read ‘She was a good cop’?”

I thought about it.

“Fine,” I decided. “I’ll take the afternoon off. Can you manage the store while I’m gone?”

“Consider it done.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Live your life, Jack. You’ve only got one.”

I nodded and left.

When I got home, I spent the next four hours thinking about the case.

Chapter 15

IT’S ALL IN THE PLANNING.

If you plan out every detail, you can get away with anything. The trick is to delay the gratification until the planning is complete. That’s why he’s been caught in the past—because the thrill of the crime overrode common sense. But that won’t happen again. He now thinks of planning as an appetizer. Foreplay. It has become fun in its own right.

He’s planned this spree so well that he’ll be able to kill all four girls within a week, while still allowing himself time to enjoy each one. It’s a tight schedule, made even tighter by the sudden interest he’s taken in Jack Daniels, but the months of plotting and watching and waiting are paying off. By next week he’ll be history, a Chicago legend, leaving behind a legacy of terror and unanswered questions.

He had to dispose of T. Metcalf that morning, wanting to keep her a bit longer but unable to deal with the smell. It’s risky, dumping the body that way twice in a row, but it adds to his supernatural mystique. He’s looking forward to the headlines.

Charles sits on his basement floor amid the barrels of gasoline, and stares at the gory red spot where he violated the corpse only hours ago. Tomorrow he’ll have another one to take her place. Until then, he has more planning to do.

Jack is the cause of it.

He’s expected all along to attack the cop in charge of his case. But he’s dwelling on Jack more than he expected to.

Maybe the media is the cause of it, and all the attention he’s getting makes him want to show off. Television mocked him, now it fears him. Justice.

Or maybe, after weeks of scheming and plotting, the idea that Jack wants to stop him before he’s finished makes her just as bad as those whores who forced him to undertake this mission in the first place.

What is Jack doing now? How is the case progressing? Is she living in fear, worried she’ll be attacked again? Does she feel helpless and powerless? Is she angry because she can’t do anything to stop him?

Maybe he’ll give her a call and find out. It’s time to kick it up a notch, give her some personal treatment. She wants to go up against him? Fine. She’s going to regret that decision, for the rest of her life.

Which won’t be very long.

But why call, when he can drop by? After all, he knows where she lives.

The Gingerbread Man closes his eyes and begins to plan.

Chapter 16

I WOUND UP TAKING A NAP, which was a mixed blessing. It refreshed me somewhat, and gave me some much-needed rest, but when my eyes opened, it was only five o’clock in the evening and I knew I’d never get to sleep come bedtime.

So I smoothed the wrinkles from my suit, took some pain medication and some cold medication, and went back to the only office in the city that never closed.

Herb was gone when I arrived, home with his wife and his life, work no longer on his mind. The ME’s report was waiting for me on my desk, another rush job courtesy of the mayor’s office, and I took a sip from my vending machine coffee and sat down to peruse the atrocities inflicted on another poor girl.

The first bit of news that leaped out at me was the time of death. The ME placed it at about seven P.M. the previous night. The killer had kept the body around for a lot longer than he’d kept the first one.

He’d hurt this one a lot more as well. This girl had thirty-seven wounds of various lengths and depths, but the ME indicated that several of the wounds had been reopened. Microscopic steel fragments matched those from the previous vic, indicating the same knife had been used. Histamine levels, coupled with a partially bitten-off tongue and the fingernail marks on the palms that Hughes pointed out, indicated they were premortem. She’d been tortured, the ME estimated for as long as four hours.

Death was caused by massive blood loss. Hopefully shock had spared her some pain. There were fibers found in wounds on her wrists and ankles, twine once again.

She was missing all of her toes, her labia minora and majora, four fingers, and both ears. None of them were recovered. No semen was found, but the obvious sexual nature of the crime inferred that rape might have occurred, and the perp either pulled out or used a condom.

Her urine contained traces of sodium secobarbital, the needle puncture mark on her upper left arm.

No identification was found, and the girl was officially dubbed Jane Doe #2. An expert mortician worked on her face and hair for almost two hours to make it appear as lifelike as possible. Then a digital photograph was taken, and the eyes were electronically drawn in on a computer.

This restruct picture was given to the media in time for the six o’clock news, along with a similar photo of the first Jane Doe. If anyone knew either girl, or had any information related to the case, they were asked to call the task force number. Herb had set up a unit of six desk officers to field calls, all of whom had been sufficiently briefed on the case to be able to weed out the crackpots and thrill-seekers.

The second note had been written in the same ink, on the same paper. No prints, hairs, or fibers were found on the note.

The two 7-Elevens were eight blocks apart. I thought about putting plainclothes cops on stakeouts of every convenience store in Chicago, but we would have needed five hundred people to cover the hundred-plus stores around the clock. Instead I put teams on the fifteen stores within a twenty-block radius of the first crime scene, and then drafted a flier to hand out. It told convenience store employees to keep their eyes out for anyone trying to steal garbage cans, drop off garbage cans, or fake a seizure in their shops.

After drawing up the letter, I called down to the desk sergeant and had her round up all the uniforms in the building. The night shift was treated to the same video of the Alka-Seltzer kid as the day shift, with similar results. No one recognized the suspect or the MO.

I hadn’t even hit a third of the cops in the district yet, but my optimism was beginning to sag. Mug shots were now filed on computer rather than in books, and I did a quick search of young white male shoplifters and came up with more than eight thousand hits. Even with help it would take a zillion years.

I took a deep breath and let it out slow. If there was any connective tissue between what we had so far and our perp, I was too dense to see it. I was no closer to catching this guy than the day I’d taken the case.

I put in the videotape of the second crime scene and viewed it, seeing for the first time Benedict remove the note from the body, which had been stapled to Jane Doe #2’s buttocks. After that it only got grimmer, made even worse because the picture quality was so good.

The first crime scene was videotaped at night while raining, by someone who had problems differentiating between focus and zoom. This video was clean, clear, and in your face. When the tape ended I had no desire to watch it again right away.

But I did watch it again. And again after that, numbing myself to the gore and trying to find something, anything, that might give me a clue.

During the fifth or sixth viewing, my mind began to wander. Was this how I was destined to spend the rest of my life? Benedict was home right now, with his wife. Maybe they were watching TV together, or making love. Or, most likely, eating. But whatever they were doing, it was together. They were sharing their lives. I was here, alone, watching the end of someone else’s.

So what’s the alternative? Go home, clean myself up, and hit the bars? Sure, I could let myself get picked up, kill the lonelies for a night. But I needed something more substantial than a quick, informal lay.

What I needed, what I’ve been missing for damn near fifteen years, was to be in love. And I didn’t think I’d find it at the bars.

I thought, wistfully, about my ex-husband, Alan.

Alan was something special, that one-in-a-million guy who liked holding hands and sending flowers. He rarely lost his temper, was a whiz in the kitchen, and loved me so completely that I was never cold, even during the brutal Chicago winter.

I take full responsibility for ruining our marriage.

I met him on the job, back in the days when I walked a beat. He came up to me on the street, told me someone had lifted his wallet. I couldn’t say he was especially handsome, but he had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen.

We dated for six months before he proposed.

In the beginning, our marriage was great. Alan was a freelance artist, so he was able to make his own schedule, ensuring that we always had time to be together.

Until my promotion to the Violent Crimes Unit.

Prior to this, Alan and I had planned to have children. We were going to have a boy named Jay and a girl named Melody, and buy a house with a big backyard, in a good school district.

But much as I wanted that, I also wanted a career. Maternity leave meant time away from work, and a newly ranked detective third class needed collars to make second grade.

My work week jumped from forty hours to sixty.

Alan was patient. He understood my ambition. He tried to wait until I was ready. Then a major career setback forced me to spend even more time on the job.

Alan left me a week before I made detective second. That was also the week my insomnia started.

I buried the memories. Regret wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Only one thing would.

I picked up the phone, put it back down, and picked it up again. Swallowing what little pride I had left was harder than I thought, but I managed. The taxpayers financed a call to Information, and ten seconds later I was dialing Lunch Mates, hoping they’d be closed at this hour.

“Thanks for calling Lunch Mates. This is Sheila, how may I help you?”

Her voice was so buoyantly optimistic that I felt a wee bit better about my decision to call a dating service.

“I guess I wanted to make an appointment, or schedule a visit. I didn’t really expect you to still be open.”

“We have late hours. After all, human relationships don’t just run from nine to five. May I have your name, miss?”

“Jacqueline Daniels. Jack, for short.”

She tittered politely. “Wonderful name. Your occupation, please?”

“Police officer.”

“We have many clients in the law enforcement field. Were you looking for a match also within the department?”

“Christ, no . . . I mean . . .”

“No problem. It’s hard to date in the same profession. That’s why all those famous actors and actresses are always getting divorced. Sexual orientation?”

“Pardon me?”

“Are you looking to meet a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

“Wonderful. We have many good men to choose from.”

Her ability to put people at ease probably made all the losers she dealt with feel a lot better about themselves. It was sure working with me.

“Are you free at any time soon to come in for an orientation?”

“Yeah, uh, maybe tomorrow? Lunchtime, if possible?”

“How about twelve o’clock?”

“Fine.”

She gave me directions, we made a little more small talk, and she’d bolstered my ego enough to make me feel good about hiring a service to find men because I was too incompetent to find one on my own.

“See you tomorrow at noon, Ms. Daniels. We’ll get all of your information then, along with giving you an overview of our company. We’ll also be taking a picture of you. You’re free to bring in any pictures of yourself, if you’d like.”

Other than my driver’s license, I didn’t think I had any pictures of myself.

“Will there be a videotape?”

More musical laughter. “Oh, no. We don’t make videos of our clients. We simply get to know them, then come up with likely matches to meet for lunch. We have thirty-five agents here, and each handles between fifty to a hundred clients. Our agents set up lunch dates within their own client list. If they go through their whole list without a suitable match, the client is given to another agent.”

That sounded like being the last kid picked for a backyard football game. I could picture some poor fat girl being traded from agent to agent every month, and the image made me wince.

“Well, I’ll see you soon then.”

“Good evening, Ms. Daniels.”

I hung up, my confidence still high. Then I realized I’d forgotten to ask about the cost of this service. That helped kill the optimism buzz.

I knew an ex-cop who used an expression whenever something bad happened. He was a real creep, but as the years passed I’ve come to respect the honesty of his words. Whenever he’d failed a test, or gotten a reprimand, he always said, “It’s just one more layer on the shit cake.”

With all the layers I’d built up over my life, I suppose one more didn’t matter too much.

The phone rang, and I slapped the receiver to my face.

“Jack? I was wondering if you’d still be there.”

It was the assistant ME, Dr. Phil Blasky. He was one of the best in the business, we used him on practically every high-profile case. In person, he was a thin bald man with an egg-shaped head, but his voice was a rich opera baritone, similar to that of James Earl Jones.

“Hi, Phil. Looks like we’re both burning the midnight oil.”

“You’ve gotten the second Jane Doe reports? I messengered them over.”

“Just reviewed them. I guess the mayor is pressuring you folks as much as us.”

“Jack . . .” Phil’s voice dropped an octave, which made it low enough to rattle teeth. “I’ve been working late to investigate that lead Bains told me about. Checking the bodies for anything hidden in them. I found something in the stab wound of the second Jane Doe, and then went back to the first one and found the same thing.”

“What?”

Phil took a breath. “It’s semen, Jack.”

“Pardon me?”

“The guy’s sperm. I found it in the deepest stab wound on each victim. Got a chemical hit while swabbing them out. I never would have found it if I hadn’t been told to look.”

I let this sink in. “You mean he raped the stab wounds?”

“The wounds have some tearing along the edges, so that’s a good assumption.”

“While they were still alive?”

“We’re not sure. But there’s a possibility of it, yes.”

“Where?” I had to ask.

“Both of them in the stomach.”

“Can we type him?”

“The lab is trying now. But that’s a long shot. It’s mixed in with a lot of blood, and has been decomposing for days.”

This was the present he said he’d left me. Jesus.

“Thanks, Phil.”

“Catch this psycho, Jack.”

Phil ended the call.

I gripped the phone until that annoying off-the-hook signal came on and reminded me to hang up. The images swirling around in my brain were almost too horrible to imagine.

I’d been stabbed once, years ago, by a gang-banger with a switch blade. Knife went into my belly. I had minor surgery to stop the bleeding, was off my feet for a month. The pain had been one of the worst I’d ever experienced, a combination of a cramp, an ulcer, and a third-degree burn. The thought of a man violating that wound . . .

I shuddered. Then I got up and rewound the crime scene tape to watch for the umpteenth time, my determination fiercer than ever.

Chapter 17

HE CALLS FIRST, FROM A PAY phone a block away. A machine answers. Perfect. He drops the receiver, not bothering to hang it up, and walks over to the front door of Jack’s apartment building.

With a discreet look in either direction, he begins to press buzzers. On the eighth button he gets someone on the intercom.

“I’m from Booker’s Heating and Cooling. Here to look at the furnace.”

He’s buzzed in.

It’s an old building, straight middle class. The halls are clean and recently painted, but there’s no doorman, no security camera, and the lighting is low wattage to save the landlord on his electric bill.

It can’t get any easier.

Jack lives on the third floor, apartment 302. He takes the stairs, reasoning he’s less likely to encounter someone in the stairwell than on the elevator. But even if he does, he’s dressed for the part; a stained brown jumpsuit, a toolbox, and a name tag that reads “Marvin.”

The Gingerbread Man makes it to Jack’s floor without seeing a soul. The hallway extends out in either direction in an L shape, and he easily locates the right apartment.

He knocks on it softly. There’s always the chance that Jack is home and just didn’t pick up her phone. There’s also the possibility that she has a dog. Knocking should make the dog bark, unless it’s very well trained.

But no one answers, and nothing barks. He takes a thin billfold out of his back pocket and opens it up, selecting an appropriate tension wrench and lock pick.

Foreplay.

Opening deadbolts is almost as easy as opening car doors. He has the penal system to thank. He went to jail on a B&E charge. Even though he had killed before, he was naive in the ways of properly committing a crime. Prison turned out to be the perfect school for honing his skills.

It takes him forty seconds to knock back the tumblers. The deadbolt turns with a satisfying snick, and the Gingerbread Man enters the home of the cop assigned to catch him. He locks the door and looks around.

It’s perfect. No dog, no witnesses, and Jack has even been good enough to leave the lights on for him. He tugs on his latex gloves and giggles. Now for phase two of the plan.

He does a quick tour of the apartment, not knowing how much time he has until she gets home. It doesn’t take long to deduce the bedroom closet is the best hiding place. It’s roomy, has a hamper that he can sit on, and is only a few steps away from the bed. Plus, there’s no window in the bedroom, no chance of anyone looking in. He gets to work.

Opening his aluminum toolbox, he takes out the rechargeable drill and a quarter-inch bit. He makes a hole in the closet door about three feet from the floor. Then he rubs off the splinters on both sides with a small file, and uses a roll of duct tape to pick up all the sawdust on the carpet. Next he sprays some WD-40 on the closet hinges, until it opens and closes as silent as death.

Satisfied with the setup, he goes to the bathroom and empties his bladder.

He enters the closet and shuts the door behind him. The adrenaline is pumping like hot oil through his veins. Sitting on the hamper, he has a perfect view of Jack’s bed from the hole in the closet door. He removes the gun from the bag, an old .22 with the serial numbers filed off, and practices opening the door and creeping up to the bed.

On the third try he’s confident he can sneak up to the sleeping lieutenant without making a sound.

He sits back on his perch in the closet and waits, letting the fantasy build. Hopefully he won’t have to use the gun. He needs it just until he can jab her with the Seconal needle. Once he’s sure she’s completely out, he can tie her up and take his time with her.

He becomes aroused thinking about it.

His video camera is in the toolbox. He didn’t take the bulky tripod, but the thought of doing it handheld is exciting. He can get some intimate and gory close-ups.

His eyes gradually adjust to the dark. He removes a sandwich he’s brought along and eats, planning the evening’s festivities in his head.

He didn’t bring his hunting knife—didn’t want to risk getting stopped on the street with that incriminating piece of evidence on him. But he has the twine, some pliers, a soldering iron, and the drill. When it comes time to give Jack her present, he’s pretty sure she has a knife in the kitchen large enough to make a deep hole.

It’s a shame he’ll have to gag her—he so wants to hear her scream.

He finishes the sandwich, wondering if Jack has a cheese grater.

The front door opens.

He grips the gun in his hand, making sure it’s cocked. His palms are sweaty in the latex gloves. His heart beats so loud that he thinks he can hear it.

“Relax,” he tells himself.

Eye pressed to the hole in the closet, he waits for Jack’s entrance.

Chapter 18

I ENTERED MY HUMBLE ABODE AT close to ten o’clock, lugging take-out Chinese. A full night loomed ahead of me, and I hoped a full stomach would get me drowsy.

But when I looked at the pineapple chicken, my stomach turned. I put it in the fridge for later, making myself a stiff whiskey sour instead.

My stomach didn’t like that either, but it helped take some of the edge off. In fact, when I finished it I actually yawned. Encouraged by this good omen, I headed for bed.

I stripped down to my underwear, letting my clothes fall where they may. I put my gun on the nightstand next to my bed and replaced my bra with an old T-shirt. Then I climbed under the covers and killed the lights.

My mind had to be blank. That was the key. If I had nothing to think about, I had nothing to keep me awake. I imagined a vast field of wheat, blowing in the breeze, enclosed by a tall fence. Outside the fence were a million and one thoughts—the case, the dating service, the Jane Does, and on and on. But my fence was too tall, too strong, and I wouldn’t let them in.

I was on the very edge of sleep, ready to tumble fully into it, when the phone rang.

“Daniels.”

“Jacqueline? I assumed you’d be up.”

I blinked twice. Much as I craved sleep, some things were more important.

“Hi, Mom. How’s everything?”

“Everything’s wonderful, sweetheart. Except that scoundrel Mr. Griffin won’t fix this hole in my porch screen, and I’ve got mosquitoes the size of geese flying around my room. I didn’t wake you, did I? I know you’re a night owl, and long distance is free after ten o’clock.”

I yawned. “I’m up. You know you can call anytime, Mom. How’s the weather in Orlando?”

“Beautiful. Hold on a second.”

There was a smacking sound, and a cry of triumph. “I finally found something People magazine is good for—swatting mosquitoes. How’s Don?”

“I left him.”

“Good. He was an idiot. Believe me, dear, I understand the need for sex as much as anyone. That’s the only reason I let that old fool Mr. Griffin keep coming by. But you can do so much better. You take after me—beautiful, intelligent, and a crack shot. You know, the first four years I was a police officer, they wouldn’t even let me wear a gun?”

I smiled at the familiar story. “And when you finally did get one, you scored higher than every guy in the district at the range.”

“Who would have ever guessed that one day I’d look back on my forties as if they were my youth.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Jacqueline, I fell yesterday.”

I sat up in bed, alarms going off in my heart. She didn’t say it casually. She said it like all seventy-year-olds say it, with weight and reverence.

“You fell? How? Are you okay?”

“In the shower. Just a bruised hip. Nothing broken. I went back and forth about telling you.”

“You should have called right away.”

“So you could put your life on hold to fly out here and take care of me? You think I’d allow that?”

Mary Streng was the queen of self-reliance. Dad died when I was eleven. Heart attack. The day after we put him in the ground, Mom got a job with the CPD. She started in Records, eventually moved up to Dispatch, and by the end of her twenty years she’d risen to detective third class and worked property crimes.

No, she wouldn’t have allowed me to fly out there.

“You still should have called.”

“I saw a show about this on Oprah. Adult-age children, caring for their feeble parents.”

“You’re far from feeble, Mom.”

“Role reversal, they called it. There was a woman on who changed her mother’s diapers. I’ll eat my .38 before I let it come to that, Jacqueline.”

“Please, Mom. You don’t have to talk like this.”

“Well, that’s still a ways off. All I did was bruise my hip. I can still get around. It just limits some of the things I can do with that naughty Mr. Griffin.”

“Mom . . .”

“Look, I just wanted to tell you. I have to go now. Real Sex 38 is almost on HBO. I’ll call you soon. Love you.”

And she hung up.

Sleep was miles away.

I remember my father like I remember old movies; just a few quotable lines and a general impression. He died when I was too young to get to know him as a person.

But my mom . . . my mom was everything to me. She was my best friend, my mentor, my hero. She was the reason I became a cop.

Mothers shouldn’t be allowed to get old and fragile.

I purposely pushed it out of my head to avoid getting maudlin. Instead, I focused on my Lunch Mates appointment tomorrow. They’d be taking a picture, and I still looked like I’d gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. What guy would go out with a woman with bruises all over her face?

I got up and went to the bathroom, checking the vanity. Maybe a little foundation here, a little concealer there . . .

So the face would be okay, but what to wear?

I mentally ran through my wardrobe. My best outfit was the Armani. I normally couldn’t afford designer clothing, and had picked this up at an outlet store. The price tag was hefty, even with the discount, but it gave me confidence when I put it on. I had several blouses that matched, and wondered if I should go with the loose silk one, or the tighter cotton one.

Only one way to find out.

I went to the closet.

Chapter 19

EXCITEMENT HAS GIVEN WAY TO FRUSTRATION, and finally anger. Juices flowing, locked and loaded, he’s only moments away from sneaking out of the closet to pounce on her, when the phone rings.

He endures a syrupy conversation between Jack and her mom, so thick in parts that he feels like gagging. Then he waits stock-still for Jack to go back to sleep.

But she doesn’t.

The little bitch stares at the ceiling, tossing and turning like her panties are a few sizes too small.

For an hour, he waits.

And for an hour, Daniels refuses to snooze.

Every few minutes she’ll close her eyes, and just when he’s ready to move, they’ll spring open again.

The most infuriating part is that her gun is right next to her on the nightstand. He knows that Jack will shoot him before he can even get the door open.

He could try to fire through the closet, but that’s too risky. It’s only a .22, and if he misses, he’s pretty sure that Jack won’t.

He grinds his teeth in rage, then forces himself to stop because it’s noisy. The muscles in his neck and back are cramping. His eyes are beginning to blur from peeking through that tiny hole. And worst of all, he has to piss again.

Then, like an answered prayer, Jack gets out of bed and goes to the bathroom. Away from her gun. The time to strike is now.

He’s about to ease open the closet when the bitch is back again. But instead of going to bed, she’s coming this way.

The Gingerbread Man stifles a giggle. Imagine Jack’s shock when she opens up her closet and he shoves a gun in her face.

Standing erect, he grips the pistol and prepares to spring.

Chapter 20

I WAS HEADED FOR THE CLOSET when I remembered my new sweater. It was a brown wool pullover, L.L.Bean, and it made me look soft and feminine. That would work just fine, and then I could save the Armani for the actual date, assuming I get one.

I went over to my dresser to find the sweater, along with a pair of jeans. Satisfied I wouldn’t look like another desperate nine-to-fiver for my picture tomorrow, I turned to go back to bed, when something made the hair on my neck stand up.

Someone was in the closet.

I wasn’t sure how I knew. A vaguely defined sense. An alarm on an instinctive, subconscious level. But I felt paralyzed, a deer in headlights, and my stomach dropped down to my ankles.

Then, action.

Hoping I didn’t give myself away during my brief catatonic pause, I took two steps toward the nightstand and my gun.

Like a whisper, the closet door rolled open behind me. My intruder yelled, “Don’t move!”

I moved anyway. I dove for the pistol, my hand wrapping around the butt just as the shot rang out. I felt a sudden pressure in my thigh, like I’d gotten kicked.

I belly flopped on the bed and rolled, gun in hand, squeezing off two shots in the general direction of the closet. A shadowy figure ducked the bullets and scurried out my bedroom door.

Keeping my gun trained on the doorway, I felt behind me for the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on.

My leg was covered with blood.

The entry wound was four inches above my knee, on the inside of the thigh. The flow was steady, but not pulsing. There was no pain, only numbness. But the pain would come, I was sure of that.

I picked up the phone to dial 911, but there wasn’t any dial tone.

“Hi, Jack.”

It hit me almost as hard as the bullet had. This wasn’t some burglar, after my cash and VCR. It was him—the Gingerbread Man. And he was on the phone in my kitchen. I hit the disconnect button twice, but couldn’t get a dial tone with the extension off the hook.

“Hello, Charles.”

“How do you—oh, you must have traced the prescription. Clever, Jack. But you have to know I wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave my real name.”

His voice was soft, gravelly.

“Yeah, you’re a regular Einstein. How long were you stuck in that closet, sitting on my dirty laundry?”

“I hope I didn’t hit an artery. I wouldn’t want the fun to end so soon.”

“Maybe you should come in here and check for yourself.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll check on you soon enough. After you’ve lost some blood, and your reactions have slowed down.”

The pain hit. Red and angry, making my vision swim. It felt as if I’d been impaled by a white-hot pickax. I held the phone between my ear and shoulder and clamped my hand down over the wound. Hopefully someone in the building heard the shots.

“I hope you stick around.” Speaking through my teeth. “Cops should be here any second.”

“Why should they come? A few loud bangs? Could have been a television turned up too loud, or a car backfiring.”

“I’m calling from my cell phone right now.”

“You mean this one, in your purse next to the microwave?”

Dammit. I tried to sit up, my bed soggy with blood. The killer was right. If I lost too much, I’d pass out. Then he’d come back and finish the job.

“Ooh, look—pictures. This must be Mom. Maybe when I’m done with you, I’ll take a trip to Florida. She fell, I understand. So sad. But I bet I can get her on her feet again.”

I bit back my response, focusing all my energy into getting off the bed. The pain made me cry out, but I managed to get on my feet and limp over to my dresser. I pulled out a braided belt and looped it around my leg, over the wound.

“What do you think, Jack? Should I pay Mom a visit?”

“You know what I think, Charles?” I jerked the tourniquet tight and winced. The room began to spin. “I think you’re a sad, small little man who didn’t get enough love when he was a baby. Either that, or you were dropped on your head.”

He giggled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. People like me are labeled as psychotics. But it’s a cruel world, Jack. Only the strong thrive. And I’m one of the strong. I’m no more psychotic than a shark, or a lion, or any other predator at the top of the food chain. And I’m head and shoulders above you and the rest of the world because I know what I want, and I know how to take it.”

“Dropped down a whole flight of stairs, it sounds like.”

I had to sit, or risk passing out. The pain was a writhing, living thing, full blown and making any movement agony.

“You sound sleepy, Jack. Maybe you should lie back, take a little nap.”

It didn’t seem like bad advice to me. My breath was coming a little quicker, and I was cold, but beyond the pain a kind of peace was settling in. A nap might do me good.

“Shock,” I said aloud.

I wiped some sweat off my face and gave my cheek a slap. I was going into hypovolemic shock, a condition caused by extensive fluid loss. If I passed out, I was dead.

But in my condition, there was no way I could attack him. So what the hell could I do?

I had more bullets in my dresser. I half hopped, half dragged myself over to the drawer and replaced the two rounds I’d fired. I had a plan, kind of, but to make it work I had to keep him distracted.

“So what’s the real reason you’re killing these girls, Charles? Did your scoutmaster get too frisky on a camping trip?”

“Cliché, Jack. Everyone wants to look for the reason. Like there’s a switch that can be turned on to make a person a killer. But maybe it has nothing to do with environment, or genetics. Maybe I simply enjoy it. I know that I’ll enjoy giving you my special present. Think I can use that bullet hole in your leg?”

“Possible,” I mumbled, pulling myself to the door. “It’s a really small hole.”

My bedroom led out into a short hall. The kitchen was to the left, out of view. But that wasn’t my goal. It was a straight shot into the living room, and to my window with the view looking out over Addison.

“You little bitch.” Men never took teasing about their penis size well. “I’m going to make you scream so loud, your throat bleeds.”

“Promises, promises.” I held my gun in both hands, took aim, and fired four shots into my window.

The glass exploded outward, hopefully peppering the sidewalk below. It was night, and my neighborhood was always crawling with barhopping kids. If that didn’t warrant a call to 911, I didn’t know what else would.

Apparently my assailant thought the same thing.

“We’ll finish this later, Jack.” His voice was curt. “See you soon.”

And he finally hung up the phone. I cocked my ear and heard my front door slam shut.

I was still on the floor, gun clenched in my fist and fighting to stay awake, when the cops arrived.

Chapter 21

EVERYONE AGREED I’D BEEN LUCKY.

The bullet entered my thigh at the sartorius muscle and exited through a muscle called the gracilis. The wound was clean, without bullet fragmenting or ricocheting, narrowly missing the femoral artery. I needed three units of blood, but the scar would be minimal. I should be out of bed in a day or so.

Since my arrival at the hospital last night I’d been reconstructing the entire episode in my head, trying to remember every detail of our conversation. Herb helped, taking everything down, asking questions to help jar my memory.

We moved on the leads quickly.

First, my mom was effectively protected. At the onset I’d insisted upon nothing less than moving her to a safe house. Mom would have none of it, naturally. We compromised; she would stay at a friend’s house for a few days. I didn’t have to ask to know that she meant the ubiquitous Mr. Griffin. I met him once last year; he was stooped over, walked with a cane, and had arthritis in both hands. A far cry from the man my mother described as “Insatiable—he’s like a machine.”

Hopefully he’d mind her bad hip.

My door showed no signs of forced entry, nor did the door to the apartment building. He could have somehow gotten a key, or more likely, knew how to pick locks.

Every tenant in the building was questioned, and someone had buzzed in an unknown maintenance man earlier that day to work on the furnace. This was being checked out.

My apartment was gone over with a fine-toothed comb, literally. A great deal of excitement was generated over the discovery of some semen stains on the bedroom carpet, until I reminded everyone that I used to have a sex life.

All fingerprints found were either mine or Don’s. There were enough hairs and fibers picked up to take weeks to sort through, and I wasn’t very optimistic. Even if they did manage to find one of the killer’s hairs out of the several thousand vacuumed up, it wouldn’t help too much—unless he had his name and address written on it.

I installed a burglar alarm.

In a tremendous show of faith in me, or as some saw it, a tremendous lack of ambition, Captain Bains refused to bend to political pressure and kept me on as head of the case. His logic was simple. I was the strongest link to the killer. Chances were high that the Gingerbread Man would contact me again.

A round-the-clock surveillance was begun on me, and I received a cellular phone with their number on speed dial. Three teams would rotate the watch, and I was to inform them of everywhere I went. The code word we’d picked was “peachy.” If I was in trouble, I’d use the code word and the cavalry would come rushing in.

I was picking at a hamburger that tasted like it had been steamed, when Herb came into my room, his fourth visit in twenty-four hours.

“I see I’ve arrived coincidentally at dinnertime.” He pulled up a chair.

“Some coincidence. You’re the one who filled out my menu card.”

“Is it good?”

“I’m not sure. Somehow they’ve managed to drain every nuance of flavor from it.”

“Hmm. May I?”

I allowed him access to my food.

“It tastes like it’s been steamed.” This fact didn’t stop him from polishing it off, along with my applesauce, my green vegetable, and the rest of my juice.

“I saw some gum stuck under the table there, if you want dessert.”

“I love a free meal.”

“Free? They’re charging me forty-five dollars for that feast there. A forty-five-dollar hamburger. It gives me a headache thinking about it.”

“Want me to call for some aspirin?”

“I can’t afford the aspirin. I’d have to put them on layaway. Now help me up so I can use the can.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed out of bed until tomorrow.”

“You want to warm up my bedpan for me?”

Herb helped me up. The pain in my leg made my eyes water, but I kept my footing. The best way to describe it was like a charley horse, but sharper. Maybe I’d break down and get some aspirin after all.

When I’d finished bathroom duty I sat in a visitor’s chair opposite Herb, wincing when my knee bent.

“Are you sure . . .”

“I’m fine,” I told him. “I don’t want my leg to get any stiffer than it is. I want out of this hospital. I hate waiting around like this.”

“This is your first time, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been shot at before. This is the first time the bullet hit home. You were . . .”

“Almost twenty years ago now. Took it right in the upper thigh.”

“You mean the ass.”

“I prefer to say upper thigh. Or lower back. Gang-banger got me from behind. It still itches sometimes in dry weather.”

“Really? And I thought you were just unsticking your underwear all the time.”

“I do that too. Jack . . .” Herb got serious on me. “We found another body about an hour ago.”

My heart sank. “Another girl?”

“No. A boy. Stabbed twenty-three times with a hunting knife, left in a Dumpster behind Marshall Fields on Wabash. Blasky’s doing the autopsy now.”

“How do we know it’s our perp?”

“There was another gingerbread man cookie. We ran the kid’s prints, ID’d him as Leroy Parker. Two shoplifting convictions, wanted in connection with half a dozen more counts. His description and MO match the kid who pulled the seizure distractions. Perp also left another note.”

Herb handed me a photocopy. The Gingerbread Man’s familiar scrawl filled the page.

“If I was only faster yesterday . . .”

“Our job is to catch him, Jack, not blame ourselves or take responsibility for what he does.”

The nurse came, and went into a lecture about how I shouldn’t be out of bed. To assuage her wrath I allowed myself to be helped back in.

“No more getting out of bed, Ms. Daniels, or I’ll have you tied down.”

“Kinky. I may like that.”

The nurse picked up my tray and smiled her nurse’s smile. “At least your appetite is healthy.”

I eyed Benedict. “Just like Mom used to steam.”

The nurse left, and I made Herb get me my clothes.

“You’re not leaving.”

“I’m leaving. I hate being coddled. I’m a grown woman, and I can fend for myself. Now help me put on my pants.”

After ten minutes of sweating, grunting pain, I managed to get changed into the clothes Herb had brought me the night before. I was even able to tie my own shoes without ripping my stitches.

“There’s a media circus waiting outside the front entrance for you to come out,” Herb said. “Should we find a back way?”

“Hell, no. Our man isn’t making any mistakes, but maybe if I piss him off enough, he will.”

“So—you’re going to anger the psycho?”

“Not at all.” I called the surveillance team and told them I was getting out of there. “I’m simply going to give an honest, bare-bones interview.”

After fighting with two doctors and four nurses, I was finally discharged against hospital recommendation and had to sign a paper absolving them of responsibility if I died after stepping off their property. Then I ran a brush through my hair, wiped the crud from my eyes, grabbed my aluminum hospital cane, and went to meet the press.

Benedict hadn’t been exaggerating about the media circus. At least two dozen reporters were hanging around outside the hospital entrance, all waiting around for the off chance that I’d appear. I’d had big cases before, and had been on TV. At first I was impressed. But then I saw myself on the tube, which added twenty pounds, made me look short, and somehow distorted my fine speaking voice into something squeaky.

“I have some things to say, and then afterward I can answer a few questions,” I told the crowd, giving them a chance to switch on their cameras and focus. “First of all, I was shot by the criminal that the press is calling the Gingerbread Man. He’d broken into my apartment last night. As you can see, my injury isn’t serious. He couldn’t aim the gun properly, because he was hysterical, crying for his mama.”

Herb gave me a slight nudge in the ribs, but I was just warming up.

“Besides the obvious emotional problems, the killer is also very stupid. The only reason we haven’t caught him yet is because he’s been lucky, and because he’s a coward who runs away when confronted. I fully expect that with the combined efforts of the Chicago Police Department and the FBI, we should have him in custody soon. Now I’ll take questions.”

The questioning went well. When it was over I’d also called the killer a bed-wetter, said he was impotent, and predicted that when we found him, he’d probably be picking his nose. I explained I felt no anger toward his attack on me; rather I felt sorry for him, like a sick dog. When asked if I was afraid of him going after me, I laughed and said he would be too scared to make another attempt.

At that point my cellular phone began to ring, and I had a pretty good idea who it was. I excused myself from further questions and walked away from the crowd before answering.

“Daniels.”

“Why didn’t you clear this with me before broadcasting live on five channels?”

Captain Bains.

“I was live? Did I sound squeaky?”

“You sounded like you’re provoking him. Dime-store psychology is not the way to run a headline case.”

“You left me in charge, Captain. This is how I want to run it.”

“And when this guy kills a dozen people because he’s mad you called him a mama’s boy, how do you figure we’ll still be employed after the lawsuits come rolling in?”

“I’m provoking him to come after me. The only one I put in danger is myself.”

“And what if you don’t catch him? You just promised the city you’ll have him in custody soon.”

“I’ll catch him.”

“If you don’t, it’s your ass.”

He hung up. That was two conversations with Bains in two days. Maybe now was a good time to ask for a raise.

“Jack . . .” Herb caught up to me. The reporters had snagged him for a few questions after I’d jetted out. “You sure poked your stick at the hornets’ nest back there.”

“Hopefully the hornet will come out. Can you do a crippled girl a favor?”

“Sure. You bought dinner.”

“See my tail?” I nodded in the direction of the two plainclothes cops, following our path twenty feet behind us. “If they were any closer they’d be wearing my clothes. Ask them to loosen up.”

“You got it.”

Benedict waddled up to them, giving a mini lecture on the art of being inconspicuous. I gave them a big smile and a thumbs-up to smooth it over. Don’t want to anger the guys guarding your life.

Herb drove me home, first stopping at the Salvation Army on my request, where I wanted to replace my antiseptic aluminum hospital cane with something more distinguished. I found a polished piece of hickory that fit the description.

“Very distinguished,” Benedict commented.

“We ladies of good breeding demand nothing less than the best. Lend me fifty cents so I can buy it.”

He forked over some pocket change and then insisted on seeing me into my apartment.

“If you’re looking for a good-night kiss, I’ll whack you with my cane.”

“Just want to make sure you can work your burglar alarm okay.”

“Since when did a bullet wound make a person feeble-minded?”

I couldn’t work the burglar alarm, so Herb had to show me.

“You press the green button first, then the code.”

“Thanks. Want a drink?”

“Can’t. It’s Sunday.”

I waited for more.

“Lasagna night,” Benedict explained. “Got to get home.”

“See you tomorrow, Herb. Thanks again.”

“Get some rest, Jack.”

He left me to my empty, quiet apartment. The lab team had taken half of my possessions, including the phone, which saved me from having to take it off the hook. The free press has no qualms about around-the-clock harassment.

My leg was throbbing as if it had its own heart. I limped into the bedroom to get undressed and froze stock-still.

Dread crawled over my body.

My blood was still on the mattress. The bullet holes were still in the wall. The closet door was closed, and I had an unrealistic fear that the Gingerbread Man was still hiding in there. It was silly and stupid, but a fear nonetheless.

I forced myself to open the closet, and left it open. Then I gathered up every bit of clothing that was in the closet and arranged for dry cleaning. I had no desire to wear anything that might have touched him.

Afterward I took four Tylenol, grabbed my blanket, and went to go sleep in my rocking chair.

Well, attempted to.

The apartment was too quiet. So quiet that I could hear myself breathe. So quiet that when a car honked outside, I almost wet my pants.

I turned on all the lights and flipped on the TV to keep me company. The Max Trainter Show was on—local talk soup at its basest level. Whereas other shows relied on melodrama to keep the viewer interested, Trainter went for shock value and violent confrontation. Six bouncers were on the set at all times, necessary to keep the guests from beating one another silly. Which they did, several times a show.

I tried to relax, losing myself in the wonderful drama of human nature. A white-trash couple confronted their daughter’s lesbian lover. The lover fought back with a folding chair, which seemed as if it had been placed on stage for that very purpose. I counted four felonies and a dozen misdemeanors on screen before tiring of the show and switching it off.

When sleep finally came, it came with nightmares.

Chapter 22

THE PAIN WOKE ME UP. My leg had stiffened overnight, and I felt like a piece of twisted licorice from my big toe to my bottom. I admit to some less than heroic yelping as I got out of the chair and hobbled to the bathroom in search of drugs. I’d gotten a prescription for codeine at the hospital, but hadn’t bothered to fill it, big tough girl that I am. Luckily I still had some of Don’s medication from when he’d had his wisdom teeth pulled. Vicodin. I took two.

Showering was an awkward, painful affair that involved a garbage bag, duct tape, and more patience than I thought I had. When I was finally clean and dressed, an hour of my life was irretrievably gone.

Using the cellular, I informed my shadow that I was awake and well. The Vicodin in my system almost prompted me into song. I felt good. Very good. The drug even seemed to cure my sniffles.

Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.

The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.

The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I’m normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.

The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.

I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who’d just been shot.

But that might have been the meds talking.

Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. I’m Jack Daniels. I have an appointment.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Frank. Coffee?”

I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it’s choppy.

“Jack? I’m Matthew. I’ll be your Lunch Mates agent.”

He was even cuter than Frank. Blond, baby blue eyes, a model’s square jaw. I wondered if the Gingerbread Man had actually killed me, and I’d died and gone to hunk heaven.

I stood and took his hand. It was soft and dry, making me even more aware of how unkempt my hands were. I’d never broken the habit of biting my nails. It seemed so much easier than clipping them.

“Pleased to meet you.”

“I love that sweater. It brings out your eyes.”

“A recent purchase. The sweater, not the eyes.”

Chuckles on both our parts. He led me through the carpeted hallways of Lunch Mates. It resembled any other office, with generic artwork on the walls and the obligatory Habitrail of cubicles where employees pecked away on computers between coffee breaks. It could have even been my workplace, except it was brighter and everyone looked happy.

We made small talk about the weather and current news events, and then I was led into a corner office complete with view, fireplace, and a decor that made it look like a cozy den. We sat across from each other in two deep suede chairs, our knees almost touching. He reached over on the table next to us and picked up a leather binder.

“What we’re going to do, Jack, is have you answer a few questions about yourself and make a data sheet like this one.”

Matthew held up a glossy piece of paper with a picture of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. It almost looked like a resume.

“This data sheet will be given to men who would be a likely match for you. I’ll also give you data sheets of men . . . it is a man you’d like to meet, correct?”

“Yes. I’ve decided to give heterosexuality one more shot.”

He gave me a million-dollar smile, and I flashed my five-buck grin right back. The Vicodin guide to better living through chemistry.

“So . . . if you and a man choose each other, we pick a place and set the date. If you’d prefer, you can fill out the data sheet yourself, but I like asking the questions because then I have a better idea of personality and compatibility.”

“Ask away.”

I leaned back and crossed my arms, held the pose until I realized I looked too defensive, then set my hands in my lap and crossed my legs. That was awkward as well, but I stayed that way rather than shift again so soon.

“You mentioned you were a police officer. For how long?”

“Twenty-three years. I’m a lieutenant. Violent Crimes.”

“Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?”

I took a moment too long to answer. Did I enjoy it? How could I enjoy Violent Crimes? I dealt with the worst element of society, I witnessed atrocities that regular people couldn’t even comprehend, I was overworked, underpaid, and socially retarded. But I still kept plugging away. Did I actually enjoy it?

“I like getting the job done.” I crossed my arms in the defensive position again.

“Have you ever been married?”

“Yes. I was divorced fifteen years ago.”

“Children?”

“Not that I know of.”

Pleasant laugh. “Education?”

“Northwestern. Bachelor of Arts.”

“What was your major?”

What the hell was my major? “Political science.”

“Do you have any hobbies?”

Was insomnia a hobby? “I play pool. I like to read, when I have the time.”

He paused frequently to write things down. I reviewed in my mind what I’d said so far and was less than impressed. I was coming off like the most boring person to ever walk the earth. Unless I wanted to get hooked up with someone who was comatose, I needed to spice up my answers.

“I got into a fight the other day. Bar fight. See the bruises?”

I pointed to my face and grinned. My painkiller high had overtaken my better judgment.

“And the other day I got shot. A maniac broke into my apartment.”

“My goodness. Where were you shot?”

“My leg. It goes with the job. Maybe you saw me on the news yesterday.”

And from there it went downhill. I talked about my acts of heroism. I talked about being a great kisser. The interview ended after I let him feel my muscle.

Then he led me to another room where he took my picture and my money; a chunk large enough to knock me out of my good mood. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I was handed a sheaf of men’s data sheets, patted on the shoulder, and walked to the door.

I was silent during the cab ride home. Gradually the painkiller wore off and my leg began to throb again. Even worse than the pain was the growing sense of humiliation. I felt like I’d won the Kentucky Derby for horses’ asses. I’m sure that when I left, Matthew had a firm opinion on why I needed a dating service in the first place. To add injury to insult, I was out almost eight hundred bucks, and all I had to show for it was a list of men who Matthew thought would be compatible with the idiot I’d become.

I put the Vicodin in the medicine cabinet and took four aspirin. My cell phone rang, and I flipped it to my face, half hoping it was my surveillance team calling to say the Gingerbread Man was standing behind me with a gun. I would have let him shoot me.

“Jack? Herb. I know you’re resting, but you’ll want to hear this. We’ve got a positive ID on the second girl. Her roommate called in. Are you up to move on it?”

“I’m up. I’ll see you in ten.”

I called my team and told them the news. Much as the job was wearing me down, it did help me to forget my life, which was what I needed at that moment.

Clearheaded, I managed to start my car on the third try. During the drive I tried to shake the image of being the last kid picked for a backyard football game.

I couldn’t.

Chapter 23

HE KNOWS WHAT JACK IS DOING. All those lies. All those insults. She’s trying to flush him out. Force him to make a mistake. It’s a clever move on Jack’s part, and even helps her save face after the pain she suffered the other night.

But it still burns. The city isn’t likely to tremble in fear if they have an image of the Gingerbread Man being cowardly. He has to correct that image, and make Jack pay for the lies. It’s all about power. That’s all it has always been about.

He knew he was different at a very young age, after he tied up the family cat with yarn and poked at it with a stick until its insides oozed out. Father beat him with a studded belt when he found out, demanding to know how he could do such a horrible thing.

But it isn’t horrible to him. It’s exciting. Thrilling. The fact that he knows it’s wrong makes it even more so.

Throughout adolescence he continues to pull the legs off frogs, and throw lit matches at his sister, and call people up and say he’s going to kill them. Because it’s fun.

Sometimes he tries to determine why he is the way he is. Throughout his life he’s never felt anything. Certainly no love for anyone other than himself. No guilt, no empathy, no passion, no pity, no happiness. It’s a sad thing not to know how to laugh, when everyone around you is laughing. Humans could have been a completely different species, for all that he understands their interactions, their society, their culture.

As he grows, he learns how to fake emotions so he doesn’t stand out. He’s a spectator in a strange world, a chameleon that can blend into the scenery but is never truly part of it.

Until he learns to feel something, by killing the cat.

It’s enthralling to kill the cat. It makes his heart pound and his palms sweat. The feeble escape attempts of the cat are genuinely amusing, and Charles laughs for the very first time. And when the cat finally dies, when it’s lying there inside out with its blood turning the ground to mud, he feels something more than amusement. He feels sexual arousal.

Why does the death of a simple kitty cat bring out all of this in him? Charles has only one answer—power. Power over life and death. Power over suffering. Suddenly, he can feel. The blind can see and the deaf can hear and he knows what his purpose is.

All of these people, with their silly relationships and their bullshit lives, are only here for his amusement. He isn’t less than they are. He is more. More intelligent. More evolved. More powerful. He embraces the feeling like a miracle drug.

As he gets older, he learns to hide his obsession from others. Neighborhood pets disappear, but it rarely leads back to him. He has a little place, out in the woods, where he takes the animals. Where no one will hear the screeching. Where he can bury them when he’s finished.

Fantasy often accompanies his mutilations. He imagines himself the ruler of the world, with all creatures trembling before his might. Like Satan on a throne of bones, torturing the meek, laughing at their pain. Dragging it on, sometimes for days, keeping the animal alive.

Or sometimes the animals represent people. His classmates. His teachers.

Father.

It’s invigorating to pretend that the dog he’s tied up and castrating is his father.

From what he’s read about serial killers like himself, there are several features they all share. Kind of like a big fraternity, everyone conforming to a basic set of rules.

Most apply to him as well.

Fantasy plays a big part in recreational murder; in fact the stalking and the planning and the dwelling on it are almost as much fun as actually ending someone’s life.

Most budding serial murderers show evidence of the triad when they’re children; bed-wetting, starting fires, and hurting animals. He lays claim to all three, wetting the bed until his late teens.

There are also stressors and escalation.

A stressor is an event that unleashes or sets off a murder spree. This particular spree in the Gingerbread Man’s career of slaughter can be linked to a very specific occurrence. And as for escalation . . . like any drug, the more you get, the more you need later to feel the same high.

The majority of serial killers were also abused as children, physically or sexually . . .

He didn’t like to think about that.

At age fifteen he gets a job at an animal shelter.

His fantasy world quadruples overnight.

There are plenty of things to do at the shelter to amuse himself. This is where he learns to give injections—too many injections, poisonous injections, eyeball injections; at one point he keeps a log of different things he injects into animals, with descriptions of what happens.

The stressor comes when he gets caught mistreating one of the animals and is immediately fired. His rage is all-encompassing. He continues to visit at night, letting himself in with his keys, but it isn’t enough. He needs more.

So he decides to kill a human.

He picks a girl at school. A freshman. Fat and pimply. He watches her for a week to make sure she doesn’t have any friends.

Then one day at lunch he sits down next to her and asks if she wants to see the puppies where he works.

She does.

Don’t tell anyone, he warns her, or he could lose his job. She promises she’ll keep it quiet, thrilled that someone is actually paying attention to her.

They walk there after school. He tells her they’ll enter the back way, takes her into the alley, and sticks her with an animal sedative.

When the shelter closes for the night, he lets himself in.

After trying unsuccessfully to rouse her, he uses her sexually, and then pulls her into the crematory.

That wakes her up. For a little while, at least.

Three young women disappear from his town that year.

No one ever questions him.

And now, many deaths later, he’s ready for the big time. Headline news. National attention. All the murders that came before were practice, a warm-up for the main event.

After he kills the last whore, the one who started it all, he’ll write a long letter to the media. Explaining what they all had in common. Explaining the reason he leaves the cookies. Making a mockery out of Jack and the CPD.

Promising more deaths someday soon.

It will go down in history as the greatest unsolved case of all time. And with good cause. All of the planning and preparation, the stalking, the plotting, the violence, and the surprise ending will make this the crime of the century. Worth all the time he’s spent hunched down in his truck, following these whores around. Worth all the pain that lousy bitch has caused him, her and all the others like her.

When he was a child, nothing ever made him cry. Not even the time Father made him kneel on tacks and beg for penance.

“You have the devil in you, boy,” Father would say.

Father was right.

Chapter 24

NOW THAT I WAS VICODIN-FREE, stairs posed a real problem. The pain was bearable, but the muscle I’d injured was apparently essential for climbing, and it wouldn’t do what I commanded. To get to my office I had to ascend them sideways, like a crab, using both my cane and the handrail.

“We do have an elevator, Lieut,” mentioned more than one of the uniforms who passed me going up or down.

“It’s not the destination so much as how you get there.” I’d grin through my sweat, but after the twentieth stair I began to doubt my own wisdom.

Benedict was waiting for me when I reached my office. “I see you took the stairs. Or are you fresh from the sauna?”

“The leg keeps stiffening up. I need to stretch it.”

“That’s a nice sweater.”

“Just got it. Thanks.”

“Are you wearing perfume?”

“Maybe a touch. Why?”

“No reason. So how’d that lead pan out at Lunch Mates?”

Smart-ass. “Shouldn’t you be eating something about this time of day?”

“That does sound tempting. We’ll stop on the way. I’ll drive, if you don’t mind. And unless you’d like me to carry you on my shoulders, I think we should take advantage of modern technology and use the elevator.”

“If it’s convenient for you, who am I to argue?”

We took the elevator, and Herb’s car, and after a quick stop at the local Burger King drive-thru we headed for Theresa Metcalf’s apartment.

“So, did you join up or not?” Herb asked, finishing off his last bite of burger.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Must have been expensive.”

“It was. Now let’s pretend for a moment that we’re both cops and we have other things to discuss.”

“Sure. You gonna eat those fries?”

I gave Herb my fries.

Benedict turned off Addison and on to Christiana. The houses here were city houses; two-story, built in the late forties, with concrete porch steps and just enough front lawn to be able to mow with scissors. Unlike the suburbs, where every fourth house was the same model, these were each unique in their design, brickwork, and layout. Herb had a house like one of these. I might have had one, had I made some better decisions in my past.

Herb found the address and parked by the nearest fireplug. Theresa’s roommate, Elisa Saroto, answered the door after the fourth knock. She was in her mid-twenties, thin, wearing jeans and a white blouse. Her dark brown hair hung down to her shoulders, framing a face that would have been pretty if not for the expression of grief.

After introductions she led us into the kitchen, where she sat down in front of a cup of coffee. Next to the mug was a photo album. She’d been reliving memories.

“We went to Fort Lauderdale last year.” She opened the album and began to flip through it. After finding the right photo she pulled it from its slot and handed it to Herb. A close-up of two women, obviously Theresa and Elisa, both smiling and sporting deep tans. I thought of the picture in my pocket that we’d taken of Theresa at the morgue. We’d found our second Jane Doe.

“These two surfer guys tried to pick us up,” she continued. “Bob and Rob. It was so funny, Theresa and Elisa and Bob and Rob.”

We lost her to sobbing. Herb located a box of tissue on the counter and offered her one.

“Ms. Saroto.” I eased it in while she was catching her breath. “What kind of person was Theresa?”

Elisa wiped her nose and snuffled.

“She . . . she was my best friend. We met in college. We’ve been roommates for five years.”

“Did she have enemies?” Benedict asked. “Ex-boyfriends who couldn’t let go, problems at work, with the family . . . ”

“Everyone loved her. I know that sounds stupid, but it’s true. She was a great person.”

“Did anyone ever call and make threats? Obscene phone calls?”

She shook her head.

“Had she been acting strange lately? Afraid?”

“She’s been fine . . . Shit. Why did someone do this?”

A new round of sobs. Benedict and I stood there, uncomfortable with her show of grief, wishing we could take it away. You never get used to people’s suffering. If you do, it’s time to get out of the job.

“How about boyfriends?” I broke in. “Was she dating anyone?”

“No one steady since Johnny. He’s her ex-boyfriend . . . fiancé. They were going to get married. I was her maid of honor. She pulled out a month before the wedding.”

“Why was that?”

“He was cheating on her. When she found out, she dropped him cold. He kept calling, begging her to reconsider. Jerk.”

“And when was this?”

“Six, eight months ago? Her wedding was set for May, so a month before that.”

Herb asked, “What was the boyfriend’s name?”

“Tashing. Johnny Tashing. But he didn’t kill her. He’s a loser, but he still loves her. There’s no way he could kill her. Not like that. Not horrible like that.”

We went on for twenty more minutes, asking more questions, handing her more tissues. Theresa Metcalf had been a waitress at a club named Montezuma’s. The last time Elisa had seen her was three days ago, when Theresa was leaving for work. Elisa had spent the last few days at her boyfriend’s apartment, and hadn’t known Theresa was missing until seeing her photo on television. She didn’t recognize the picture of the first Jane Doe. She didn’t know who killed her friend. She didn’t know why anyone would.

After the inquisition, we walked down the hall to Theresa’s room. It was neat. The bed was made. The closets were organized. Nothing appeared out of place or unusual.

Benedict and I busied ourselves looking through drawers and shelves for anything that could give us a clue as to Theresa’s life and schedule. We found a box of letters, an appointment calendar, and some canceled checks. Nothing else warranted further attention.

Then we checked all the doors and windows, looking for signs of forced entry. We found nothing.

“Did Theresa have a purse?” I asked Elisa.

“Sure.”

We searched the bathroom and the rest of the house and came up empty-handed. Theresa must have taken her purse with her. That meant she probably wasn’t dragged forcibly from her house. So our working assumption was she’d either been grabbed by surprise somewhere else, or she went willingly with someone she knew.

Benedict gave Elisa a receipt for the items we took, and we asked her if she would stop by the morgue sometime tomorrow to identify the body. Normally we’d ask next of kin, but according to her roommate, Theresa was an only child and her parents were dead. Elisa agreed to come in around ten.

“So where to?” Benedict queried as we climbed back into the car.

“Two choices.” I grimaced, trying to get my leg into a position that didn’t hurt so much. “Work or the ex-boyfriend.”

“I’d like to read through the letters we took before we tackle the ex. I saw his name on a few of them.”

“Then it’s off to work we go.”

“You can adjust the seat, Jack. It’s all electric.”

Comfort won out over ego and I began pressing buttons. By the time I’d found the perfect combination of tilt and lift, we’d reached Theresa’s place of employment a few blocks away.

“They don’t look open.” Herb pulled in front of the club. We couldn’t see any lights on through the tinted windows.

“Alley entrance. I’m sure someone’s inside, setting up for the day.”

Herb parked on the street, refusing to leave his nice car with electric seats in the alley. We walked around and banged on the back door until one of the kitchen workers answered. Our badges got us inside, and after an intense session of question and answer with the manager of the club, we learned that Theresa did indeed work there, but she hadn’t shown up for her last four shifts.

We got an employee list, along with the current work schedule, and asked if any other employee had been missing shifts lately. None had. Neither had any employee been dating or harassing Theresa. Had any customers? Well, the wait staff got hit on all of the time, but none fit the stalker category. We’d have to talk with the other servers to be sure. No reaction to the picture of the first victim.

Benedict and I walked back to the car. Routine dictated that every employee had to be questioned and checked out. We’d run them all through the computer for priors, and then we’d begin the lengthy and time-consuming process of interrogation, checking alibis, running down new leads. Hopefully something would break loose, but I wasn’t crossing my fingers. The more we turned up, the more it seemed that Charles picked women at random. Maybe all a girl had to do to get on his list was be young and cute.

We (Herb) stopped for doughnuts on the way back to the station, picking up a dozen and the obligatory coffee. Since Herb’s tongue had been mangled, he’d actually been eating more than usual.

“I once knew an overweight woman who was anorexic,” he told me. “She refused to give in to her disease, so she ate nonstop. I refuse to let a little mouth pain deter my eating habits.”

“Who said overcompensation isn’t healthy.”

“Pass me another cruller.”

I was unable to talk Herb into taking the stairs when we got back to the station, even when using big words like arteriosclerosis and myocardial infarction. It was a good thing I saved my energy, because waiting for me in my office were the men in gray, ready to save the world and document it in triplicate.

“Lieutenant Daniels,” Agent Coursey said. Or maybe it was Dailey. “We’ve got good news.”

I hoped it involved them being reassigned.

“Vicky worked up a new profile of the suspect, and we’re 77.4 percent sure that he’s French Canadian, and most likely owns a horse.”

“Our killer is a Mountie.” Herb said it deadpan.

“A what? Hmm, that’s good. We hadn’t thought of that.”

They looked at each other, and Benedict and I took the moment to do the same.

“How about the candy,” I asked. “Did you get anything?”

“There have been over six hundred recorded cases of food tampering in the last fifteen years. More than two hundred of those were with candy. By limiting the search to individuals who used razor blades, fishhooks, and needles, we narrowed it down to forty-three cases. In only two reported cases had a perp used all three. Both in Lansing, Michigan. On consecutive Halloweens, in 1994 and ’95.”

I felt, for the first time in this case, the stirrings of excitement. This could be a solid lead.

“Arrests? Suspects?”

“None.”

The hope leached away.

“Both times, a bowl of candy had been left at an unoccupied house. No prints, no witnesses, no confessions, just several dozen kids taken to the emergency room, and one terminal occurrence.”

“Have you gone through the Lansing files, found anyone arrested there in the past who might be our man?”

“We’ve cross-referenced arrest records with anyone fitting our profile, but no one came up who was French Canadian. Several suspects owned horses, and we’re checking them out.”

Patience, Jack.

“How about apart from your profile? Anyone arrested in Lansing for kidnapping women? Raping stab wounds? Leaving notes for the police? Any unsolved murders that involved abduction, torture, and mutilation? This guy has killed before. You’ve pretty much confirmed he’s been in Michigan. Did you follow up on any of this?”

“We’re checking,” the one on the right said, hooding his eyes in a manner that could only be described as sheepish. “However, if you could spare the manpower, we’d like to check out some local livery stables and investigate this horse angle.”

I blinked. Twice. I was a deep breath away from spouting off, when a uniform knocked on my open office door. It was Barry Fuller, a large patrolman who used to be on the Chicago Bears. He was assigned to the Gingerbread Man task force, though in what capacity I’d have to admit ignorance.

“Officer Fuller.” I bid him entrance, happy to be interrupted.

Fuller came in, giving the FBI a sideways glance.

“We . . . I took a call this morning.” I now remembered that Fuller had been assigned to work the phones, sorting out fake confessions and tips. “It was Fitzpatrick, the owner of the second 7-Eleven. He wanted to add to his statement.”

“Add what?”

“He remembers hearing an ice cream truck before he saw the body.”

“Like one of those Good Humor trucks with the music?”

“Yeah. It was playing one of those pipe organ songs, he thinks it was ‘The Candyman.’”

I rolled this around in my head. We knew the perp drove a truck. An ice cream truck would be practically anonymous; there had to be hundreds in Chicago. I turned to Herb.

“We need a list of all ice cream trucks registered in Illinois and Michigan. And we need to find out if any special kind of license or permit is needed, and check that list for priors; stick with assault, rape, burglary . . . don’t bother with traffic violations. Then we need the list cross-referenced with Dr. Booster’s patient list. And we need to talk with that kid Donovan, who found the first body.”

“I did that,” Fuller said. “I called him. He remembers hearing an ice cream truck as well. I’ve also gotten started on the DMV reports. The problem is, they only register make, model, and year. An ice cream truck is a Jeep, and there are thousands of Jeeps in Illinois. More in Michigan, I can guess. We can’t break it down by drivers, because anyone with a standard class D can drive a Jeep. If the guy has a business license, it could be possible to find him through that, but that goes by village, not state. It could take weeks to check every suburb.”

“What about companies that sell ice cream that have drivers?” Benedict was thinking out loud.

“There are six in Illinois,” Fuller answered, surprising us. “I’m having them all fax employee lists as well as driver routes.”

“Nice job, Officer,” I told him. “We’ll put someone else on phones, and you’re in charge of gathering all of this information. I want a progress report every morning, and I’ll need Donovan’s and Fitzpatrick’s depositions ASAP.”

Since I liked initiative in my men, I also threw him a bone.

“There’s an extra case file on my desk, go through it, see if anything shakes loose.”

He grinned, I suppose from the opportunity presented to him, and then left. In two minutes’ time, an ex-football player who walked a beat proved to be of more help than two federal agents with years of experience. It didn’t surprise me.

“Maybe he’s selling ice cream on horseback,” Benedict offered to the Feebies.

“Parlez-vous Fudgsicle?” I added.

“His driving an ice cream truck does not preclude ownership of a horse,” the one on the left said, “but we’ll need time to assimilate this new data and consult with Vicky.”

“Maybe you should do that.”

“We are well aware of the fact that you don’t like us, Lieutenant. But we’re all trying to do the same thing here. We’re trying to catch a killer. We do it by analyzing data and comparing it to thousands of other documented cases, in order to get a picture of the unsub. You go on the news and talk about bed-wetting and cowardice. To each his method.”

Then they turned as one and left.

“Ouch,” Herb said, “that was awful close to an actual insult.”

“I may need a hug, Herb.”

“I’m here for you. At least until Lunch Mates sets you up with someone. Did I mention how darling you looked in that sweater?”

“Aren’t there any doughnuts left you should be attending to?”

Benedict’s eyes lit up and he attacked the box. I washed down two aspirin with the last of my coffee, and then was forced to refill it with the sludge from the hallway vending machine. When I returned, Herb had valiantly triumphed over an éclair and had begun poring over the letters we’d taken from Theresa Metcalf’s room. I sat down, stretched my leg, and attacked the appointment book.

It was a typical Day-Timer, every date in the month with a page of its own. There was an address book at the beginning, which was mostly blank except for a few unlabeled phone numbers that would have to be checked out.

Going page by page, I came across many notes and appointments involving her canceled wedding. She’d met with several caterers, bakeries, florists, photographers, etc. Again, all would need to be interviewed.

Every seven days she wrote down her work schedule, which hardly varied one week to the next. Birthdays for both Elisa and Johnny Tashing, her ex, were labeled in advance. There had been two dentist appointments and a doctor’s visit, but it hadn’t been to the late Dr. Booster’s office. She’d also written in her dates with Johnny, which ended abruptly on April 29, when she wrote PIG! next to his name and underlined it.

Also in April were two meetings with someone named Harry. Just that name and a time—six o’clock in both cases. Once was on the twentieth, and once on the twenty-eighth. Nothing else about Harry, or Johnny, from then until present.

I called up Elisa and asked if she knew anyone named Harry, from back in April. She said she didn’t.

“Any mention of anyone named Harry in the letters?” I asked Benedict.

“Nope. But her ex-boyfriend had a real flair for the romantic. ‘Your breasts are like two ice cream scoops, and I want to lick them up.’”

“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”

“Yeah. King Lear.”

“Does he seem like a wacko?”

“No more so than any other hormone-crazed guy who wants to get laid. He says ‘I love you’ a lot, and it seems sincere. Most of these letters are from when they just started dating. They’d been going out for a few years.”

I set the appointment book aside and dove into the canceled checks. There was a big stack of them, dating back to 1994. Luckily they were in chronological order.

There was nothing unusual for the last few months. Rent, gas, phone, electric, groceries, clothes, all the normal things people pay for. Then, when I got to April, something abnormal.

She’d written two checks for two hundred dollars each to a man named Harry McGlade.

I frowned and showed them to Benedict.

“Sounds familiar. Cop?”

I nodded. “Used to be. Private now.”

“You know him?”

I nodded again and extended my frown. I hadn’t seen McGlade in fifteen years.

Fifteen very pleasant years.

“So Theresa must have hired him for something. I wonder what for.”

“The mind boggles. I can’t see anyone hiring Harry for anything.”

“Something to do with the boyfriend?”

I shrugged. Only one way to find out, unfortunately.

“I’ll go pay him a visit,” I conceded. “You want to tackle the boyfriend?”

“I may do just that. You sure you don’t want to tag-team them?”

“I’d rather meet with McGlade one on one.”

“I sense some history here, Jack, that you aren’t telling me about.”

“Let’s just say he’s not my favorite person.”

Which may have been the understatement of my life.

Chapter 25

THE ASPIRIN WASN’T HELPING MY LEG much and I felt every bump and crack in the road during the ride to McGlade’s. A call to the phone company had confirmed his address to be the same as it was fifteen years back, when I’d last busted him.

He lived in Hyde Park, near the Museum of Science and Industry and the University of Chicago. Hyde Park wasn’t really a park at all, but a multitude of apartment buildings sectioned off from shops and stores, sort of like a housing development.

I parked in front of a hydrant next to his building. A group of teenagers hanging out on the corner made me as a cop and walked off as I struggled to get out of my car. I suppose I was just cursed to look like an authority figure.

After finding the appropriate buzzer, I pressed once and waited, half-hoping he wasn’t home.

“Harry’s House of Love. You buying or selling?”

“I’m gagging. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Violent Crimes. Buzz me in, McGlade.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Now.”

“Nope. Try again.”

“Open the door, McGlade.”

The door buzzed, but only for a second. By the time my hand reached the knob, it had stopped.

“McGlade . . .”

“When did you become a lieutenant, Jackie?”

Harry was the only person who called me Jackie.

“The nineties. Now you can either buzz me in or I can shoot the lock off and then arrest you for destruction of property.”

He buzzed, but only for a millisecond like before. I was ready for it this time, and pulled the door open.

The lobby was dim, the carpet worn, the heat barely on. I saw a roach scurry along the wall and blend into the peeling paint.

Harry was on the fifth floor, and since I hadn’t brought my cane, I took the elevator. When I located his apartment, the door was already open. He was standing in the middle of his den, pulling on a pair of pink paisley boxer shorts.

“Normally I don’t dress until later in the day, but I don’t want you getting any ideas.”

He was as I’d remembered. A little older. A little chubbier. But he still had the same three-day beard, the same unkempt shock of brown hair, the same twinkling brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing at you.

“Christ, Jackie, you look old. Aren’t they paying you enough to afford Botox?”

Exactly as I remembered.

I took a step inside and looked around. It was a pigsty. Laundry and garbage and junk covered every inch of the floor. Empty cans and wrappers and moldy socks and sour food were strewn around in such abandon that it seemed like someone had blown up a landfill.

“Jesus, McGlade. Do you ever clean up?”

“Nah. I pay a girl to come in once a week. But every time she comes over we just hump the whole time and she never has a chance to clean anything. Want to go into the kitchen, have a seat?”

“I’m afraid I’d stick to something and never be able to leave.”

“No need to be rude,” Harry said. Then he belched. I closed the door behind me and noticed the aquarium against the wall. That must have been where the smell was coming from. Moldering fish corpses and chunks of multicolored rotting things bubbled around in the brown water, buoyed by the tank aerator. I watched a corn dog float by.

“Some kind of fish disease wiped out my whole gang within twenty-four hours,” McGlade explained.

“There’s a shocker.”

“I like it more now. There’s always something new growing, and I save a bundle on fish food.”

I pulled my eyes away.

“I’m here to talk about Theresa Metcalf. She was a client of yours. Back in April.”

“Got a picture? I can’t place the name.”

Theresa’s roommate had given us some snapshots, but I’d forgotten them back at the station. Instead, I handed McGlade one of Theresa done up by the makeup artist, with the digitally added eyes. It was as close to lifelike as we could get it.

“Yuck. Ugly.”

“She’s dead.”

“Then she’d smell bad too.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Not offhand. No. But then I have a hard time remembering last week. How long has it been, Jackie?”

“Not long enough.”

McGlade raised an eyebrow.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?”

I took the picture back, careful not to touch his hand.

“If you don’t feel like cooperating . . . ” I began.

“You’ll drag me in. Can’t it wait? I was watching the new Snow White DVD, the director’s cut with the extra footage. The gang-bang scene is next.”

I frowned, wondering how to play it. I needed the information, but taking McGlade in would mean having to drive with him.

“Do you keep files?” I asked.

“Sure. At the office.”

I let out a breath. My head was beginning to hurt, probably because I’d inhaled something toxic, and I was quickly losing the little patience I’d brought along. I took another cautious step forward, and something crunched underfoot.

“Hey, watch out for the pizza, Jack. I’m not done with it.”

“Get dressed,” I ordered. “We’re going to your office.”

“Kiss my piles. It’s my day off. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then you’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“For being an asshole.”

“You can’t do that. I’ve got an Asshole License.”

“Okay. How about for assaulting an officer?”

“I haven’t laid a hand on you.”

“Seeing you in your underwear qualifies as assault.”

McGlade shook his head.

“When are you going to get over it, Jackie? It was a long time ago. I paid for it, didn’t I?”

“You have the right to remain silent, and I sincerely hope you do.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Good. Resist arrest. Maybe you’ll find someone down at County General that likes your boxer shorts more than I do.”

Harry sighed. “Fine. You win, O Mighty Lieutenant. We’ll go. Just help me find some socks.”

“Find them yourself.”

He bent over and picked some pants up off the floor. After sniffing the crotch, he deemed them okay and put them on. Years ago, I learned that the best way to deal with Harry was excruciating patience, punctuated by occasional outbursts of hostility. It still held true.

“What’s the big deal anyway?” he asked, smelling a sock.

“She was murdered.”

Harry gagged and dropped the sock back on the floor.

“I didn’t do it.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. It was the Gingerbread Man.”

“No shit? No wonder you’ve got your undies in a knot. If you told me that earlier, I would have been much more helpful.”

“I bet.”

Harry picked the sock back up and put it on.

“Can we stop for coffee on the way?”

“No.”

“Maybe a bagel too.”

“No.”

“I know a great place nearby. If you don’t like it, I’ll pick up the tab.”

“I hate it already,” I said.

McGlade found a stained shirt and a suit jacket that didn’t match his pants. He buttoned up the shirt incorrectly and had to redo it. I needed more aspirin.

“So what’s with the limp?” Harry asked as we walked to my car. “Boyfriend wearing you out?”

“I got shot.”

“Who would shoot a sweetheart like you? You sure you can drive okay? We could take my car. It’s a lot nicer than yours.”

“Shut up and get in. The more you talk, the more I feel like arresting you again.”

“So nasty, Jackie. When was the last time you got laid? Pretty thing like you should be able to find a guy.”

Following Harry’s lousy directions, our meandering took us to a corner bakery, where I got coffee and McGlade got a large orange pop and blueberry bagel.

“Hell, where did I leave my wallet?”

I paid. From there, it was to his office, a merciful five blocks away.

“I’m on the sixth floor. Sorry, Jackie—no elevator. Want a piggyback ride?”

I ignored him, tackling the stairs with as much dignity as I could. It wasn’t much. By the third flight I was a sweating, shaking mess.

“You don’t mind if I go on ahead, do you, Jackie? No offense, but I don’t like watching the Special Olympics either.”

I nodded, gasping for breath.

“Just three more flights, last office on the left. I’ll come check your progress in ten minutes or so.”

He trotted off, and I bit back the pain and doubled my efforts. I reached the top sopping wet with perspiration. A circle of blood had seeped up through my pants leg. I had to put my head between my knees so I didn’t pass out.

McGlade had left the office door open for me. He was sitting at his desk, leafing through a magazine called Plucky Beaver. It had nothing to do with wildlife.

“Glad you could drop by, Jackie. You want some club soda for those pants? I think I’ve got some bandages too.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble, just take a minute.”

“Thanks,” I managed. Though God knew why I was thanking him. I took a seat opposite his desk and struggled out of my sweater. His office was tidy compared to his apartment. Almost respectable. The blinds matched the carpet, four lamps shared the floor with several healthy ficus trees, and his desk and file cabinet were stained oak. The only Harryesque touch was the painting on the wall, a cubist portrait of a nude woman with large blue triangles for nipples.

I got my breathing under control, and Harry returned with a roll of gauze and a bottle of liquid.

“Out of club soda. I’ve got Diet Sprite. Does that take stains out?”

“I don’t think so.”

Harry shrugged and took a pull off the bottle. I took the gauze and was directed to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I was freshly bandaged and the bloodstain had been scrubbed out.

“Did you find her file yet?”

“Huh? I hadn’t been looking. Check out this Rack of the Month.” Harry showed me the centerfold. “Think those are real?”

“McGlade . . . ”

“Think of her back problems . . . ”

“Harry. The files.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

He tore himself away from the magazine and went to a file cabinet in the corner of the room.

“What month was it?”

“April.”

From the top drawer of the file cabinet he removed an open box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal. He upended it over his desk, and a sheaf of papers spilled out. I picked one up and he snatched it from my hand.

“Don’t mess with my organization. This is a complicated filing system.”

“It looks like you just stuffed all of your April reports in an empty cereal box.”

“To the layman, yes, that’s what it looks like. But to my computerlike brain it is infinitely more complex. Aha!”

He held up a slip of paper.

“That’s a coupon for baby oil,” I told him.

He put it in his jacket pocket and kept searching.

“Let’s see. Metcalf. Theresa Metcalf. Here we go.”

He scanned through the report, which had been handwritten on notebook paper. I took a glance at it myself and couldn’t make out the chicken scratches.

“Okay. She hired me to follow her boyfriend. I can’t make out his name. It looks like Tommy. Or Johnny. I think it was Tommy.”

“It was Johnny.”

“That’s what I said. Johnny. She gave me two hundred up front. Wanted to know if he was cheating on her. Gave me another two bills when I finished the job.”

“What did you find out?”

“Hey, my client has a right to privacy.”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh, yeah. To hell with her privacy then. Her boyfriend was dipping the wick in another pot. I shot two rolls of film on them. I think I still have some copies. Want me to look?”

“No, thanks.”

“They’re pretty good. I took an amateur photography class last year. You should see what I can do with a zoom lens.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah. Call me. I’ll have some slides made up. Is that all you needed?”

“How did she come to you?”

“Walk-in, I think. Saw my ad in the phone book. Pays to advertise.”

“What was your impression of the boyfriend?”

“He had the endurance, but came up short in the size department, if you know what I mean. That’s why I needed the zoom.”

“What kind of person was Johnny?” I rephrased, a temple of infinite patience.

“Besides a cheater? He seemed okay. Worked for some mutual fund company. Good dresser. Ritzy apartment. Up-and-comer yuppie type. Met with the bimbo on his lunch breaks. She worked in his office.”

“What did he drive?” I was hoping for a Jeep.

Harry checked his sheet.

“White Lexus. About four years old.”

“Do you recognize her?” I showed him the photo of our first Jane Doe.

“I don’t think so. Kind of looks like an aunt I had. But she had a mustache. You gonna give me the skinny on these two?”

“They were both kidnapped, tortured, and had their stab wounds raped.”

“Yuck. It’s a sick world. I had a case once, jealous wife took a needle and thread . . .”

“Did you get any impression at all from Johnny Tashing that he could be a killer?”

“Naw. He was a typical preppie type, probably piss himself if he saw blood. No connection between the vics?”

“Can’t find one. They’re both young, pretty. Maybe that’s the only criteria the killer needs.”

“Look harder. Raping stab wounds seems like a punishment thing. Almost like revenge. Maybe he’s going after every girl that ever dumped him. Anyway, this woman’s husband was passed out on the couch, drunk. So she took a needle and thread and sewed . . .”

I tuned him out. In his limitless stupidity, Harry had said something smart. What if these women had offended the killer personally in some way and he was out for revenge? Could he have been a customer that Theresa snubbed, or an old ex-boyfriend?

“ . . . so when the guy tried to take a leak . . .”

I got up to leave.

“Don’t you want to hear what happened?”

I walked out the door, my head swimming with ideas. We’d been dwelling on the who, what, where, when, and how. But maybe the why needed further attention.

“Don’t be a stranger, Jackie,” he called out after me. “Maybe we can do lunch sometime.”

I was convinced now that the killer knew these girls. That he was out for revenge. People like Bundy and Gacy, they killed for pleasure. For sex. Our perp was using sex as a form of punishment. These vics had something in common.

But what?

Before I knew it, I’d reached the bottom of the stairs. I hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Mind over matter.

Chapter 26

IN HIS LIFETIME, HE’S KILLED TWENTY-THREE people. He did two stretches in prison, totaling eight years. Neither was for murder. If he hadn’t been behind bars, he believes his body count would be double.

He has a knack for it. The fact that he’s never been caught is proof. There are several tricks he uses, so suspicion never falls on him. Never leave evidence. Never establish a pattern. Keep a respectable cover and have an alibi ready. And always plan ahead.

Hookers are easy. No one misses hookers. Murder is an occupational hazard.

Or kids. It’s simple to grab kids. Tell them their mommy was hurt, they’ll always come with you. Or dress up like a cop. Or in a big dinosaur costume. Or as Batman.

But the most fun is grabbing a normal girl. To do that you need to take your time. Find out about her. Stalk her. Abduct her. Bring her someplace private, where no one will hear.

It’s tougher than picking up a whore or a little kid. It’s also more rewarding.

The best screamers are the twenty-something bimbos who think they’re too good for you. Like these bitches he’s working on now. Like his ex-wife.

Soon he’ll be finished. Then he’ll move on. Fade into the background. Do his killing on a more private level. Maybe in a few years he can resurface, terrify an entire city one more time, but this performance is a strictly limited engagement.

The question is, what to do with Jack? After the comments she made on the news, she’s proven herself no better than the other whores. What Jack needs is a nice long session in his basement.

She’s a little old for him, but it’s an intoxicating thought.

Will the lieutenant be a screamer? Will she beg?

Of course she will. Eventually, they all beg.

Since killing the cat as a child, Charles has felt superior to all humans. But here’s one he feels a kinship with. Here’s one who, by chasing him, is trying to be his equal.

In a way, it makes Jack endearing. Almost lovable.

Love is an emotion still alien to Charles. From years of murdering, he knows excitement, and fun, and pleasure, and disappointment and sadness when a victim dies too quickly. But love has been beyond his grasp. His marriage was for cover, for money, for convenience. But he hates the stuck-up slut more than anything. He hates her voice, he hates her personality, and he hates her goddamn face.

But Jack’s face . . .

Thinking of it makes him smile. He wants to see it again. Wants to somehow get in touch with her. He knows Jack is being watched by the police, but there has to be a way.

There’s always a way.

In the meantime, he has a schedule to keep. Girl #3. He wants to have her by tonight. He knows her route, knows he has two possible places to make the grab.

The syringe is in his pocket. He tries focusing on her face.

Instead he sees Jack’s.

Chapter 27

IT WAS NICE TO GET AWAY from Harry. Sometimes the past should remain in the past.

I got to the station at a quarter past three, using the elevator so I didn’t open up my wound again. Benedict was already in my office when I walked in, back from interviewing the boyfriend. The tired expression on his face probably mirrored my own.

“How’d you make out?” I asked.

“He cried from start to finish. If that wasn’t enough, he also had an alibi. Out of town for a week until this morning. Business trip. It checks.”

“He have any ideas?”

“Everyone loved Theresa, him included. He wanted to get back with her. Admitted his affair was stupid. He couldn’t think of any reason anyone would want to kill her. No reaction to the computer sketch, or the picture of the first Jane Doe. I got a list of some mutual friends, most of them the same ones Elisa gave us. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover. How about you?”

“Harry was hired by Theresa to confirm Johnny’s cheating. He took pictures. But he said something interesting—maybe the perp is punishing these women for something they did to him. It would help if we had an ID on the first Jane Doe. Somehow, they both managed to piss our man off. That’s why he’s leaving them out in public, rather than hiding the bodies. He’s leaving them on display, as a message to others.”

Herb thought it over. “Okay. We delve more deeply into Theresa Metcalf’s life. Make a list of all the places she went to—bars, shops, movies, et cetera. Then flash around pictures of the first Jane Doe, see if we get any hits.”

“The two women may not have known each other well, but maybe they’ve met. Like belonging to the same health club. They both did something, probably the same thing, to our man to set him off. Maybe something minor, like rejecting his advances, or laughing at him. Or maybe they both dated him in the past, and dumped him.”

“Lots of maybes.”

“Then let’s narrow them down.”

We spent the next hour with the task force, delegating authority, giving assignments, following leads. Officer Fuller had done an admirable job gathering information on ice cream trucks, and the lists of possibles were divvied up to be checked out. News came that the semen found in the stab wounds had been typed as A positive. A DNA print was forthcoming, and would take several weeks.

“You look like hell, Jack.” Benedict eyed me when we’d finished our powwow. “Maybe you should go home and rest.”

“Nonsense. I’m at the top of my ability.”

“Jack,” Herb said, startling me.

“Huh? What?”

“You just fell asleep sitting up. Go home.”

“Maybe you’ve got something there, Herb.”

“You need a ride?”

I shook away some cobwebs. “No, thanks. The pain will wake me up.”

That it did. Hauling myself out of my chair was akin to getting cold water splashed in my face. By the time I’d made it downstairs to my car, sleep was the last thing on my mind.

On the way to my apartment I stopped at a neighborhood grocer, securing a frozen pizza guaranteed to rise in the oven, two cans of spray-on carpet cleaner, and some aspirin. Another hot night of adventure in the life of the swinging cop.

The pizza did rise, to about the thickness of an apple pie. I devoured half of it, along with two whiskey sours, trying to remember the last time I’d actually had a home-cooked meal. Once in a blue moon I’d fry up some burgers, or make spaghetti, but I couldn’t recall when I’d last had a dinner where different food groups were represented by different dishes.

Don liked to cook, but he was a health nut and it always involved sprouts and tofu. Soy somehow lacked the homey feel of a five-course turkey dinner, or even pancakes and sausage.

I put the rest of the pizza in the fridge, then hit the bedroom to clean up my blood.

I needed both cans of cleaner and another drink to get the stains out. It helped that the carpet was brown. When I finished, I had to throw away the rags I’d used, and I made liberal use of some Lysol to kill the gamy smell.

With no more tasks to complete, I sat down at my dinette set, and looked through the Lunch Mates data sheets that Matthew had given me.

The first was a redhead. Forty-two. An accountant. Five feet ten, 170 pounds, green eyes. He was looking for a woman with a sense of humor who liked to take chances. His name was Latham.

The second had brown hair. Forty-six. A managing director for a steel production company. Five eight, 165, glasses, and a very cute face. He was looking for a woman with a lot of money. I filed his data sheet in the garbage.

The third was forty, but he looked too much like my ex-husband, so I filed him as well. This was like catalog shopping.

I scanned through the others, coming up with several possibles, rejecting others mostly based on their jobs and their appearance. Beggars shouldn’t be choosers, but I was paying so much, I didn’t consider it begging anymore.

After compiling my list of six, I whipped out the cellular and gave my Lunch Mates agent a call.

“Thanks for calling, Jack. I’ve been trying to reach you, but the line’s always busy.”

“Hollywood agents, trying to get me to sell the story of my life.”

Matthew laughed his musical laugh. “You’ve had a chance to look through the data sheets?”

“Yes. I had some time off this afternoon after my skydiving lesson got canceled.”

“What did you think of Latham Conger?”

He was the redhead who liked to take chances.

“I had him picked out, yes.”

“I faxed him your data sheet, and he’d love to meet you. Shall we make a lunch date?”

“Sure. Tomorrow?”

“Let me check his schedule . . . yes, he is free tomorrow, at one. Do you like Chinese food?”

“That’s fine.”

“How about Jimmy Wong’s then? On Wabash? One o’clock tomorrow.”

“Great.”

“I’ll call Latham, tell him the good news. If for some reason you can’t make it, call me here as soon as possible. Have fun tomorrow!”

He hung up. That was the easiest date I’d ever planned. I hadn’t even needed to show a little leg.

I read Latham’s data sheet again, and then once more. The whiskey was working its magic, and once again I felt the drowsies sneak up on me. While that would normally be a cause for celebration, it was scarcely six o’clock. Falling asleep now meant I’d be up again around midnight.

The drowsies won out. I shed my clothes and crawled into bed, letting exhaustion take over.

I woke up a little past eleven.

Five hours was as long a rest as I’d had in recent memory, but there was no way I’d sleep any longer than that. I peeled myself out of bed, changed my bandage, and spent the rest of the night watching program-length commercials.

I spent some money. Late-night advertisers knew that exhaustion zapped willpower. Five hours later I’d bought a buckwheat husk pillow, guaranteed to provide me with a good night’s sleep; an Ab Cruncher, guaranteed to transform my abs into a six-pack in only five minutes a day; and a set of nonstick cookware, guaranteed to turn even the most inept chef into a world-class gourmet. Because I ordered early, I got a free cookbook and a bonus spatula worth $19.95.

I managed, through sheer force of will, not to call any psychic hotlines.

By the time the sun peeked over the horizon, my Visa was maxed and I felt like an idiot. It wouldn’t be the first time. Over the years I’ve amassed enough mail order junk to open up my own business. Those tricky niche marketers. There should be a law against television broadcasts after two in the morning.

I wrapped my leg in plastic and took a shower, deciding my morning workout would have to wait a while until I healed. Or until my Ab Cruncher came in four to six weeks. I dressed in old jeans and a polo shirt because my good clothes were all still at the cleaners, and then headed for work.

During the drive I thought about the case, and the two dead women, and the Gingerbread Man. And then I did something I hadn’t ever done on a case. I made myself a promise.

“No one else dies,” I said aloud in the car. “I’m going to catch you, and you won’t get anyone else.”

Even if I go down in the process.

Chapter 28

HE’S FURIOUS.

He paces back and forth in his basement, holding the rag to his bleeding face, stopping to give the body a kick.

Bitch. Lousy bitch.

The grab is perfect. He pulls up next to her, asking her directions, even offering her a free ice cream for her assistance. When she takes the cone he grabs her arm and sticks her with the needle. No witnesses. No struggle. No screaming. A textbook abduction.

Then he quickly ties her up in his basement and waits for her to wake up.

But she wakes up too fast. He’s making himself a sandwich and suddenly she’s running up the stairs, naked and frantic.

He grabs her, trying to pin her down, but she scratches him across the eyes. He loses his temper and backhands her, sending her tumbling down the stairs.

And she breaks her lousy neck.

Such a waste! All the time and planning, ruined! She dies not even knowing who he is, or why she’s being punished.

Charles kicks her again, then goes to take care of his face. His eye burns, an ugly red mark bisecting the cornea. It requires treatment, but a doctor is out of the question. The scratch marks on his face look like scratch marks. There would be questions, and he would be remembered.

He makes do with iodine and gauze pads. Later he’ll get some kind of eye ointment at the store. He has some things to do first.

With his anger soaring and his face hurting like hell, Charles has no desire to violate the body. Sex is the furthest thing from his mind. But he has a reputation to uphold, and for the next part of his plan it’s necessary.

At first he can’t get aroused. But Jack helps him with that. Thinking of Jack’s face when she discovers this body. Thinking how Jack will scream when he has her in the basement, doing this to her.

Thinking of being inside Jack.

He finishes, grunting in satisfaction. Then he begins.

They’re probably on to his disposal method and undoubtedly watching all convenience stores. But he has something different in mind. Something audacious.

First he removes the hand that scratched him. He knows there’s DNA evidence under her fingernails, but he’s already left DNA samples with his semen and he doesn’t care. He does care, however, about alerting the authorities to the fact that she scratched him. He’ll have this bandage on his face for a while, and doesn’t need to have that bit of information added to his description.

After the hand, he begins to dissect the rest of the body. He works on a plastic tarp, with a cleaver and some wire cutters.

When he finishes, he loads everything of size into a fifty-gallon thermos cooler. There’s plenty of glop left over, which he disposes of outside.

In the vacant lot behind his house there is a manhole. He’s been dropping things down there for years, feeding the rats. He uses a butcher’s hook with a T-shaped handle to pry up the cover, and dumps all the little parts still on the tarp into the sewer.

He listens to the soft plops in the darkness, followed by squeals of delight from the rodent populace.

“Snack time.” He giggles.

He takes a quick but thorough shower, using a toothbrush to get the blood out of his fingernails, carefully avoiding his bandage. Then he spends twenty minutes getting the cooler up the stairs and into his truck. Another ten minutes are used up removing all of the pictures and descriptions of ice cream along the side panels and replacing them with signs that say “Mel’s Plumbing,” complete with a bogus phone number.

He also has a three-foot-long metal plunger, which he picked up at an auto graveyard, that attaches to the roof. An ice cream truck is conspicuous after dark, but a plumber can come and go at all hours.

Coming up on two in the morning, he finishes polishing his press statement. He has a lot to say, but if it’s too long, it wouldn’t all be used on the news. He wants it short, succinct, and on the front page. After printing the final copy, he puts it in an envelope along with the parts he’s saved from Theresa Metcalf.

It’s a cold night, and with his heavy jacket and hat he feels anonymous. First he dumps the cooler under some garbage bags in an alley he’s had picked out for some time.

Then he makes a stop at an all-night coffee shop and buys himself a cup. After nursing it long enough to become invisible to the other customers, he hits the bathroom and uses some duct tape to secure his envelope behind the toilet bowl, putting his gloves on to avoid leaving fingerprints.

Gloves still on, he leaves the diner and walks to the nearest pay phone, calling the tip line for the Chicago Tribune.

“This is the Gingerbread Man,” he tells the rookie who picks up the phone, “and I’m going to make you famous.”

He hangs around for the next forty minutes, until some guy strides into the diner in an apparent rush, walking out two minutes later with the envelope.

The cops will be coming soon. Maybe even Jack. He stays and watches the fireworks, from the window of a corner bar across the street.

There’s plenty of excitement; four patrol cars, five news vans, dozens of oglers.

No Jack.

He fidgets, sipping his beer until closing time, wondering why Jack hasn’t shown up. Her fat partner hasn’t shown either. Maybe a few body parts and a letter don’t warrant waking them from their beauty rest. At four in the morning, the bar kicks everyone out, and he decides to check for himself.

He parks three blocks away from Jack’s apartment, not sure how close the surveillance on her is. He walks quickly, hands in his pockets, head down, looking as if he has a destination.

On Jack’s street he spots the team; they’re parked almost a block away, and the windows are tinted to prevent looking in. But their cover is blown. Because it’s cold, they have the heat on, and the engine is running. Charles sees the exhaust from a hundred yards away, and turns in his tracks and heads back the way he came.

If Jack’s tail is still there, then Jack is still there. So the easiest way to follow Jack is to follow her tail.

They’ll be looking for someone stalking Jack.

But they won’t be looking for someone stalking them.

The Gingerbread Man gets back into his plumbing truck and finds a parking space a block away from the surveillance team.

Then he turns off the engine, shoves his hands in his pockets, and waits.

Chapter 29

AS USUAL, HERB BEAT ME TO WORK. “I didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans,” he said.

“I’m undercover.”

“I don’t think they make Bon Jour anymore.”

“Are you saying I’m out of style?”

“Is that an Izod shirt? I haven’t seen one in fifteen years.”

Like Herb could talk. The tie he wore today had a pineapple hand-painted on it.

“You’re fired,” I told him.

Herb ignored me, turning his attention to a box of grocery Danish. The phone rang.

“Daniels.”

“My office. Benedict too.”

Bains hung up. His small talk needed work.

“We are to proceed directly to the office of our captain,” I informed Benedict.

He nodded, stuffing the rest of the breakfast roll into his mouth, basset hound jowls inflating like balloons. Canine to chipmunk in 2.2 seconds.

We walked down the hall, Herb madly chewing and me trying to keep pace, having judiciously left my cane in my office. No point in looking frail before the almighty Captain Bains. Herb did a big cartoon swallow and we went in.

Bains took off his reading glasses and nodded at us.

“Early this morning our man left a package for the Chicago Tribune. It contained some body parts, in a plastic bag, that have since been confirmed as Theresa Metcalf’s. There was also a letter.”

Bains glanced at the paper on the table, encased in a big plastic bag. Herb picked it up and we read.

Chicago,

This is the Gingerbread Man. The lies must stop. My plan was to leave this city after the fourth, but now I may stay to take revenge for the things said about me. I let that Judas live, and she betrayed me. Now you will all pay the price.

Let me make it clear. I am no joke. I will kill your daughters, Chicago. Your sisters shall suffer. I will continue to kill until I am shown respect.

Fire Daniels. Let the truth come out.

“Has this been run yet?” I asked.

“It will be, afternoon edition. We were able to hold it back until we confirmed the parts belonged to the second girl.”

“Did we get anything?” Benedict asked.

“No prints. He left it in a bathroom at a coffee shop. A team is still taking the place apart, dusting for prints, talking to customers and staff. It was a busy place, even that early in the morning. No one remembers anything. We have a tape of the phone call to the Trib; they automatically record their tip line. Voice print is being done, but it won’t help unless we catch him.”

“Why weren’t we called last night?”

I realized, as it came out of my mouth, that I already knew the answer.

“The mayor has given jurisdiction on this case over to the Feds. Officially, you are on a leave of absence pending charges of official misconduct. The paper will run a statement from the police superintendent alongside the letter.”

“That’s bullshit, Captain!” Herb had a mad-on, venting for both of us. “The Feebies couldn’t catch a cold in a snowstorm.”

“Jack is officially on a leave of absence. You, Herb, will still keep our end of things up around here. And whatever Jack decides to do, on her own time as a private citizen, is her business.”

I smiled. I never liked the spotlight much anyway.

“Now bring me up to speed,” Bains said.

Herb and I took turns, relating what we had so far, and what we were going after.

“So the women are connected,” Bains said when we finished.

“We think so. Maybe not to each other, but definitely to our perp. He’s not grabbing women of a certain type, he’s grabbing women he knows and wants to punish. If we can find the link, perhaps we find him.”

“In his note, he refers to the fourth. The Feds think it’s the fourth of next month.”

“Could be,” I said. “Or it could be the fourth victim.”

The phone rang. The chief picked it up, listened, and held out the phone for me.

“Daniels.”

“This is Briggs, front desk. Don’t want to bust your chops in front of the boss, but we’ve got a guy on hold says something happened to your mom.”

Panic exploded within me. “Put him through.”

“Jack? Guess who.”

I gave a quick nod to Bains and mouthed “It’s him.” He picked up his cell phone and gave word to trace.

“What’s happened to my mother?”

“Just blowing smoke, Jack, so they’d put me through to you. But I did leave you something, in the alley behind your building. A picnic lunch. Enjoy it. See you soon.”

The line went dead.

“He’s off,” I said.

“Pay phone on Michigan,” Bains said. The days of long traces were in the past. The modern phone trace was practically instantaneous.

I relayed the conversation word for word, Benedict writing it all down. A minute later the chief’s cell phone rang.

“They missed him,” he told us. “Blended into the rush hour crowd.”

“Let’s go check the alley,” Benedict said.

Bains came with us. We didn’t bother to stop for coats.

The district building was on a street corner, and on the third side was the parking lot. The alley wasn’t an official alley; just an enclave where the Dumpsters were kept. We approached it cautiously, eyes scanning everything. Since we both outranked Herb, he did the honors of rooting through the garbage.

“Looks like a cooler,” he said, moving some bags. “Big one.”

Bains gave the go-ahead to open it. Herb lifted the corner, holding the edge with a handkerchief.

“Christ.”

It was bad. Real bad. This had surpassed murder and become butchery.

“Let’s rope it off, get a team in here.” Bains shook his head. The third body being found right behind his police station wouldn’t help his career.

I left the scene, placing a phone call to Mom, just to make sure she was safe. Then I sat on the steps in front of the district building, still without a jacket, letting the cold be my penance.

I’d let another person die.

The team came, and the reporters, and a crowd of gawkers.

I thought about my job, and my mom, and my insomnia, and my date that afternoon, and Don.

I thought about Benedict, and Phineas Troutt, and Harry McGlade, and my past, and my ex-husband, and the dog I had when I was a kid that we had to put to sleep because he broke his leg chasing a rabbit.

I thought about the stars in the sky. I hadn’t seen the stars in years. The smog in Chicago was thick enough to blot them out. For all I knew, they weren’t there anymore.

I wondered what the point was. No one was happy. Every day brings some new annoyance, some new problem, some new pain. And if you managed to avoid cancer, and AIDS, and drugs, and car accidents, and malevolent acts of God, there was still the chance that some wacko would grab you, or your kid, and torture them to death for no reason.

I tried to remember the last time I laughed so hard it hurt. I tried to recall a day where I went to bed happy.

I couldn’t.

Special Agents Dailey and Coursey, in matching black trench coats, materialized from the crowd and walked briskly up to me. They moved in step, left foot, right foot, as if they were doing a Wrigley’s Doublemint commercial. I didn’t hide my disappointment when they stopped in front of my stoop.

“We hope there’s no hard feelings,” Dailey said.

I gave him a blank look.

“That you’re off the case. We know what it’s like, and we’ll do our best to keep you in the loop.”

How about that? An olive branch.

“In return, we’d like to use some of your men.”

The left hand giveth, and the right hand taketh away.

“What for?”

“We believe we’ve found the horse. We’d like to put it under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

Both waited for my reply. I took a moment, then gave it to them.

“You’re out of your minds.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve got another girl murdered here, and you want me to pull my people off the case so they can stake out a horse? You’re out of your goddamn minds.”

“Lieutenant, I’m sure you’re aware—”

“I’m aware that you’re wasting my time. I don’t give a rat’s ass what Vicky says, or what your boss says, or what the cross-dressing ghost of J. Edgar Hoover says. Stay out of my way, or I’ll arrest you and toss you in general population wearing gang colors.”

They looked at each other, then back at me.

“Perhaps it’s best that you’ve been removed from the case,” the one on the left said.

I stood, twenty years of pent-up anger swelling in my chest.

“Get the fuck away from me.”

It must have been a startling transformation, because they both flinched. Then they got away from me. I sat back down, content to follow the self-pity route a bit longer. Eventually Benedict found me, handing over my coat.

“What did Abbott and Costello have to say?”

“They want to borrow some uniforms to stake out a horse.”

“Which house?”

“Not house. Horse. Like with four legs and John Wayne on top.”

“They think a horse did it?”

“Their profile. Remember their French Canadian Connection?”

He seemed to think about this.

“Did you tell them to fuck off?”

I nodded, putting on my coat. Then we walked back into the fray.

Herb and I, the crowd, the media, and the world, watched as the contents were removed from the cooler.

It was a scene from a horror film, but the sadness in me outweighed the shock.

Then I stood along the sidelines while Herb took control of the crime scene.

Chapter 30

BENEDICT WAS THE ONE WHO TALKED me into keeping my date.

“All we can do now is wait for the reports to come in. Go have lunch.”

“There are a million things to do.”

“And a million people to do them. This is your job, Jack, not your life. Go eat. Everything will be here when you get back.”

“My clothes are still at the cleaners.”

“You look fine. Go. That’s an order. Bains made me the senior on this investigation, remember?”

Traffic was good. I made it to the restaurant ten minutes early, and parked in front of a hydrant. The place did a moderate lunch, and the lobby was bustling when I entered. Jimmy Wong’s was a Chicago landmark of sorts, famous in its day. The decor was pure 1950s, a throwback to the Rat Pack era. It even had the requisite wall of fame. I eyed a signed picture of Klinger from M*A*S*H and checked my hair in the glass. After some brief finger fluffing, I went to the host desk.

A Chinese man wearing a red bow tie informed me that my date had not yet arrived, and directed me to the bar, where I could wait. I ordered a Diet Coke, becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes passed. The last thing I needed was time to sit and dwell.

I watched him come in, seeing his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He wore a tailored suit, dark blue pinstripe, with a light blue shirt. His smile was pleasant and seemed genuine when his gaze fell on me. He had a good walk, confident, with a slight bounce, toes pointed straight ahead and not out to the sides like a duck. I never found duck walkers attractive.

I stood to meet him, hoping my smile didn’t look dopey.

“How do you do, Jack.” He offered his hand, his grip firm but gentle.

“Very nice to meet you, Latham. Great suit.”

“Do you think so? Thanks.”

We let the host seat us at a dimly lit corner booth. Almost immediately a busboy set down a pot of tea. Neither of us touched the pot, or our menus. I tried to look relaxed, but wasn’t sure if I was succeeding.

“So, where do you work?” I asked. It seemed like a good way to get the conversational ball rolling.

“I work for Mariel Oldendorff and Associates. Head accountant. It’s about as exciting as it sounds. You’re a police captain?”

“Lieutenant, actually.”

“What kind of police work do you do?”

“Uh, violent crimes.”

“Oh. Interesting, I bet. Are you undercover now?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Those old clothes. I haven’t seen an Izod in years.”

Ouch. “Oh, it’s laundry day. Everything I own is at the dry cleaners, with the exception of this ensemble. Believe it or not, these jeans are Bon Jour.”

“Really?”

I showed him the stitching on the pocket, regretting it immediately. Three minutes into the date and I’m showing the guy my ass.

“This is great.” He was grinning.

“That I’m twenty years behind in fashion?”

“That you’re confident enough to come as you are. The last woman I went out with wore way too much hair spray and perfume. When she lit a cigarette I ducked for cover because I thought she was going to ignite.”

I laughed.

“I knew a guy like that. I swore he used to bathe in Aqua Velva. When we slow danced I got high off the fumes.”

He had a pleasant, easy smile, and deep-set wrinkles when he crinkled his eyes. Definitely cute; even better than his picture.

“So why did you become a cop?”

“Because I like . . .” I searched for the word. “. . . fairness. My mom was a cop. She always did the right thing. That’s what I want to do.”

“You find fulfillment in fairness?”

My life had never been so succinctly defined before. “I like justice, and I like doing my part to make sure things turn out the right way. How about you?”

“I’m not that deep. I’m fulfilled by simple pleasures. Music. Food. Good conversation. Right here, right now, I’m happy.”

He leaned in closer. Was he actually flirting? I felt the familiar schoolgirl tingle in the pit of my belly, and I realized I was interested in him. I leaned closer too.

“I wish I was like that. More carefree.”

“Anyone can be. People aren’t carved out of marble. We’re all works in progress. The trick is to define ourselves, rather than let outside influences define us.”

That’s when I noticed my ex-boyfriend Don walking over to us. Dragging him along was a woman so pumped up with muscles, it looked like someone had stuck a tube up her rear and inflated her. Roxy, his personal trainer and new roommate.

“Speaking of outside influences,” I said to Latham, “there’s about to be a scene.”

The couple stood next to our table, Roxy big and blonde and angry, Don embarrassed and maybe a bit scared.

“You’re right, Donnie, she is old.” She snorted through her large nostrils, giving me a blast of warm air.

Four million people and two thousand restaurants in Chicago . . .

“Take it somewhere else, Roxy. We’re busy.”

“Roxy . . .” Don tugged on her well-defined arm. “Just leave it alone.”

But Roxy wasn’t having any. Perhaps the steroids had gotten to her brain. She puffed up her chest and struck an impressive pose.

“You got a lot of nerve, tossing his stuff in the hall like that. Maybe you’d like to show me some of that nerve outside.”

Latham frowned. “I don’t think—”

“It’s okay, Latham.” I patted his arm. “I can handle this one.”

I stood up, giving Roxy cop eyes. I had to look up to do so. She had a few inches on me.

“Showing off for your boyfriend isn’t worth getting arrested, Roxy. Take off.”

Don tried to pull her away, but she was practically his size.

“You scared, bitch? Scared I’ll beat your ass in front of your pimp here?”

I smiled and pointed at her chin. “You missed a spot shaving.”

She swung at me, but I was ready. In a single, efficient move I slipped the punch and came up behind her. Using her momentum I got her wrist in a hammerlock and shoved her on top of the table, pinning her down with my weight.

“Assaulting a cop is a felony, Roxy. Three to five, hard. If this big show of testosterone is simply because you need an apology, I’ll offer it. I’m sorry. Now take off, or I’ll stop being this nice. Got it?”

I gave her wrist a little extra twist to make my point. Roxy grunted and gave me an enthusiastic nod. When I let her up, she was beet red, and Don was studying his shoes. Neither said another word, and they moped off without further incident.

I sat back down and wondered how badly I’d ruined my chances with Latham. Could I be any less demure?

“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I’m really not a violent person.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Latham looked flushed. “This is actually the most exciting date I’ve ever had in my life. What are you doing tonight?”

“Pardon me?”

“I get off at six. Can I make you dinner?”

“Uh, that would be great.”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Fine.”

He grinned. The waiter came by and we ordered our entrees.

Maybe all that money I spent on Lunch Mates was a good investment after all.

Chapter 31

HE KEEPS FALLING ASLEEP, WAITING FOR something to happen.

The discovery of the body in the cooler is exciting, but he has to stay too far back for fear of being seen. By the time the excitement dies down, Jack is back inside her office.

And now, the effects of a sleepless night are taking their toll. His eyelids keep closing. His head keeps lolling forward. Even the anger, the fuel that spurs him on, has been replaced by fatigue.

He uses the cigarette lighter to keep himself awake.

Charles knows he’s grasping at straws. The surveillance on Jack is tight. Even the weak point, the shift change, proceeds smoothly. No matter where Jack goes, there’s a team following her. But there has to be some kind of way.

He almost nods off, and again has to apply the lighter. He concentrates his efforts on his chest, where the burns will be out of the public view. Pain works so much better than caffeine.

Lunchtime comes, and his stomach rumbles. He hadn’t expected to go on a stakeout, or he would have packed something. There’s ice cream in the truck’s freezer, but he hates ice cream. Maybe he can step out and grab a bite at—

The sedan he’s following takes off. Jack is on the move. He starts the truck and follows, having to keep closer than he had last night because traffic is heavier. Once, he loses them at a red light, but they continue down the same street and he’s able to catch up.

The destination is Jimmy Wong’s on Wabash. Did Jack and her fat partner come here for a bite? He parks at a bus stop and watches.

An hour passes. He opens the door a crack and pisses on the street. He eats a Popsicle. He burns his chest again. He thinks about having Jack to himself, keeping her alive for days. Jack is the closest anyone has ever come to understanding him. Having her undivided attention would be delicious.

He knows Jack will just die for it.

Jack leaves the restaurant—not with Herb Benedict, but with another man. They shake hands, and she gives him a peck on the cheek. Friend? Lover? Brother?

There’s only one way to be sure.

The man begins to walk away. Charles starts the truck and tails him for a block.

“Hey, buddy.” He rolls down the window, pulling up close. The syringe is in his pocket. “I’m lost. Can you tell me how to get to Belmont?”

Chapter 32

I WAS FEELING PRETTY GOOD ABOUT myself. In one fell swoop I’d shaken off the vestiges of Don and had met a man who was attractive, interested, and much better suited for me. Even being grilled by Herb upon my arrival at the station hadn’t hurt my mood.

“You’re welcome.”

“What for?”

“I seem to recall sending you off to Lunch Mates in the first place. The thank-you doesn’t have to be formal. You can express your gratitude in a gift.”

“Something to eat, perchance?”

“By happy coincidence, I’ve got a Mario’s pizza menu in my pocket.”

Benedict handed over the menu with instructions on what he liked on his pie. I wasn’t shocked to find out he liked everything.

Formalities aside, we dove into the paperwork pool, gathering and collating information, trying to gain a better perspective on our perp.

We had yet to get any reports back on the third victim. The ME did a cursory inspection on site and drew several conclusions. She was a white female, late twenties to mid-thirties, blond hair, blue eyes, between five four and five six based on the length of the femur. She’d been hacked apart, Maxwell Hughes guessed, by some kind of heavy-bladed knife or sword. All of the dismemberment appeared to be postmortem. Her right hand was missing, as was a good deal of tissue.

Cause of death was unknown. There was a large abrasion on her head consistent with a blow by a heavy object. There was also a stab wound in the left upper thigh, and we all could guess what it contained.

Other than that, there were few similarities to the other victims. She had ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, but the body bore no evidence of torture. The others hadn’t been hacked up like this. The method of disposal was different. The killer had completely changed his MO. The million-dollar question was, Why?

My concentration was shattered by a knock at the door. It was a bony little man wearing a brown bow tie and matching sweater vest. He had fair blond hair balanced delicately on an ovalish skull. Tiny eyes were distorted behind thick glasses, and a thin mustache rested on his lip like a string of uneaten spaghetti.

“Detective Daniels?”

“Lieutenant. That’s Detective Herb Benedict.”

He came in without being asked. “I’m Dr. Francis Mulrooney.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

He stood there, expecting more. “The handwriting expert?” He flashed a grin. I held my applause and picked up the phone.

“Hello, Bill? Jack. Can you have someone run up the notes from the Jane Does? Thanks.”

I motioned for Francis to have a seat, and Herb scooted his bulk to the side to let him near the desk.

“So far on the case we’ve—”

Mulrooney held out his palm. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anything until I’ve seen the samples. It could influence my judgment.”

I gave Herb a look. He returned it. The FBI was bad enough. Why not just go medieval and hire a phrenologist?

“It’s always exciting to work with the police.” Mulrooney grinned. His teeth were uneven. “Is this a forgery case? Never mind, don’t tell me. I’d rather see if I can figure it out. Forgery fascinates me. You see, handwriting is like fingerprints, and no two samples are exactly the same. But it’s also a window into the part of the brain that understands and comprehends language. Your signature changes, for example, when you’re under stress or if you succumb to mental problems. So, is this a forgery case?”

A uniform walked in, carrying the notes. The first two were in cellophane envelopes, each stained murky brown with dried blood. The third was sandwiched in an old encyclopedia.

“We store it in a book in the freezer,” I told Mulrooney. “The cold takes away all the moisture without ruining the physical evidence. If we let the blood dry naturally, the paper will begin to rot.”

All the color drained from Mulrooney’s face, making his thin blond mustache appear translucent.

“Excuse me a second.” He stood and bolted for the door. The uniform shrugged and followed him out.

“Think he’ll be back?” Herb asked.

“Unfortunately.”

The pizza came, and Benedict attacked it with a ferocity often seen on PBS specials involving carnivores.

“Doesn’t your tongue hurt?”

“Not so much anymore. I think eating all the time has sped up the healing process. Maybe it will work with your leg.”

Benedict offered me a slice so stacked with toppings, it had begun to topple. I declined, consuming several aspirin instead.

Our resident handwriting expert reappeared, his cockiness replaced by a serious expression.

“I apologize.” He drew his hand across his mouth. “When I got the call I wasn’t told what I’d be analyzing. Is this the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Yes.”

He sat back down, averting his gaze from the pizza Herb was devouring.

“I’ve read about it. Terrible. If I may?”

I offered him the notes, as well as a photocopy of the one left for the Tribune; the original was still at the lab. Mulrooney slipped on a pair of white cotton gloves. From his vest pocket he removed a leather case.

“Can I take them from the cellophane?”

I nodded, making note of it on the evidence seals. First he simply read the notes, frowning. Then he unzipped his case and removed a jeweler’s loupe and some long tweezers.

I watched him work, going over the notes line by line, scribbling in a pad constantly, handling them with the utmost care and professionalism.

After about fifteen minutes, during which Herb had finished his pizza and joined in the observation, Dr. Mulrooney let out a deep breath and sat back in his chair.

“You’ve got one sick puppy here.” He met my gaze, intense. “First I’ll tell you what I know for sure. The same person wrote all four notes. Block printing is not as easy to analyze as script, and in court it’s harder to prove, but there’s enough here to be absolutely sure of it.”

“Go on.”

“He’s right-handed. He clubs, which means that the ends of his pen strokes are thicker than the beginnings. That’s a characteristic usually found in sadistic personalities. You can see it on the down strokes of his t, l, f, i, and on the bottoms of the y and b.”

He showed us examples. I found myself becoming interested.

“The t’s have descending bars, which are also clubbed. This can be a sign of mental imbalance. Many violent schizophrenics have descending t bars. In the second note he also mentions us, which might indicate disassociative identity disorder. But I don’t believe in multiple personalities. It’s a psychiatric fairy tale. I think the us was deliberate, either a ploy or a nod to an accomplice.”

So far, all on the money.

“His pressure and angularity are very extreme. Again, indicators of violent behavior and aggression. The d is the social self-image letter. His d’s are slanted to the right and clubbed. This usually means an inflated ego, along with a desire to control situations.”

“Keep going, Doctor.”

“He refers to himself in capital letters. I’d call that the mark of a grandiose narcissist. He refers to the police department in lowercase letters, minimizing your importance. That’s all I can get from a handwriting analysis, but I’m also a psychiatrist. From what he’s written, and from the little I know about the case, I can make some assumptions.”

“Please do.”

“You’re dealing with a sexual sadist. He’s a control freak, and mastery over life and death is the ultimate high. He’s got severe delusions of grandeur. I would guess that he may also be a sociopath, without remorse for his actions. He will be able to fake emotions, but won’t be able to truly feel them. Can you tell me anything about the case?”

I ran it all down for him, from the discovery of the first Jane Doe until he showed up.

“The idea that he’s punishing these women is a good one,” he said when I’d finished. “The amount of pain he inflicted on them would also indicate that he knew them personally, rather than just grabbed them at random.”

“Why did he change his MO for the last one?” Herb pondered aloud.

“Do you know the cause of death yet?” Mulrooney asked.

I shook my head, and then I had it.

“He didn’t change intentionally,” I realized. “Something went wrong. Maybe he gave her too much Seconal and she went into a coma. Or she tried to escape and he had to kill her. But her body didn’t show evidence of torture. I bet he wanted to torture her, but didn’t get a chance, so instead took his punishment out on her dead body.”

Mulrooney eyed me. “You’d make a good shrink.”

“Thanks. Any other insights?”

“He’s killed before. Probably many times. This isn’t an amateur. He’s just decided to go public with it. There’s too much planning, preparation, and thought put into these crimes to make them his first. The only evidence he leaves is what he wants you to find. This is a game to him. But there must have been something that set him off on this spree. Some reason he’s decided to go public. Maybe he got divorced, or lost his job.”

“The triggering event.”

“Right. And there’s something else too. I’m sort of surprised you haven’t caught it yet, Lieutenant.”

“Caught what?”

“He’s sent you letters, broke into your apartment, called you on the phone, and now demands that you get fired.” Mulrooney gave me a pained look. “This man has a crush on you.”

“A crush? He wants to kill me.”

“Sociopaths can’t express emotions normally. In the letter to the Tribune, he even refers to you in capital letters, maximizing your importance. He’s a stalker. Now he’s fixated on you. Perversely fixated. I think all of this is his way of courting you.”

Golly. Other guys just send flowers.

“I have a surveillance team keeping an eye on me.”

Mulrooney rubbed his mustache. “Do you know how hyenas find a carcass? They follow the flight patterns of vultures. The vultures lead them to the food.”

“Christ,” Herb said. He was thinking the same thing I was.

“The perp could be watching the watchers.”

Chapter 33

WE GOT A JEEP.”

“Does the suspect fit the description?”

“There’s some resemblance. No ID on him, but he’s mentioned your name.”

I nodded at Herb. The dragnet had been his idea. We ordered six teams to sweep a ten-block radius around my surveillance tail. Trucks and vans were stopped. Parked cars were searched. People on foot were questioned.

“We’re on our way in, Lieut. Where do you want him?”

“Bring him to room C.” I hung up the phone and reached out my hand to Dr. Mulrooney. “Good suggestion. We may have our man. Thanks for all your input.”

He shook and gave me his card. “I’m glad to be of help. Feel free to call if I can be of further assistance.”

Herb and I took the elevator, conserving my energy. This was all a bit anticlimactic, but that was how most cases ended; with a whimper, rather than a bang. As long as we got the guy, I was happy.

My hopes were dashed once I saw who was brought into the interrogation room.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

Phineas Troutt sat down in the lone wooden chair and smiled patiently at me.

Herb gave me a nudge. “This the guy that broke into your apartment?”

I frowned. “No. His name is Phineas Troutt, two T’s. Pull his record.”

I closed the door behind me and shook my head at the legion of cops sitting behind the one-way glass. Then I turned my attention to my pool partner. “What’s going on, Phin? Have you been following me?”

“I saw you on the news. You’re purposely trying to get the Gingerbread Man to come after you.”

“What does this have to do with you?”

Phin shrugged. “I had some free time, thought I’d see what your setup was. You’ve got three teams of two guys, each pulling eight-hour shifts. They hang back no farther than two hundred feet, and couldn’t be more conspicuous if they tried.”

The room smelled like smoke and sweat and desperation. Phin, however, seemed relaxed and even amused.

“You still haven’t told me why you were following me.”

“I figured the killer would make another try for you, but he’d see your surveillance just like I did. So I hung back to see if anyone was doing what I was doing and watching your surveillance team.”

I still didn’t know his angle, but I felt a tingle of excitement.

“Did you notice anything?”

He nodded.

“Two cars and four trucks, all with solitary male drivers. All acting suspicious. I wrote down the makes, models, and plates.”

“Where did you write it down?”

“We’re friends, right, Jack?”

I frowned. Why did he suddenly get coy?

“I’d like to think so, Phin.”

“And friends do each other favors.”

“So this is a favor?”

“Sure. I don’t like seeing my friends get hurt. I’m sure you feel the same way.”

Now it made perfect sense.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

“Possession. Cocaine. Trial is coming up next month. I’ll do time.” Phin scratched his bald head, an obvious ploy to make me aware of his cancer. “And the time they want me to do, I don’t have left.”

I didn’t answer. The silence dragged. I knew the state’s attorney, and the Gingerbread Man case was weighty enough that he’d trade his wife and mother for an arrest. But I disliked bargaining with criminals, even helpful ones who played pool with me.

“I’ll be right back.”

I left the interrogation room and met up with Herb in the hall. He handed over Phin’s rap sheet.

There were several charges for assault, two for attempted murder, one for manslaughter, and two for murder in the second degree. No convictions—in every case charges were dismissed, dropped, or he was acquitted.

“You busted this guy once?”

“Yeah. He was jumped by some gang-bangers. Killed two of them, put three more in the hospital. Self-defense. Phin wasn’t even armed.”

The other victims of Phin’s crimes had case numbers after their names; they all had criminal records as well.

The single nonviolent crime on his sheet was for the cocaine. This was recent, only five months old. The amount was substantial enough for the state’s attorney to charge him with dealing rather than straight possession.

I went back into room C. Phin had his legs crossed and looked completely at ease.

“What do you do for a living, Phin?” I asked.

“I get by.”

“By selling drugs?”

He made a face. “I don’t sell drugs.”

“You were arrested with thirty grams of cocaine in your possession.”

“I wasn’t selling it.”

Herb snorted. “That was for personal use?”

Phin sized up Herb. “Morphine makes you sloppy. The coke helps with the pain and I can still stay alert.”

“Where’d you get the coke?” Herb asked.

Phin ignored Herb and focused on me. “Are we helping each other, or are we going to keep pointing fingers?”

I stared into Phin’s eyes. His personal life was none of my business, but I really disliked drugs, especially those who used them and sold them. On the other hand, he saved my ass back at Joe’s Pool Hall, and he also may have just given us our biggest break.

And, even though I was a professional who never let personal feelings influence me, I kind of liked the guy.

“Deal. I’ll get it squared with the state’s attorney.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“You have my word.”

He nodded, then handed over the notebook. The first entry was “White Jeep, Ice Cream Truck, F912 556.”

“Herb, run these plates. This may be our guy.”

Benedict disappeared with the notebook. Phin stood up and put his hands in his pockets.

“I can go?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Thank you. I heard you got shot. Leg okay?”

“I’ve got a spare.”

He grinned.

“You’re a pretty tough chick. Maybe I’ll see you around. We never got to finish that last game.”

“I’ll check my social calendar.”

“I’ll save a table for you.”

He turned and left.

I met up with Herb in his office. His expression told me everything I needed to know.

“Plates belong to a Chrysler Voyager. Reported stolen six months ago.”

I let out a deep breath. There wasn’t any way to trace stolen plates. At most, we could put out an APB and hope someone picked him up.

“Did you run any of the others?”

“In the process. In the meantime, we should keep going with the dragnet. The perp may still be watching our guys.”

It was a long shot, but all we had for the time being.

“Agreed. I’m going to my office to tune in.”

The scanner on my desk let me follow the action. Short, staccato bursts of cop talk in between long stretches of static. Several other suspects were questioned, but none were brought in. After two hours of feeling like a spectator on my own case, I switched off the radio.

Depression settled on me like a heavy blanket.

“You hungry?” Herb popped in with a bag of BBQ pork rinds.

“No, thanks.” I had no appetite at all. Even the prospect of a home-cooked meal held no appeal for me. I should probably call and cancel my date with Latham.

“We’ll catch him, Jack.”

“I don’t want to spend the rest of my life obsessing about the one that got away.”

My friend sat across from me.

“Then don’t obsess.”

“It’s different with you, Herb.”

“How so? I want to catch the guy too.”

“But you have a life outside the force. This is all I have.”

Herb set the bag down. You knew Benedict was serious about something when he pushed away food.

“You’re the total of all the choices you’ve made in your life, Jack. This is what you have because this is what you chose.”

I looked at him. “I’ve spent more than twenty years working hard at being a cop. I don’t have a social life. I ruined my marriage. All I can do is this job. But if I’m not good enough for this, then what the hell is the point of my life?”

I bit my lower lip, my eyes welling up. I hated being weak, and I hated self-pity, but Herb’s words really hit home.

I was here because this was the life I chose.

But what if I’d made the wrong choice?

My partner put his hand on my shoulder. “Jack, you’re the best cop I know. If anyone can catch this guy, it’s you.”

I took a deep breath and held it, hoping in my heart of hearts that Herb was right.

Chapter 34

AFTER THE MAN LATHAM ANSWERS ALL of his questions, he ties him up with some extension cords and locks him in his own closet.

A dating service. How mundane. But how convenient for him.

Rather than try to circumvent Jack’s surveillance team, all he has to do is wait here at Latham’s house, and she will come to him.

He closes his eyes and imagines Jack in her bathroom. Putting on lipstick. Picking out a sexy dress. Perhaps she’s even hoping to get laid tonight.

He decides that she will, whether she wants it or not.

The clock creeps up on eight o’clock.

The spider sits in his web and waits.

The fly will be here soon.

Chapter 35

BY SEVEN O’CLOCK I’D HAD MY fill of feeling sorry for myself. I stopped at the cleaners on the way home, but they hadn’t even begun my order. After yelling for five minutes at a man who probably didn’t deserve it, I got them to do a rush job on one of my pantsuits.

In my book, yelling was always more therapeutic than crying.

By the time I got home and showered, rebandaged my leg, and got dressed, I was late for my date. I called Latham on my cell to tell him.

The line was busy. After putting on perfume, grabbing the bottle of wine I bought Don an eternity ago, and strapping on my gun, I tried again. Busy.

Well, if his line was busy, then at least he was home. I informed my surveillance team of my destination and got on my way.

I was kind of excited. A home-cooked meal with an attractive man was the perfect way to get my mind off things.

After some torturous stop-and-go-stop-and-go, I made it to Latham’s home half an hour late. He lived in a charming two-story brownstone, not too far from Benedict’s house. I found a fire hydrant, parked the heap, and gave myself a final look-over in the rearview.

Not bad. Maybe I could do with a rinse in the near future, but not bad.

I grabbed the wine and hobbled up his porch. The doorbell rang with a Big Ben chime.

“Come in!”

I opened the door, assuming he was still on the phone. The house was dark, quiet. I sniffed the air, but couldn’t make out any cooking aromas.

Next to me, on the foyer floor, a chair was overturned.

Warning bells went off in my head. What if the killer had been following me, and saw me with Latham?

What if the killer was here?

I let go of my wine and reached for my gun—stopping when I noticed the one already being aimed at me.

“Hi, Jack.” The Gingerbread Man stood at the foot of the staircase, several feet to my left. “Take out the gun, slowly, and toss it over here.”

Fear swam up my spine, like a cold and clammy fish. My feet had frozen to the floor.

“Where’s Latham?” I managed.

“He doesn’t matter. The gun. Now.”

The killer smiled and moved two steps closer. He looked vaguely like our composite picture, but more wolfish and grubby. A bandage covered most of his left profile, and his one black eye bored into me.

“I won’t ask again. The gun.”

But I wasn’t going to play by his rules. In one motion I dropped to my knees and yanked out my .38. My injury screamed at me, but I managed to squeeze off two rounds.

My shots went wide, and the killer ducked into the next room. My leg felt like it had been snapped in half. I watched blood seep through the bandage, but saw no other holes in my body. Had he even fired?

I scooted across the floor and got behind a sofa, my gun trained on the kitchen. The cellular was in my pocket, and I took it out with my left hand.

“Hey, Jack!”

He was behind me. I turned, bringing around the .38, pulling the trigger . . .

Latham.

He had tape over his mouth, and the maniac was using him as a shield, the gun jammed under his jaw.

I managed to jerk my shot over their heads.

“Drop it. Now, or he dies.”

Latham’s face was pure panic, eyes unbelievably wide, moans coming from his throat.

I let the gun fall.

“Good girl. Now get up.”

I pulled myself to my feet, using the sofa. My bad leg was shaking so hard, it could barely support me.

“The phone. Put it away.”

I stuck it in my pocket. Had my surveillance team heard the shots? Doubtful. They were over a block away.

“What happened to your face, Charles? Cut yourself shaving?”

“Such bravado in a hopeless situation. You’re a hero to the end, Jack. But how are you going to handle this, hero?”

He shoved Latham in front of him, aiming his weapon. I watched, helpless, as he shot Latham twice in the back.

Latham flopped forward, his head bouncing off the floor. Then he was still.

“Any more smart comments?”

I limped to Latham, but the killer rushed over and kicked me in my bad leg. I howled, dropping to the carpet.

“Do I have your attention now, Jack?”

He kicked again, this time at my head. Motes of light burst in my skull, a fireworks display of pain.

“Looks like the coward is kicking your ass. Maybe you’re the one who’s going to cry for her mama. Isn’t that what you said on the news?”

I tried to focus, looking for where I’d dropped my gun. He followed my gaze and picked it up.

“You know why I said those things.” My head was swimming, my leg on fire.

“Naturally. To get me to come after you. You should be happy. It worked.”

My cell phone rang. Neither of us moved.

“It’s the team checking in.”

“Keep it simple. You’re making dinner. Everything is fine. One wrong word . . .”

He put the barrel of his gun to my bloody pants and pressed. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying.

“Make it good.”

I spoke through my teeth. “You want them to hear me scream?”

He relieved the pressure and I sucked in a breath before answering the phone.

“Yeah?”

“You okay, Lieutenant? We heard what might have been gunshots.”

“We’re fine. Making dinner right now. Everything is peachy.”

“Peachy” was the code word. They’d be here to rescue me within a minute, if I lived that long.

“Just checking.”

He hung up. They did know the code word was “peachy,” didn’t they?

“Good job, Jack. Now we’ll go for a little ride. Where’s your surveillance?”

“A block away. Down Leavitt.”

“Okay. We’re going out the alley. My truck is back there. Get up.”

I struggled to get to my feet, putting all my weight on my good leg. He wound his hand in my hair and jerked me upward. Then he pulled my head to his face. I felt his breath on my neck, sour milk and rotten meat.

“We’re going to get to know each other, Jack. Like only a man and a woman can. We’re even going to make a little movie.”

He licked my ear. The revulsion I felt was so intense, I had to pull away, ripping out some of my hair in the process.

“Oh, it won’t be so bad. I’m going to make you famous, Lieutenant. Our video will be on every news show in America. They’ll have to edit out the nasty parts, though.”

My cell phone rang. The signal. I dropped to the floor and covered my head just as the door burst inward.

Gunshots. Breaking glass. A moan. One of my guys went down in the doorway, and Charles ran away through the kitchen.

I pulled myself along the floor, over to Latham, checking for a pulse.

Faint, but there.

“Harris!”

He was kneeling next to the fallen body of his partner, a cop named Mark.

“I’ll call for backup!” I told him. “He has a truck out back. Go!”

Harris took off after the killer. I found my phone and dialed 911, saying the most dreaded words in police lingo.

“This is Lieutenant Jack Daniels out of the two-six, officer down . . .”

After giving them my badge number and an address, I crawled over to Mark, who was pitched face-first on the carpet. Shoulder wound, a bad one. I kept pressure on it.

A minute later the place was surrounded with cops. Latham and Mark were carted off in ambulances. They tried to take me too, but I put up such a fight, they gave up.

Harris came back. He’d chased the killer on foot down an alley, but the perp had gotten away in a plumbing truck. He got a plate number, and it matched the one Phin gave us.

Benedict arrived shortly thereafter. “You okay, Jack?”

I was sitting at the kitchen table, an ice pack pressed to my leg. “He got away again, Herb. Even worse—he got my gun.”

The thought of him killing someone with my weapon was almost as sickening as the thought of him torturing me to death.

“On the way over, I got word from the hospital. Your date has a collapsed lung and internal bleeding. He’s in surgery. But it looks pretty good.”

“How about Mark?”

“Stable.” Herb put his hand on my shoulder. His eyes were kind. “This wasn’t your fault. We couldn’t have known he was waiting here for you.”

“Yes we could have. This would all be over now if I’d just used some common sense and thought about it. He’d been following me, Herb, saw me with Latham, and followed him instead. If he dies . . .”

“You aren’t the bad guy here, Jack. You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“As if that makes a difference.”

“It does, and you know it. Why don’t you come over? Bernice is keeping the pot roast warm for me. There’s more than enough.”

I shook my head.

“Jack, there’ll be plenty of time to beat yourself up later. Come to my house and eat.”

“I’m going to the hospital, check on Latham.”

Herb frowned, but knew there wasn’t any point in arguing. I stuck around for a bit longer, sulking, and then limped out to my car and went to the hospital.

Latham was in Recovery. The doctor said he was still critical, but the outlook was good. I’d found an address book near his kitchen phone and called his parents. They came about an hour later, crying. We all sat vigil late into the night. None of us slept.

At five in the morning Latham’s eyelids fluttered, and he awoke briefly. His gaze met mine.

“I don’t want you here,” he said.

I went back to my apartment.

There was a bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet.

Since sleeping wasn’t an option, I hit the bottle until I passed out.

Chapter 36

I WOKE UP TO PAIN.

Leg pain. Headache pain.

Emotional pain.

One more layer on the shit cake.

It was almost two in the afternoon. My stomach was doing a mambo, protesting all the liquor I’d consumed. I dropped two Alka-Seltzer in a glass of water and drank it before they finished dissolving.

I called the hospital. Latham was stable. His parents didn’t let me talk to him. Couldn’t blame them, I guess. I considered sending flowers, or at least a card apologizing, but they would only be reminders of me, the person who put him through hell.

My stomach settled down some, so I swallowed three aspirin to help with my other aches. I was due for a day off, but didn’t feel that I deserved one. After a shower I scrubbed the bloodstains out of my pants. Then I shelved the guilt for later, and went to work.

Captain Bains wanted to see me. I gave him the blow-by-blow, filled out the requisition form for a new gun, and picked one up at the Armory.

It was homecoming week for the media. The Gingerbread Man’s letter was all over the news last night, as was the discovery of the third woman. The incident at Latham’s fueled the fire. Internal Affairs began conducting an investigation of the loss of my weapon. Bains told me to keep a very low profile, and the word to the world was I’d been suspended pending an inquiry.

Unofficially, I was still on the case. I just wasn’t allowed to be connected with it. We live in a political world.

After working with a police artist to improve our composite photo of the perp, I grabbed a vending-machine ham on rye and went down to the shooting range to try out my new .38.

I spent an hour there, shooting round after round into paper silhouettes, imagining each one was the Gingerbread Man. When I was finished, my gun was hot to the touch and the stench of cordite had penetrated my clothes and hair like cigarette smoke.

When I got back to my office, Benedict was waiting.

“We matched prints off the third Jane Doe. Army record. Reserves. Her name was Nancy Marx. You up for it?”

“Let’s go.”

We took the elevator because I wasn’t anxious to start bleeding again. Benedict drove. Nancy Marx had lived in a townhouse on Troy, off Irving Park Road. Herb already had a search warrant, should there be a need to break in.

There was no need.

“May I help you?”

A woman answered the door. Elderly, gray, wrinkled, someone’s grandmother. My heart clenched.

“I’m Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict. Does Nancy Marx live here?”

“Did you find her? I called this morning, but I was told I couldn’t fill out a missing person report until she’d been missing two days.”

“Are you related to Nancy?”

“I’m her grandmother. What’s going on? Where’s Nancy?”

In less than two sentences I destroyed this woman’s life. If there was one part of my job I hated the most, this was it. Herb and I stood there, awkwardly, while she went from shock, to denial, to hysteria, and finally to depressed acceptance, moaning like a ghost haunting an old love.

We took turns trying to comfort her.

After the initial outpouring of emotion, they always wanted to know how and why.

We told her the how. We didn’t know the why.

“She didn’t suffer,” was all we could offer.

The autopsy report had confirmed this. Nancy Marx died from a broken neck. How the ME figured that out from examining an array of body parts amazed me.

“But who did this to her?”

“We don’t know yet, Miss . . .”

“Marx. Sylvia Marx. Nancy’s parents, my son and daughter-in-law, died in a car accident seven years ago. She was all I had left.”

We lost her to sobbing again. Benedict made some coffee in the kitchen, and I sat with the old woman on the couch, holding her hand.

“Mrs. Marx, did your granddaughter have any enemies?”

“None. Not one. She was a good girl.”

“How about a boyfriend?”

“No one steady for a while now. Nancy was popular, she dated a lot, but there hasn’t been anyone serious since Talon.”

“Talon?”

“Talon Butterfield. Didn’t really care for him much. He fooled around on her. They were engaged too. Lived together for a while, and then she moved in with me earlier this year, after she broke up with him. It was nice to have her home.”

Her gray eyes began to blur again.

“Did Nancy know anyone named Theresa Metcalf?” I showed her a picture.

“No. Can’t recall. Is she dead too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Pretty thing, like my Nancy.”

I had her look at other pictures, of the first Jane Doe, and of the recent composite of our perp.

“I’m sorry, but no. I don’t know any of them.”

“Do you have an address for Talon Butterfield?”

“No. I don’t think Nancy does either. When she left, he moved out of town. They haven’t been in touch, as far as I know. Do you think Talon was part of this?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Mrs. Marx.”

“I never liked the boy, but he wasn’t a killer. He loved Nancy. He just couldn’t keep his drumstick in his pants.”

Benedict brought us coffee, and we asked a few more questions. After they yielded nothing, we got permission to search Nancy’s room.

It was small, modest, and neat. Her drawers held no secrets. There were no letters, no appointment books, no bills, no canceled checks, nothing at all.

It occurred to Herb that maybe Nancy’s things might be somewhere else. Not too many people did all of their paperwork in the bedroom. We decided to ask Sylvia. She was in the den, petting a white cat, staring at a framed picture of her dead grandchild. The cat jumped off her lap and fled when we approached.

“Mrs. Marx, did Nancy have a checkbook?”

“She kept it in the kitchen, in the utility drawer.”

“Canceled checks as well?”

“Nancy had one of those cards. Like a credit card, but it drew from her checking account. The bank keeps the canceled checks.”

“How about an address book? Or credit card statements? Or personal letters?”

“She has a box of papers that she never unpacked after moving in. It’s in the closet there. Did you find anything from Talon?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Nancy gathered up everything, pictures, gifts, cards, and threw it away when she left him. But I was thinking. If you want to find out about him, you could ask that private detective.”

“Ma’am?”

“Nancy hired a private detective to spy on Talon when she thought he was being unfaithful.”

My heart rate went up.

“Do you remember his name?”

“Let me think. Nancy actually went out with him a few times, after Talon. She brought him to the house once, and he pinched my bottom.”

Sylvia Marx giggled, tears still in her eyes.

“Henry, was it? Henry McGee. No, McGlade. Henry McGlade?”

“You mean Harry McGlade?” Benedict asked.

“Yes, that was it. Harry McGlade.”

Jackpot.

Chapter 37

HE HAS TO GET RID OF the truck.

That isn’t part of his plan. His fingerprints are all over the damn thing. Even if he spends an entire day wiping it down, he’ll never clean it completely.

And his fingerprints will lead them to him. He’s never taken the pains to establish a new identity. He never thought that they’d get close enough for it to be necessary.

He goes over it all again in his head, goes over what they have.

They know his face now. But with some hair dye and a shave, that can be changed. There’s nothing connecting him to the truck; he stole it in Detroit and put stolen Illinois plates on it. He has no business license. His driver’s license is current, but shows an old address, and he never bothered to update it after getting married and moving.

But there are some links to his present address. The phone company and the electric company. The IRS. Credit cards. The bank. If the cops get his name, they’ll be able to find him without much trouble. And once they find him, they’ll be able to convict. In his cockiness, he’s giving them his DNA. Not the smartest move, in hindsight.

He has to move quickly, establish a new ID. Maybe even go to one of those doctors who can laser away your fingerprints. He’ll disappear, resurface someplace else. Maybe even leave the country. There were plenty of women around the world to have fun with.

But first he has to finish the job here.

He takes a bus back to his house after ditching the truck in an all-night parking garage. Jack isn’t on his mind for the moment. All of his focus is on the last victim. She’ll be the easiest of all. No stalking necessary. No need for the truck. If he plays it right, he won’t even need the Seconal.

He picks up the phone, no longer worried about telephone records or paper trails. It will all be over by tomorrow.

“Hello?”

“Diane? This is Charles.”

“Charles?”

“I know you’re surprised to hear from me. We didn’t split on the best of terms. How are you?”

“Good. I’m doing good. I’m seeing someone.”

“Good for you. I hope he’s treating you well. Look, I’m calling because my therapist . . .”

“You’re in therapy?”

“Yeah. For about six months now. She’s helping me deal with my anger.”

He tries to keep the smile out of his voice.

“Well, good for you, Charles. I’m happy for you.”

“I need a favor, Diane. After you left me, I did a lot of soul-searching. My therapist says I’m a different man now, but I still carry a lot of guilt over how I hurt you. As long as I have this guilt, I won’t be much good for anyone, myself included.”

He was reading out of a notebook filled with chicken scratches, sentences rewritten over and over until they sounded right.

“I need to see you, Diane, to apologize in person. If I know you’ve forgiven me, then I can get on with my life.”

“I forgive you, Charles.”

“Then let me say it in person. Please. You don’t owe me anything, but we were in love once. It’s the final step in my recovery. Please. Let me see you once more.”

He holds his breath, waiting for her answer.

“Fine. When?”

“What are you doing tonight?” the Gingerbread Man asks.

He grins. He’ll finally get to use that soldering iron.

Chapter 38

I WANT MY LAWYER,” SAID Harry McGlade.

He sat in interrogation room C, in the same chair Phin had yesterday, Benedict and I standing over him. I had a car pick McGlade up and bring him here after we left Mrs. Marx. So far he was the only link between the two identified victims. I wasn’t about to set foot in his apartment ever again, so questioning him here was the logical course of action. I suppose the intimidation aspect was also a factor.

But McGlade was not easily intimidated.

“I told you, you don’t need a lawyer, McGlade. You’re just answering some questions. You aren’t being charged with anything.”

“So what’s with the media circus? What do you think that’s doing for my reputation?”

Before Harry arrived, I left anonymous tips with several individuals involved in reporting the news that a suspect was being brought in. They kindly waited in front of the station and took three thousand pictures of Harry as he entered. I figured it would help make McGlade cooperative.

And if I could admit to being small, I also thought it was damn funny.

“Do you recognize this woman?” Benedict held up the photo of the first Jane Doe.

“How many times do I have to say it before it sinks into that Pillsbury Doughboy head? I don’t recognize her. I knew Theresa because she hired me. I knew Nancy because Theresa introduced her to me. I dated Nancy a few times.”

“How did Theresa and Nancy know each other?”

“I think they went to the same health club.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. Look, Nancy came in one day, said she wanted me to follow her boyfriend, said Theresa referred her to me. I didn’t pursue it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to check your cereal box?”

Harry made a sour face and picked some crud off his jacket. There were so many wrinkles in his suit that he gave the impression of just crawling out of a washing machine, save for the fact that he was covered with stains.

“I don’t know how they were connected, Jackie. But I do know a few big-city lawyers who get their rocks off suing cops for defamation of character and false arrest.”

“You’re not under arrest, McGlade.”

“Then I can leave.” McGlade stood up.

I got in his face, glaring. “Don’t you care about these women?”

“That’s not the point. This treatment is unnecessary, and I’m getting pissed off. All you and Tonto the Wonder Chimp had to do was drop by my office. But instead you drag me here, and I get my name splashed all over the news in connection with your lousy case. Would you hire a private investigator who was a suspect in three serial murders?”

Of course I wouldn’t. That was the idea.

“If you cooperate, Harry, I release a statement saying you helped us catch the guy. That without your valuable insight and expertise, we never could have cracked this case.”

McGlade batted this around between his ears. After a few seconds, his face split into a big-toothed grin.

“Smooth, Jackie. It’s about time you learned how to play hardball. You were so straightlaced back when we were partners.”

Benedict jerked his thumb at Harry and gave me the eyebrow. “He was your partner? That’s awful.”

“Thanks for the sympathy, Chubbs, but it wasn’t so bad. I got razzed a lot, getting paired with a broad. But in the end, it all worked out okay. Didn’t it, Jackie?”

McGlade winked, then blew me a kiss.

I made a fist, and Herb had to pull me away before I broke the little wiener’s nose.

“Don’t let him rattle you, Jack.”

But Harry did more than just rattle me. Much more.

When we were partners, I actually thought he was an okay guy, hygiene aside. He pulled his weight, watched my back, and we had one of the best arrest records in the district.

This was right after my promotion to detective third class, and I was out to prove to the brass that I could play with the big boys. I worked twice as hard as the men, for only half the respect. To compensate for this, whenever I had any downtime, I worked cold cases. Murder had no statute of limitations, and unsolveds were never officially closed.

A particular case commanded a good deal of my attention; the rape/ murder of a fifteen-year-old girl in Grant Park. Witnesses claimed to have seen her talking with a homeless man in a red baseball cap half an hour before her death. This angle had been extensively followed up, and led nowhere.

I chose to look closer at her ex-boyfriend. Straight-A student, no record, plenty of friends. His alibi for the night of the murder was shaky, but no one could believe he was a killer.

He did, however, collect baseball caps. He had samples from every team in the Major League, with two notable exceptions: Boston and Cincinnati. I thought it a little funny, that an avid collector would be missing the only two hats in MLB that were red.

It took a year, and cost me my marriage, but I pieced together a good case against the kid. Before I sought a warrant, I shared my findings with my partner, to get his opinion.

Harry repaid my trust by getting a warrant first, then arresting the suspect himself on my day off.

Not only did Harry get credit for the collar and a subsequent promotion, but when I complained to my lieutenant, McGlade trumpeted that he made the arrest to protect me.

“He was a dangerous murderer. Sending a woman after him would have been really stupid.”

The department rallied around him, and the chauvinism in my department plumbed new depths. All of my hard work, all of my fighting to be treated as an equal in a male-dominated profession, gone because my partner was a sexist, backstabbing jerk.

It was years before I earned back the respect of my squad. But I couldn’t ever forgive Harry.

I took a deep breath, unclenched my fist, and put on a big smile.

“Remind me again why you were kicked off the force, McGlade.”

His smile lost some wattage. “I wasn’t kicked off. I quit.”

“You mean you quit after you were forced to take a leave of absence. Something to do with taking bribes, wasn’t it?”

“I wasn’t on the take. Someone set me up.”

“And who’d want to do that to a sweet guy like you?”

He frowned. “Was it you, Jackie?”

“No, Harry. But I wasn’t too sad to hear about it. Whatever happened to those bribery charges?”

“Dropped when I left.”

“Isn’t your PI license up for renewal soon?”

McGlade folded his arms and scowled.

“I take one bust from you fifteen years ago and you want to mess with my livelihood?”

“No, McGlade. I want you to help us catch a murderer. Now sit, and tell us about your investigation of Talon Butterfield.” I forced a tight smile and added, “Please.”

Harry weighed my sincerity, then sat down.

“Not much to tell. Nancy pretended to go out of town for the weekend, had me follow him to see what he did. He went barhopping, picked up some little honey, and took her straight back to their place. Did it right on Nancy’s bed. I had to climb the fire escape to take pictures.”

“And how many times did you see Nancy after that?”

“I don’t know. Three or four. I think she used me to help get over Talon. I was happy to be of service.”

“Did you have sexual relations with Nancy Marx?” Herb asked.

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Yes you do.”

“Oh yeah, right. I shagged her a few times. In fact, we shared a room the night of the Trainter show.”

“The Trainter show?”

“Yeah. That was the first time.”

“What about the Trainter show?” I asked. What did any of this have to do with the local talk show?

“When you’re on the show, they give you a free hotel room the night before. Nancy shared her room with me.”

“Nancy was on The Max Trainter Show?”

“Sure. She and Theresa both. A show about cheating fiancés. You guys didn’t know this? Some detectives you are.”

“Think carefully, McGlade. Who else was on that show?”

“I don’t remember, Jackie. It was five, six months ago. The show was about women who were dumping their men because they cheated on them. There were one or two other girls, I think. It was a wild show, even for Trainter. They had to bleep most of it. Max and I are old beer buddies. I’m the one who persuaded them to go on, dump their guys on TV.”

“Look at the picture again, McGlade. Was this woman on the show?”

I showed him the first Jane Doe photo.

“Are you deaf? I don’t know. You’re showing me a computer enhanced photograph of a dead chick, who I might have seen on a show months ago. I’m not good with faces.” He grinned at me. “So, have you finally forgiven me, Jackie? Maybe we could have a few drinks later.”

“You’re free to go, McGlade.”

Harry stood up and brushed his pants. The wrinkles didn’t come out.

“Just make sure I’m mentioned in your press statement, or I’ll have to bring a lawsuit against this fine police establishment.”

He shot me with his thumb and index finger, flipped the mirror the bird, and walked out of the door. A second later he walked back in.

“You got a couple bucks for a cab?”

I fished in my pocket and came up with some change.

“Here.” I handed it to him. “Take the bus.”

“Cold, Jackie. That’s cold.”

But he took the money and once again left. I’m sure the press was waiting for him outside, and I could only hope he’d make himself look like an idiot in front of them.

I probably didn’t have to hope too hard.

“It can’t be this simple,” Benedict stated.

“Only one way to find out.”

We went into a conference room down the hall and grabbed a phone. A minute later I was on the horn with the network where The Max Trainter Show was taped. After being bounced around a few times I was put in touch with the technical director, a guy named Ira Herskovitz. Once I’d informed him of the situation, he agreed to send over a dub of the show in question. I told him to send the unedited master. He refused, stating that the master tapes never left the building.

I was the cop, so I won. A squad car with sirens blaring went to pick it up, and when it arrived twenty minutes later I already had a 3/4’’ videotape recorder set up in my office.

“Cross your fingers,” I said to Herb.

I pressed the play button.

Color bars and tone. A graphic with the show name, date, number, and director. Opening titles. Cue Max.

Trainter introduced the first guest, Ella. Ella was actually Theresa Metcalf.

Theresa dumped her fiancé, Johnny Tashing, in front of the studio audience. Tashing had been unaware of the reason he was on the show, and when Theresa confronted him about his affair and tossed her engagement ring in his face, the crowd cheered. Tashing looked destroyed.

Next was Norma. Norma was our first Jane Doe, no doubt about it. She also dumped her cheating fiancé. He called her several naughty slang terms, and stormed off the stage.

Third was Laura, aka Nancy Marx. Her fiancé, a guy we guessed was Talon Butterfield, was similarly dumped with much audience applause. Talon grinned a lot and shrugged his shoulders.

Then Nancy’s new boyfriend was introduced. He came out, gave her roses and a peck on the cheek, and was abruptly attacked by Talon. Talon got in a good smack to the face, but the new man knocked him down with an uppercut before the bouncers separated them.

The guy with the quick fists was our favorite private detective, Harry McGlade.

The last guest came on. The fourth woman. The one we hadn’t seen yet. Her name was Brandy, and she was breaking up with her husband because he didn’t come home some nights during the week. She suspected an affair, and couldn’t take it anymore.

When her husband came out, I paused the tape.

There, frozen on the screen in midstride, was the Gingerbread Man.

“That’s our guy.”

Herb got on the phone with the studio, demanding the real names and addresses of the guests on this show. I let the tape run, watching as Brandy confronted the guy, watching as she dumped him, watching as the other girls on the panel called him names and teased him badly, watching as he picked up his chair, threw it at her, went into a screaming, swearing animal rage and attacked everybody on the set. Four bouncers and three security guards were needed to restrain him, and when he was hauled off the stage, the audience was on its feet cheering.

“Charles and Diane Kork,” Benedict said. “Address in Evanston. Don’t know if it’s current.”

I stood up and turned to face the eighteen other people in the room who were huddled around the TV.

“I need anything we can find on Charles Kork. Criminal record, DMV, phone, credit cards, aliases, everything. I want to know his life story and I want it now.”

The next twenty minutes were a stampede of activity, phone calls, and computer checks. My team would call out info as it came.

“Got a record. Two stretches for assault and attempted.”

“Divorce papers, finalized three months ago.”

“I have a Diane Kork at an apartment on Goethe.”

“DMV has a Charles Kork owning a 1992 Jeep.”

“Evanston address checks out. Kork still seems to be living there.”

Herb got on the phone again, dialing Diane Kork’s number.

“Answering machine.”

“Warrants,” I told him. I played authority figure and divvied up assignments, including picking teams to send to Diane’s place and to the killer’s.

Sometimes this was how it worked. Tracking countless leads into dead ends, and suddenly it all came together. The end of the road.

Dr. Mulrooney had talked about something setting our man off. I guess getting dumped on national television qualified as a good triggering event.

“Kork is on Ashland and Fifty-third,” Herb said. “You want to go there, or Diane’s?”

“There. Let’s move. I want eight men, full armor, now.”

The adrenaline was pumping so hard, I didn’t even feel the pain in my leg. Herb and I helped each other into our Kevlar vests, snugging Velcro and adjusting the shoulders. Then we strapped on lapel radios and earpieces and headed for the patrol cars.

I had four teams coming with me, plus me and Herb. Evanston PD was meeting us there with more men. Herb placed an obligatory call to the Feds, but called the local branch to stall for time—it would take a while to get the message to Agents Dailey and Coursey, and by then it would all be over.

In the black and white, siren screaming, Dispatch filled us in on Chuck’s record.

“He’s thirty-seven years old. Eight arrests in the past nineteen years. Convictions for aggravated sexual assault and attempted murder. Last stretch ended in 1998. Since then he’s been clean.”

“Not clean. Just careful.”

The team heading to Diane Kork’s arrived first. She wasn’t home, and her place showed no signs of disturbance.

I hoped we weren’t too late.

Three miles from the target we killed lights and sirens. The houses here were one-story one-family dwellings, middle-class income. I was hyper-tuned to my environment, noticing many things at once; the streets were pitted with potholes, the dusk air smelled like leaves, my chest felt confined in the tight vest, Herb had sweat on his forehead.

This was it.

Benedict parked behind a row of squad cars, all waiting for his signal.

“Ready?” he asked me.

“It’s your show.”

We got out of the car.

Suddenly, tearing down the street with much squealing of tires, a black Mustang convertible bypassed the police barricade and bounced over the curb and onto the sidewalk. It screeched to a stop on Charles Kork’s front lawn, digging up four rolls of sod.

A man in a trench coat, holding what looked like a gallon jug of milk, leaped from the car and ran up to the porch.

I cleared leather with my .38 and limped in pursuit. Someone with a megaphone yelled, “Freeze! Police!” At ten yards away I dropped into a Weaver stance and kept a bead on the figure.

“Freeze! Hands in the air!”

The man put his hands up, still clutching the jug.

“Turn around! Slowly!”

I felt my backup fill in behind me. There was a tense pause. Then the man slowly craned his neck around and stared at me.

“Kinda funny how history repeats itself, huh?”

Harry McGlade.

Chapter 39

WAKE UP, MY LOVE.”

He slaps his ex-wife across the face, watching the blood rush to her cheek. She whimpers, eyelids fluttering.

“It’s Charles, honey. Wake up.”

Diane Kork opens her eyes and stares at the man standing above her. She tries to move but can’t.

“Charles, what are you—”

He cuts her off with another cuff to the mouth.

“You talk too much, Diane. Always talking. Always criticizing. I don’t want to hear it anymore. All I want to hear are your screams.”

He walks away. Diane lifts her head, looking at what restrains her. Twine. Her ankles and wrists are bound with twine. She’s in her bra and panties, stretched out on a cement floor. Her hands and feet are tied to posts that have been driven through the concrete.

“I’ve got four tapes.” Her ex-husband is standing off to her right, next to a video camera mounted on a tripod. “That’s four hours. Most women can’t scream anymore after the third hour, but I’ve got high hopes for you. You’ve got such a big mouth.”

Charles Kork walks to a table and picks up a hunting knife.

“Charles, please, untie me. This isn’t funny.”

“You don’t think so? I think it’s high comedy. This is the American Dream, Diane. Killing the woman you married. For four years, I listened to you bitch and nag. And I took it. Why? First of all, because you were a perfect cover. Cops look for loners, not married guys. A single guy gets attention. A married guy is invisible.”

“Charles—”

“I’m not finished!” He hits her again. “Do you want to know what I was doing on those nights I never came home? You thought I was cheating on you, right? That’s why you left me.”

Charles leans over her, gets in her face.

“I was really out killing people, Diane. Stalking and killing people. Not cheating. Not really, anyway. I may have fucked them before I killed them, but I wouldn’t say I was having any affairs.”

Diane squeezes her eyes shut. “This isn’t happening.”

“Was I a bad husband, Diane? I spent time with you. I took you places. We even baked cookies together. Remember?”

He grabs a lacquered gingerbread man from the table, the last one, and thrusts it before her eyes.

“Look familiar? I was your perfect little suburban husband. I mowed the lawn. I paid the bills. I went out with your stupid friends and took you to movies and bought you flowers. I kept up my end of the bargain.”

He bends down and smashes the cookie in her face.

“And then, out of the blue, you decide to leave me. Leave me! On television, in front of millions of people! Who do you think you are? Nobody leaves me!”

She’s crying now. “Charles, please—”

“You don’t get it, Diane. I’ve killed almost thirty people. Your younger sister, who ran off? She didn’t run off. I buried her in a shallow grave in a forest preserve in the suburbs. Sneakers the cat? I broke his goddamn little neck. Haven’t you been watching the news? I’m the Gingerbread Man.”

Diane’s eyes get wide as Charles kneels beside her. She begins to hyperventilate.

“We’ve got four hours of tape to fill.” He brushes the tip of the knife over her quivering lips. “Four hours of quality time.”

“Please, Charles. I’m your wife.”

The Gingerbread Man cackles. “Till death do us part.”

His knife enters her flesh.

Chapter 40

DAMMIT!” I UNCOCKED MY PISTOL. “Hold your fire!”

I stormed over to Harry, who was smiling ear to ear.

“I hope you didn’t scare away the bad guy with all that screaming, Jackie.”

“Drop the milk and put your hands on your head, McGlade. You’re under arrest.”

“It’s not milk. It’s filled with concrete.”

“This isn’t a game, Harry. Now put—”

Before I had a chance to finish the sentence, McGlade rushed the front door, swinging the milk jug at the knob like he was bowling. The door burst inward, momentum taking McGlade into the house.

I saw the entire bust fall apart before my eyes, and without even thinking I hobbled in after him.

“Around the back!” I yelled to whoever was listening. “Cover the perimeter!”

The house was dark and silent. All the curtains had been drawn. There was a sickly-sweet smell in the air, disinfectant masking something else. Something rotten. I tried a light switch, but it didn’t work.

“He’s cut the power.” McGlade was halfway down the hall, moving in a crouch. He’d dropped his plastic jug in favor of a .44 Magnum. It was the kind of gun I’d expected Harry to have—big and loud.

“McGlade, you asshole!” I whispered viciously at his back. “You’re blowing this arrest!”

“Just say you deputized me.”

“I’m not Wyatt Earp, McGlade. Now put down—”

“Hey, Charlie!” he yelled. “You’ve got company!”

Somebody screamed. A woman.

“Basement.” Harry rushed through the house opening doors. Closet. Bathroom. Stairway.

We peered down. The stairs were dark and old, curving slightly so we couldn’t see the bottom.

Behind us, cops flooded in.

“Cover me.” McGlade headed down the stairs.

“We’ve confirmed a woman in the basement,” I said into my lapel mike. “We’re going down.” I followed him, keeping one hand on the railing, trying to keep the weight off my bad leg.

“Don’t shoot me in the back of the head, Jackie.”

We made our way down several more steps, the soupy darkness engulfing us. I heard a jingle of keys and tensed, and then a little light went on in Harry’s hand.

“Key light. Best buck-fifty I ever spent.”

The basement floor came into view, and the smell wafted over us like a fog.

“Christ.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “Something dead down here.”

A noise at the top of the stairs made us turn. Two uniforms.

“Flashlight!” I whispered.

They shook their heads. They’d taken off their flashlights when they put on the Kevlar.

“There’s the circuit breaker.” Harry played the light over a wall near the bottom of the stairs. “Go turn on the electricity. I’ll cover you.”

I cleared my throat and passed McGlade on the stairs. There was a sound to our left.

“Help me.”

A growl followed, and then a heart-wrenching scream.

I ran for the circuit breaker.

Chapter 41

THEY’VE FOUND HIM.

He has barely started on her, barely even drawn blood, and now it’s all going to end.

He curses, controlling the urge to cut her head off, forcing himself into action.

The Gingerbread Man can handle this. It isn’t expected, but he’s planned ahead far enough to foresee this possibility. He puts the knife in his belt, checks his pocket for the lighter, and grabs his gun.

He hears the front door burst in and he hits the circuit breaker, plunging the house into darkness. Someone yells his name.

Diane screams. He walks to her in the dark, guided by the flame on his Zippo.

“Scream again and I shoot you.”

The gun goes into her mouth to drive his point home. Then he uses the knife to cut her free.

“Kneel, bitch.”

She kneels on the concrete floor, whimpering. He flicks his lighter again and finds the master fuse on the floor, running along the back wall.

Voices.

Charles listens.

One is Jack’s.

Light the fuse and get out of here, he tells himself.

But Jack is so close.

Charles wants to see her one more time.

He goes to his wife and crouches behind her as Jack and someone else descend the stairs.

One last time, Charles thinks. One last dance.

Before everything goes boom.

Chapter 42

I RUSHED THE CIRCUIT BREAKER, OPENING the panel door and flipping on the main.

The basement exploded in light. Spotlights. Set up on stands and hanging from the ceiling like a TV studio.

And in the center of the lights . . . our killer.

“Hi, Jack.” He was squinting against the glare, hiding behind a kneeling half-naked woman. She had blood running freely down her torso from several dozen cuts. A gun was being pressed under her chin.

My gun.

“Take it easy, Charles.”

“I’ve got him, Jack.” McGlade assumed a shooting stance. “I can blow his head off from here.”

Charles brought his free hand around to the woman’s front and flicked a Zippo lighter. He held it next to her hand. In her trembling fist was a length of rope. I followed the rope to where it divided into six segments, each leading to the base of a large barrel. They were spaced far apart along the walls of the basement.

It wasn’t a rope at all. It was a fuse.

“Hold it, Harry! Everyone fall back! I don’t want anyone within fifty yards!” In my earpiece, I heard the commotion of my men complying.

“Such a good cop, Jack. Such concern for her people.”

“What’s in the barrels, Charles?”

“Gasoline. Enough to take out the whole block.”

“Stand down!” I yelled into my mike. “Clear out the houses on both sides and call the FDP! It’s all wired to burn!”

The word spread quickly. Panic. Evacuation. Herb came over the air, begging me to pull out. I ignored him.

Only McGlade and I remained.

“You can’t get away, Charles. There’s nowhere to go.”

“You’re wrong there. You’re the one who can’t get away. Once I light this, the whole place goes up. You won’t have time to piss your pants.”

“I’m shooting him,” Harry said.

“Both of you drop your guns. Now, or I light it.”

I took a step closer. “It’s over, Charles. Give up. Maybe you can do a Trainter show from your cell, let him interview you live.”

Charles Kork grinned, pure malice, pure evil.

“Good-bye, Jack. I’m sorry we never got to know each other. I guess I’ll just have to look up your mother after you’re dead.”

He lit the fuse, and then dragged Diane backward, retreating to the other side of the basement. Next to the furnace was a back door. Charles yanked his wife through it and disappeared into the night.

But Harry and I had our own problems.

“Uh-oh,” McGlade said.

I dove for the fuse, which was burning at about three inches a second. I grabbed and just missed, watching the fuse separate into six different flames, each one heading for its own full barrel.

Enough gas to burn the whole neighborhood.

I yanked at the nearest fuse, searing my hand but pulling it free of its gasoline tank. It harmlessly burned itself out.

Scrambling on all fours, I hunted down a second flame and pulled that out as well.

“It won’t go out! It won’t go out!” Harry stomped up and down on a lit fuse with both feet. He looked a lot like Daffy Duck throwing a fit.

“Yank it!”

I turned my attention to a barrel several feet away, the lethal flame streaking toward it. I took two quick steps, pain searing through my leg, and I launched myself into the air, ramming into the barrel, pulling out the fuse and watching the last six inches burn away in my hands.

I looked at Harry, who was standing on the far end of the room, tossing two burning fuses aside. His eyes tracked the floor, following the last flame as it snaked its way to the final barrel.

It was less than two feet from its target, and too far away for either of us to get to in time.

I drew my gun and aimed.

“Jesus, Jackie, ricochet!” Harry crouched down and covered his face.

I fired three times at the flickering spark, my .38 slugs bouncing off concrete and turning the basement into a deadly pachinko game. Cement chips peppered my feet. Harry howled with fright. I exhaled slowly and fired once more, my fourth bullet neatly severing the advancing flame from the rest of the fuse.

Stillness. I took a deep breath.

McGlade peeked through his fingers. “Are we dead?”

Herb’s voice in my ear. “Jack, are you okay? Suspect on foot, in the backyard. Has a woman with him.”

“Move in!”

McGlade walked over to the last barrel, examining it. He pulled out the remaining fuse, about the length of a cigarette.

“Nice shooting, Wyatt.”

I limped past him, pushing through the back door. The backyard was cool and dark, and I couldn’t spot any movement. Red and blue lights swirled from a few houses away, washing over the lawn in waves.

“The bomb is defused, Herb, close the perimeter. Perp ran out the back door. He has a hostage. Do you have a visual? Over.”

“Negative, Jack. We were falling back. We’re coming in now.”

A hand on my shoulder. I spun, bringing around my gun.

McGlade.

“Don’t tell me you lost him.”

I walked away before I did something I’d regret, like shoot him. The important thing was finding Charles.

I couldn’t allow him to kill his wife.

In my ear, Benedict and his men swept the block, while I took a walk across the backyard lawn. I gripped the .38 in both hands, holding it at an angle away from my body, ready to point and shoot at anything that grabbed my attention.

“Jackie! I found something!”

McGlade was holding up some kind of hook.

“Nice work, Harry. Now sit on it and spin.”

“It was right on the ground, next to this manhole.”

It took a few seconds to register, and then I hobbled over. McGlade used the hook to pry up the cover, dragging it off to the side. He flashed his key light down into the hole.

“Stinky. Think he’s down there?”

“Jack!” My earpiece buzzed. “We have a man and a woman, four doors down. Team is moving in!”

“Roger that, Herb. McGlade and I . . . Harry!”

Harry disappeared down the hole.

“Dammit! Herb, we found a manhole in the yard, Harry just went down. I’ll contact you again in a minute.”

I got on my knees and peered down into the sewer.

“Harry! Get up here!”

“Sorry, Jack,” he called up. “You did this to me. I have to catch the guy to clear my good name.”

“Goddammit, McGlade, you don’t have a good name! Harry! Harry?”

He yelped once, then didn’t answer.

I reloaded, told Herb my intention, and then went down after him.

Chapter 43

THERE IS NO BOOM.

Charles stops, hunching down in the sewer line, filthy water up to his ankles. He holds his breath and listens.

No explosion. No screaming. Nothing.

What’s going on?

He wraps his hand in Diane’s hair and pulls her along. If the cops aren’t burning, they’ll be coming after him. He has to hurry.

It’s dark as ink, foul, claustrophobic. The narrow pipe forces him to run in a crouch. His wife whimpers, dragging her feet, slowing him down. He jabs her with the knife to get her to move.

“I told you to run!”

After the fourth or fifth jab, she falls down. Continued poking doesn’t make her get back up.

Damn her. Charles hates to end it here, in a sewer where he can’t even see her face. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. He wants to take his time, make it last, feast on a banquet of her agony.

A clang, in the distance. Someone opening the manhole cover.

Jack.

Charles reaches down, slashes at his wife in the darkness. Such a disappointing ending. She deserves so much more.

Then he scurries away from her. He moves by feel, counting his steps. Sight is minimal, but he’s walked the route several times. Before he became a media darling, Charles always kept his kills hidden. The sewer is the perfect hiding place for corpses—he can bring them here without witnesses, no one notices the smell, and the rats take care of any evidence. Throughout these pipes are the remains of a half-dozen people he’s killed.

After twenty-four paces he stops, feeling for the grating. It’s two feet before him. Taped to it is a flashlight.

He crouches in the concrete tube and flicks on the light, briefly. Finding the clasp, he opens the rusty gate and slips down four feet into the main line.

Now he can walk upright rather than bent over. The sewer main is wide as an alley. Filthy water runs down the center in a putrid, brown stream. Charles doesn’t know how deep it is, and has no desire to find out. On either side of the flow is a ledge, a catwalk that can be treaded upon when the water level is low enough.

His smartest escape route is to follow along the right wall, down to the end of the block, and then turn left and go eight blocks over. He’ll pop up in an alley, right across the street from the public garage where he keeps his second car, and far from the searching pigs overhead.

But he isn’t ready yet. He still has to deal with Jack.

The lieutenant can’t be allowed to live. She found him. She’ll find him again. Charles doesn’t want to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, waiting for her to pounce.

It will end here.

The Gingerbread Man checks his bullets and switches off his light.

Noises are coming from the sub main he’d exited moments before.

He hunches down and giggles, ready for the fun to start.

Chapter 44

THE LADDER WAS MADE OF STEEL bars, rusty and slimy. Descending was a complicated ordeal where I had to hop down each step, since my bad leg refused to bend. When I finally reached the bottom, I stepped on something.

“Jesus, Jackie!”

I was on Harry’s leg. He shoved me off and flicked on his key light, pointing it in my face. McGlade was on his ass, in the middle of a large slick of gunk.

No—not gunk.

Blood.

“My God, Harry—”

“I slipped. It’s not my blood.”

My stomach churned. The wife.

I tried to radio Herb to say we were on the right trail, but the radio only gave me static. I played with it for a few seconds, but being underground probably put us out of signal range.

Harry stood up and banged his head on the top of the tube we were in.

“Christ! That’s gonna leave a lump.”

The smell was nauseating, human waste and rotting animal matter. Several rats scurried past, disappearing into the darkness.

I took the key light from Harry. The little beam barely penetrated the darkness, only allowing for a few feet of sight.

“So which way, Lieutenant? This tube goes both ways.”

I focused the light at our feet. The trickle of sludge was moving to our left.

“This way.”

“Lead on, Jackie. You’ve got the body armor.”

I killed the light and we shuffled forward. The muck became ankle-deep after a few yards, and the smell was so foul, I could taste it in my mouth.

I stopped twice to listen. The only sound I heard was my labored breathing, which was amplified in the fetid air and made me sound asthmatic. Walking in a crouch with a bad leg was slow going and painful. I felt down in the darkness and discovered that my pants were soaked with blood yet again. This damn wound would never heal.

But that was the least of my problems.

“I think we went the wrong way,” Harry whispered.

“Shhh.”

“I’m going back. Be a dear and let me borrow your vest.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“You want to get romantic now?”

I strained my ears. There was noise ahead, like a water cascade. We were coming to the end of the tunnel.

How far ahead of us could he be? Assuming he knew these sewers, Charles could be hundreds of yards away by now.

Or he could be just around the corner, waiting in ambush.

“Help . . .”

A woman’s voice, weak and pleading, coming from ahead of us. Diane Kork was still alive.

I moved faster, urgency prodding me on, overriding the pain. The radio was still all static. I also tried my cell phone, but couldn’t get a signal surrounded by all this concrete. We came to her twenty yards later, lying half-naked in the filth, covered with blood and muck.

“Diane. Can you hear me?” I knelt down next to her, my wounded leg stretched out behind me. Her pulse was strong, steady. I eyed her wounds; several ugly slashes across the chest, and a deep cut in her collarbone that missed her throat by a fraction. Her eyelids fluttered, and she focused on me.

“He heard you coming, and ran off.”

“Diane, we’re going to get you out of here.”

She shook her head. “You have to get him.”

“We will. First we’re going to . . .”

“No!” The power in her voice startled me. “Don’t let him get away. You have to go get him. Please.”

I looked at Harry.

“Give her your jacket.”

He shrugged off the blazer, draping it over Diane.

I tucked the sport coat under her arms and chin.

“He won’t get away, Diane. I promise. We need to get you to the hospital. Can you stand?”

She shook her head.

“We’ll have to carry her, Harry.”

“You can’t even walk. How are you supposed to carry someone?”

“I’ll manage.”

No one else dies. Even if we had to drag her to safety an inch at a time.

Harry complied, gently lifting Diane under her armpits. She groaned painfully. I positioned myself on the other side and lifted her knees, my legs trembling under her weight.

It would be tough, but we’d get her out of here.

“Jack!”

The voice came from behind us, loud and unmistakable.

Benedict.

“Herb! We’re over here!”

Thirty seconds later my partner came waddling down the tube, followed by a uniformed officer. His labored breathing and the coat of sweat on his face told me he wasn’t any more comfortable in the sewers than I was.

“Kork is ahead of us,” I called out. “Get Diane out of here, alert the troops. We need to cover all manhole exits for ten square blocks.”

“You’re going after him?”

I nodded.

“With him?” Benedict jerked a thumb at Harry.

McGlade sneered back. “Good to see you too, Tubby.”

“Harry’s going back with you. Place him under arrest for obstruction of—”

“My ass,” McGlade said. Then he took off down the pipe.

Nothing’s ever easy.

“Gotta go, Herb.”

“Be careful, Jack. Backup is coming.”

We exchanged a tense look, and then I went after Harry. A few feet into the blackness, I stopped and listened. The falling water sound was louder, and I could hear the echo of footsteps.

“Dammit, Harry! Wait up!”

My voice sounded small, hollow, as it echoed down the tube.

“I’m a few yards ahead of you.”

When I finally caught up to him, I was sweating as much as Herb had been.

“Welcome back, Jackie. You gonna read me my rights?”

“When this is over, Harry, I swear—”

I felt the bullet at the same time I heard it. It hit me in the stomach, knocking me backward. I sprawled in the filthy water, my head bouncing on cement.

The feeling was unreal, like I’d been gut-punched by a speeding car. I sucked in the foul sewer air, my breath having left me. The pain was so bad, it made me forget my leg.

The tube exploded in a muzzle flash, and thunder erupted in my ears. McGlade was returning fire. Enclosed in the concrete tube, the gun deafened us both.

A long minute passed. McGlade knelt next to me and felt along my body. He pressed on my diaphragm and I yelped. Then he reached under my vest and felt the skin. I couldn’t sense if there was a wound or not.

Harry released the pressure and a moment later the little flashlight was pointing in my face.

“The vest stopped the bullet.” Or that’s what it sounded like. My ears were still ringing. “Can you move?”

I tried to speak. “Yeah.”

He offered his hand and helped me up. The darkness fractured into pinpoints of light, stars dancing in my vision. I blinked twice and swallowed.

“Kevlar worked pretty good.” McGlade handed me the light and crouched behind me. “You go first.”

I looked down at my gun hand and saw that I still held the .38. Then I moved, one foot in front of the other.

The water sound increased. I sensed the tube ending, opening up into a much bigger area. The sewer main. I listened, peering into the dark.

“You waiting for Christmas?” Harry nudged me. “Move it.”

I flicked on the flashlight, looking for a foothold so I could climb out.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots went into the wall next to me, chips of concrete biting into my face and neck. I jumped, landing on a ledge several feet below, falling partially into the sewage water. My gun skittered off out of sight.

A bright flashlight beam trained on the tube where I’d been seconds ago. It made its way down the wall and hit me in the face. I squinted at the figure behind the light.

The Gingerbread Man grinned, his gun pointing at my head.

“Hello and good-bye, Jack. Looks like the best man won.”

Then a shot rang out from the tube above us.

Harry.

The flashlight fell away from my face, and Charles Kork howled in pain. I felt around for my gun, instead finding the keys. I flicked on the key light and Harry dropped to the ledge next to me.

Charles moaned. I put the light on him. He was bleeding from the shoulder, clutching the wound with his good hand. His gun was gone.

I let out the breath I’d been holding.

The Gingerbread Man offered a lopsided grin. He looked small, petty, like the sewer rats that scampered behind him.

“Well, looks like you got me, Jack.”

“Stand up, put your hands on your head.”

“I can’t get up.”

I took a step closer. My reserves were almost gone, and my entire body ached and smelled like sewage. But I could honestly say I never felt better.

“Turn over on your stomach. Hands behind your back.”

“How’d you find me?”

“You’ll find out at the trial. Now turn over.”

Charles Kork shook his head. “I’m not going back to prison.”

And then he rolled off the ledge and into the river of muck.

The current began to take him away at a surprisingly brisk pace. He floated chest-deep in the sewage, his good arm flopping ahead of him in an effort to paddle.

“I’ll see you again, Jack!” he called out to me. “Soon!”

Before I had a chance to consider my next move, there was a terrific boom! and Kork’s head exploded in a plume of red.

I looked at McGlade. He holstered his .44 and shrugged.

“He was trying to escape. Were you gonna jump in that shit and go after him?”

The headless corpse of the Gingerbread Man floated off into the blackness on a river of filth. It bobbed in the gentle current once, twice, and then began to sink.

Following him were a swimming legion of rats.

Harry came over to me, eyes serious.

“Hey, Jackie—you’re not pissed, are you?”

I didn’t say anything.

“I mean, he was a scumbag. Think of all the money I just saved the taxpayers. Do you know how expensive those high-profile trials are?”

I found Charles’s gun. It was a .38. My .38. I took a plastic bag out of my jacket pocket and put the gun inside, lifting it by the barrel with two fingers.

“Jack, you’re not really thinking of arresting me, are you?”

“He died in the shoot-out, Harry. That’s what’s going into my report.”

“You had me worried. I thought you were still pissed about me stealing your bust.”

“You saved my life, Harry.”

“Yeah. I guess I did. So we’re even now, right?”

I made a fist and clipped him across the jaw. It was hard enough to stagger him back.

I shook my hand, the knuckles aching wonderfully.

“Now we’re even.”

Harry wiped at his mouth and grinned.

“It took you fifteen years to finally do that. Feel better?”

I thought about it. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of this sewer. It offends my delicate sensibilities.”

First we spent a few minutes finding my dropped gun. When it was safe in its holster, we took the nearest ladder up to the surface.

A few moments after we emerged through the manhole, a swarm of cops came running toward us. Several cops went down into the sewer after the body. My radio was finally working again, and I contacted Herb.

“The woman is okay,” he reported. “Did you get him?”

The words felt so good coming out of my mouth. “We got him.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m perfect,” I said, taking a big gulp of cold city air. “Perfect.”

“Can I talk to him?” Harry reached for my headset. I let him have it, walking away from the commotion, away from the flashing blue and red lights, into the urban night.

The sky was a huge, black blanket, spreading out in all directions. I looked up, trying to see the stars through the smog. I couldn’t make them out.

But I knew they were there.

Chapter 45

I KNOCKED THE EIGHT BALL INTO the corner pocket and Phin grunted.

“That’s two more bucks.” I let a smile creep onto my face. “What is that, five games?”

“How am I supposed to eat this week?”

“Don’t play if you can’t pay.”

He frowned and rooted around in his front pocket, extracting a bill.

“Can you break a fifty?”

To his chagrin, I could. Then I sent him off to buy me another beer.

It had been three days since the death of the Gingerbread Man, Charles Kork. The papers were still running headlines. Most of them centered on Harry McGlade. He’d become a media darling, though I don’t think “darling” is the right word.

How Harry found out about Charles was simple enough. He had a copy of the show at his apartment. After he left the station, he watched the tape and drew the obvious conclusion. Then he called up his buddy Max Trainter, and soon had Kork’s name and address.

McGlade had attempted to beat us to the scene and take all the glory for himself. Which, essentially, is what he did.

“That guy was the top layer on the shit cake,” McGlade told five networks, plus CNN.

Diane Kork had lost a lot of blood and needed a few dozen stitches, but she was expected to make a full recovery. Physically at least. Mentally she was a mess.

I’d gotten to see her twice since that day, trying to fill in the remaining pieces of the puzzle.

She’d filed for divorce from Charles in May, right after The Max Trainter Show. He’d been neglectful and verbally abusive, but never physically. This may have sounded odd, but Dr. Francis Mulrooney told me later that many married serial killers aren’t aggressive within the family unit. They saved it up for their excursions.

Diane had never known about his two stretches in prison, never met his family, and certainly had no idea that every time he sneaked out at night, he was stalking and killing people.

Charles’s mother, Lisa Kork, died of cancer shortly after Charles was born. Attempts were made to locate his father, Buddy Kork, but to no avail.

A delve into Buddy Kork’s past revealed he’d been arrested twice for child abuse, and acquitted both times. Apparently, his position as a reverend at a local church was enough to justify the beatings he gave his children.

He was fired from the church ten years ago, but a phone call confirmed that Dr. Reginald Booster was a regular parishioner—the same Booster whom Charles had killed for the Seconal prescription. Booster had known Charles was Buddy’s son. Hence the note he left on the pad at the murder scene.

Just to tie up loose ends, Dr. Mulrooney matched the Gingerbread Man’s letters to samples found in Charles’s home, and to the release form Charles had filled out to appear on The Max Trainter Show.

The search of Kork’s rented house unveiled a cache of six hundred pictures and twelve home videotapes. They showed, in detail, Charles torturing and killing animals, children, and women. A task force was assigned to begin matching the victims with missing persons. I was offered the job to head the task force, but after watching one of the videos, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit through the rest of them. I declined.

Charles Kork’s body, sans head, was fished out of the sewer four blocks from where Harry had shot him. In the ME’s report, Phil Blasky commented that it was the best lobotomy he’d ever seen.

Diane Kork was able to shed light on the significance of the gingerbread man cookies. She and Charles had baked them during their first Christmas together. They’d lacquered them and hung them on the tree every year after that. She hadn’t seen them since they split up.

Herb was invited over to the mayor’s house for dinner, since he’d been the chief investigator on the case after the captain had kicked me off. I hadn’t been asked to attend, but Herb related that he’d eaten enough for both of us. Though I missed out on hobnobbing with the powerful, I was allowed to return to work, the Internal Affairs investigation was dropped since I recovered my lost gun, and I even got a call from a very important news journalist with her own prime-time show. But she only wanted to ask me questions about Harry, and I hung up on her.

I pumped more quarters into the table, and Phin came back with two bottles of beer.

“Loser racks,” I reminded him.

He racked the balls. I sipped my beer and chalked my stick. Then I engaged in a truly magnificent break, pocketing two stripes. Phin swore.

By eleven o’clock I was up about thirty bucks. Phin called me several choice names when I was leaving and made me promise I’d meet him tomorrow for a rematch. I agreed, telling him I could use the money.

It began to snow as I walked back to my apartment. The first snow of the season. It looked pretty, glowing in the street lights, contrasted against huge skyscrapers. Covering up all the dirt. I felt myself smile, and then the smile disappeared at the thought of digging out my car in the morning.

There were messages on my machine when I got back to the apartment. The first was from Latham, my ill-fated Lunch Mates date. He was doing well, and begged me to bring him a pizza when I visited him tomorrow.

“The food here is wretched. It tastes like they steam everything.”

He held no resentment toward me at all, only expressing some joking disappointment that our third date couldn’t possibly be as exciting as the first two were.

Great guy. I was going to enjoy getting to know him.

The second call was a reporter from Time magazine, who wanted to know if I wouldn’t mind talking to him about Harry.

The last was from my worried mother, who hadn’t heard from me in over twenty minutes and wondered if I was still doing okay. I called her back.

“I’m fine, Mom. Are you happy to be back home?”

“Yes, thank goodness it’s over. I’m so sore, I can barely move.”

A tinge of panic. “Is your hip getting worse? You told me—”

“My hip is fine, Jacqueline. I’m not nursing-home material yet. I’m sore because of that rascal Mr. Griffin. He’s like the Energizer Bunny. He keeps going and going—I swear, I didn’t sleep for three days.”

Perhaps I was a bit hasty in worrying that Mom couldn’t take care of herself.

After the call, I made myself a sandwich and sat down in my rocking chair with a recent Ed McBain paperback.

The next thing I knew, without any effort whatsoever on my part, I was asleep.

Chapter 46

I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, refreshed, invigorated, and feeling good enough to exercise.

I took it easy, favoring my bad leg, but still managed to make it through my morning routine. I had to skip sit-ups because of the huge bruise on my stomach, the ugly aftermath of getting shot. But I did a few extra push-ups to compensate.

The snow from the night before didn’t stick, so unearthing my car wasn’t necessary. However, it took eight tries before the engine finally caught, and I stalled twice driving to the station.

I didn’t let it hurt my good mood.

When I arrived, I found out Benedict was at the morgue with the relatives of JoAnn Fourthy, the first victim. She’d been identified through The Max Trainter Show, and her parents had been located in New Jersey. The Gingerbread Man case was officially closed.

Now I had to take on the backlog I had accumulated. A knifing. A hit-and-run. A gang murder. A fatal shooting at a high school.

A Violent Crimes lieutenant’s job was never done.

An undetermined time later, my concentration was broken when two men stepped into my office. Without knocking. It was Special Agents Dailey and Coursey, complete with matching suits, haircuts, and demeanors. I wondered if they called each other every morning to decide on what to wear that day.

“We never got to congratulate you on catching the unsub, Lieutenant,” Dailey said.

Or maybe it was Coursey.

The other one added, “I know we didn’t always see eye to eye on things, but we’re glad everything worked out for the best.”

Standard FBI procedure. Don’t burn your bridges.

“Was Kork listed in your computer under known poisoners?”

They looked at each other, and then back at me.

“He was on a suspect list for the candy tamperings in Michigan, but Vicky didn’t have him in her database. We did a follow-up with the investigating officers of that case and read through their reports. Kork was brought in for questioning and released on two different occasions, but there was never sufficient evidence for an arrest.”

“I see.” I tried to look appropriately smug. “And how did things go with the horse?”

One of them cleared his throat. The other looked at an imaginary spot on his sleeve.

“Profiling isn’t a hard science, Lieutenant. Sometimes we’re a little off-center.”

“Ah.”

“So—have you had a chance to look at the Hansen case yet?”

“Pardon me?”

“The high school shooting? It’s almost identical to a similar homicide in Plainfield, Wisconsin, last year.”

“And?” I feared where this was headed.

“And your captain wanted us to work together on it. A state line has been crossed.”

Oh, no. “Look, guys . . .”

They headed for the door.

“We’ll be by at two o’clock to discuss the case further. We need to have Vicky help us with a suspect profile before we can proceed.”

And then they were gone.

So much for my good mood.

I resumed scaling Mount Paperwork, filing things, throwing out things, typing things. I always saved the typing for last because I’m so bad at it.

“Hi, Jackie.”

I looked up from the keyboard and saw that Harry McGlade had walked into my office. Apparently no one believed in knocking anymore. Harry was wearing the typical Harry outfit: stained brown pants, beige jacket, fat tie, and more wrinkles than a retirement home.

I’d have to get a lock for that damn door.

“What do you want, Harry?”

I continued typing, trying to show that I was busy.

“You still haven’t thanked me.”

“For what?” I asked, and then looked at my 97-723 report and saw I’d typed “for what” on it. I swore and reached for the correction fluid.

“For leading you to the killer. Without me, you never would have connected Kork to the Trainter show. You’ll probably get a big fat promotion out of this. ‘Captain Daniels.’ It has a nice ring to it. You owe me.”

“I do, huh?”

I couldn’t find the Wite-Out, so I went back and crossed out the mistake in pen.

“Sure. That’s why I stopped by, so you can thank me and buy me breakfast.”

“Maybe you should buy me breakfast. You’re the one getting the movie offers.”

“Funny you should mention that, Jackie. A Hollywood agent called this morning, interested in turning my story into a film. Guess who’s going to play me?”

“Danny DeVito.”

“Funny. Ha ha. Actually, Brad Pitt is interested. But before they can start shoveling money at me, there’s a tiny little question about story rights.”

McGlade pulled some folded paper out of his pants pocket.

“If you’ll just sign here . . .”

“No way, Harry.”

“Come on, Jackie. There’ll be some money in it for you. I mean, not much, but you’d be doing me a huge favor.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let’s at least discuss it over breakfast.”

“I’ve got a lot of paperwork to finish.”

Harry put his hands on my desk and leaned toward me.

“Screw the paperwork. It’ll be here when you get back. Come out for breakfast with an old friend. You work too hard anyway. Enjoy life, Jackie. Stop being married to the job.”

I wasn’t sure eating breakfast with Harry would qualify as enjoying life, but what he said was very similar to what Herb had said. Did I want, at the end of my life, for my epitaph to be, “She was a good cop”?

I guess that I did.

But even a good cop has to eat.

“Fine. A quick breakfast. But I have no desire to see myself on the silver screen, Harry.”

“Some big names are interested in your part, Jackie. I’ve heard the name Roseanne being bandied around. It’s a Hollywood rule. All tough-guy heroes need a humorous sidekick.”

“Now I’m definitely not going to sign that paper.”

“Sure you’re not.”

He grinned again, and I got up and grabbed my coat.

“I know this terrific new pancake place, just opened.” Harry held the door for me, the first gentlemanly act I’d ever seen him perform. “If you don’t like it, it’s my treat.”

“I hate it already.”

We walked out the door.

If You Loved Whiskey Sour,
Be Sure to Catch Bloody Mary,
J. A. Konrath’s Newest Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery,
Coming in July 2005 from Hyperion.

An Excerpt, the Prologue and Chapter 1, follows.

Prologue

IT WOULD BE SO EASY TO kill you while you sleep.”

He rolls onto his side and faces his wife, tangling his fingers in her hair. Her face is shrouded in a dried blue mask; an antiaging beauty product that has begun to peel. The moonlight peeking through the bedroom curtains makes her look already dead.

He wonders if other people look at their partners at night, peacefully dozing, and imagine killing them.

“I have a knife.” He brushes his fingertips along her hairline. “I keep it under the bed.”

Her lips part and she snores softly.

So ugly, especially for a model. All capped teeth and streaked hair.

He wedges his hand between the mattress and box spring and pulls out the knife. It has a large wooden handle, disproportionate to the thin, finely honed blade. A fillet knife.

He places it against his wife’s neck, gently.

His vision blurs. The pain in his head ignites, a screw twisting into his temple. It tightens with every heartbeat.

Too many headaches in too many days. He should, will, tell the doctor. The six aspirin he took an hour ago haven’t helped.

Only one thing helps when the pain gets this bad.

He caresses her chin with the edge of the knife, shaving off some of the mask. Sweat rolls down his forehead and stings his eyes.

“I can cut your throat, reach in and rip out your voice before you even have a chance to scream.”

She twitches, her head tilting away. Her neck is smooth, flawless. He clenches his jaw hard enough to crush granite, teeth grinding teeth.

“Or maybe I should go through the eye. Just a quick poke, right into the brain.”

He raises the blade up, trying to control the trembling in his hand. The blade wavers over her lid, creeping closer.

“All you have to do is open your eyes, so you can see it coming.”

She snores.

“Come on, honey.” He nudges her shoulder. “Open your eyes.”

He bites down on his tongue, the inside of his mouth hot and salty. His brain is a tiny clawed demon trying to dig its way out.

“Open your goddamn eyes!”

She shifts toward him, mumbling. Her arm falls over his bare chest.

“Another headache, honey?”

“Yeah.”

He places the knife behind her head, at the base of her skull. He imagines jabbing it in, the tip poking through the front of her throat.

Wouldn’t she be surprised?

“Poor baby,” she says into his armpit. She rubs his cheek, her fingers cool against his burning ear.

He gives her a little prod with the knife, just under her hairline. Her head jerks away.

“Ow! Honey, cut your nails.”

“It’s not my nails, dear. It’s a knife.”

She snores her response.

He nudges her again. “I said, It’s a knife. You hear me?”

“Did you take some aspirin, baby?”

“Six.”

“They’ll work soon. You should see a doctor.”

She hooks a leg over his stomach. He feels himself become aroused, unsure if it’s her touch that’s causing it, or the thought of peeling off her face.

Or perhaps both.

He smiles in the darkness, knuckles white on the knife handle, ready to finally give in to the nightly temptation. But as he readies the blade, he notes that the pain in his head has begun to subside. Gradually, the sharp throbbing melts away into a dull ache.

Bearable.

For now.

“I’ll kill you tomorrow.” He kisses her on the scalp.

The knife goes back under the mattress. He holds her tight and she makes a happy sighing sound.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s to the image of cutting her open and bathing his face with her blood.

Chapter 1

DAMMIT.”

My fan had died. It didn’t surprise me. The fan had ten years on me, and I came into the world during the Eisenhower years. It belonged in a museum, not an office.

Today was the first day of July, and hot enough to cook burgers on the sidewalk, though you probably wouldn’t want to eat them afterward. My blouse clung to me, my nylons felt like sweatpants, and I’d developed a fatal case of the frizzies.

The 26th Police District of Chicago, where I slowly roasted, was temporarily without air-conditioning due to a problem with the condensers, whatever the hell they were. We were promised it would be fixed by December.

I hit the base of the fan with my stapler. Though I was the highest ranking female cop in the Violent Crimes Unit, I tended to be useless mechanically. My handyperson skills maxed out at changing a lightbulb. And even then, I had to read the instructions. The fan seemed to sense this, slowly wagging its blades at me like dusty tongues.

My partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict, walked into my office, sucking on a soda cup the size of a small garbage can. It didn’t seem to be helping him cool off. Herb weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds, and had more pores on his face than I had on my whole body. Benedict’s suit looked like it had been soaked in Lake Michigan and put on wet.

He waddled up and placed a moist palm on my desk, leaving a streak. I noticed droplets in his gray mustache; sweat or diet cola. His basset hound jowls glistened as if greased.

“Morning, Jack.”

My birth name was Jacqueline, but when I married my ex-husband, Alan Daniels, no one could resist shortening it to Jack.

“Morning, Herb. Here to help me fix my fan?”

“Nope. I’m here to share my breakfast.”

Herb set a brown paper sack on my desk.

“Donuts? Bagels? Cholesterol McMuffins?”

“Not even close.”

Benedict removed a plastic bag containing, of all things, rice cakes.

“That’s it?” I asked. “Where’s the chocolate? Where’s the canned cheese?”

“I’m watching my weight. In fact, I joined a health club.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You know the one that advertises on TV all the time?”

“The one where you get to work out with all of those Olympic bodybuilders for only thirty bucks a month?”

“That’s the one. Except I’ve got the Premier Membership, not the normal one.”

“What’s the difference?”

He named a monetary figure, and I whistled at the amount.

“But with it, I get full access to the racquetball and squash courts.”

“You don’t play racquetball or squash.”

“Plus, my membership card is colored gold instead of blue.”

I leaned back in my chair, interlacing my fingers behind my head. “Well, that’s different. I’d pay extra for that. How is the place?”

“I haven’t worked out there yet. Everyone that goes is in such good shape, I thought I should lose a few pounds before I start.”

“I don’t think they’d care, Herb. And if they do, just impress them by flashing your gold card.”

“You’re not being very supportive here, Jack.”

“Sorry.” I picked up a file to fan myself. “It’s the heat.”

“You need to get in shape. I’ve got guest passes. They’ve got Pilates at the club. I’m thinking of taking a class after work.”

Herb smiled, biting into a rice cake. His smile faded as he chewed.

“Damn. These things taste like Styrofoam.”

The phone rang.

“Jack? Phil Blasky. There’s, um, a bit of a situation here at County.”

County meant the Cook County Morgue. Phil was the Chief Medical Examiner.

“I know this is going to sound like a paperwork problem . . .” He paused, sucking in some air through his teeth. “. . . but I’ve checked and double-checked.”

“What’s wrong, Phil?”

“We have an extra body. Well, actually, some extra body parts.”

Phil explained. I told him we’d stop by, and then shared the information with Herb.

“Could be some kind of prank. County are a strange bunch.”

“Maybe. Phil doesn’t think so.”

“Did he say what the extra parts were?”

“Arms.”

Benedict thought this over.

“Maybe someone is simply lending him a hand.”

I stood up and pinched the center of my blouse, fanning in some air. “We’ll take your car.”

Herb recently bought a sporty new Camaro Z28, an expensive reminder of his refusal to age gracefully. Silly as he looked behind the wheel, the car had great air-conditioning, whereas my 1988 Nova did not.

We left my office and made our way downstairs and outside. It was like stepping into a toaster. Though it couldn’t have been much hotter than the district building, the blistering sun amplified everything. A bank across the street flashed the current temp on its sidewalk sign. One hundred and one. And the sign was in the shade.

Herb pressed a gizmo on his key chain and his car beeped and started on its own. It was red, naturally, and so heavily waxed that the glare coming off it hurt my eyes. I climbed in the passenger side and angled both vents on my face while Herb babied the Camaro out of its parking space.

“Zero to sixty in five point two seconds.”

“Have you taken it up to sixty yet?”

“I’m still breaking it in.”

He put on a pair of Ray-Bans and pulled onto Addison. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the cool air. We were at County all too soon.

Cook County Morgue was located on Harrison in Chicago’s medical district, near Rush-Presbyterian Hospital. It rose two stories, all dirty white stone and tinted windows. Herb pulled around back into a circular driveway, and parked next to the curb.

“I hate coming here.” Herb frowned, his mustache drooping like a walrus. “I can never get the smell out of my clothes.”

Years ago, when my mother walked a beat, cops would smear whiskey on their upper lip to combat the stench of the morgue.

Sanitation had improved since then; cooler temps, better ventilation, greater attention to hygiene. But the smell still stuck with you.

I made do with some cherry lip balm, a small dab under each nostril. I passed the tube to Herb.

“Cherry? Don’t you have menthol?”

“It’s a hundred degrees out. I wasn’t worried about windburn.”

He sniffed the balm, then handed it back without applying any.

“It smells too good. I’d eat it.”

The heat hit me like a blow dryer when I got out of the car.

A cop walked over and eyed the Camaro—there were always cops around County. He was young and tan and didn’t give me a second glance, preferring to talk to Herb.

“Five speed?”

“Six. Three hundred ten horses.”

The uniform whistled, running his finger along some pinstriping.

“What’s under the hood, five point seven?”

Herb nodded. “Want to see?”

I left the boys with their toy and walked into the entrance, to the right of the automatic double doors.

The lobby, if you could call it that, consisted of a counter, a door, and a glass partition. Behind the counter was a solitary black man in hospital scrubs.

“Phil Blasky?”

He shot his thumb at the door. “In the fridge.”

I signed in, received a plastic badge, and entered the main room.

Death overpowered the cherry, so strong I could taste it in the back of my mouth. It had a sickly-sour smell, like rotting carnations.

To the right, a mortician in an ill-fitting suit hefted a body off a table and onto a rolling cot. When he finished, he pulled off his latex gloves and shot them, rubber-band-style, into a garbage can.

Next to him, resting on a stainless steel scale built into the floor, was a naked male corpse, grossly obese, with burns covering most of his torso. The LCD screen on the wall blinked 450 lbs. He smelled like bacon.

I held my breath and pulled open the heavy aluminum door, which led into the cooler.

The stench worsened in here. Bleach and blood and urine and meat gone bad.

Cook County Morgue was the largest in the Midwest. Indigents, unclaimed bodies, accident victims, suicides, and cases of foul play all came through these doors. It held about three hundred bodies.

Just my luck, they were running at capacity.

To my left, corpses lay stacked on wire shelves warehouse-style, five high and thirty wide. Stretching across the main floor was a traffic jam of tables and carts, all occupied. Some of the dead were covered with black plastic bags. Some weren’t.

Unlike movie depictions of morgues, these bodies didn’t lie down in peaceful, supine positions. Many of them had kept the poses they died in; arms and legs jutting out, curled up on their sides, necks at funny angles. They also didn’t look like a Hollywood conception of a corpse. A real dead person had very little color. Regardless of race, the skin always seemed to fade into a light blue, and the eyes were dull and cloudy, like dusty snow globes.

The temperature hovered at fifty degrees, fans blowing around the frigid, foul air. It chilled my sweat in a most unpleasant way.

To the right, in an adjacent room, an autopsy was being performed. I focused on the figure holding the bone saw, didn’t recognize him, and continued to look around.

I found Phil Blasky near the back of the room, and walked up to him carefully; the floors were sticky with various fluids, and all of them clashed with my Gucci pumps.

“Phil.”

“Jack.”

Phil was leaning over a steel table, squinting at something. I stood next to him, trying not to gape at the nude body of a toddler, half wrapped in a black plastic bag, lying next to him. The child was so rigid and pale, he appeared to be made out of wax.

“I went through every stiff in the place a second time. No one is missing arms.”

I glanced down at the table. The arms were severed at the shoulder, laid out with their fingertips touching, the elbows bending in a big M. They belonged to a female, Caucasian, with fake pink nails. A pair of black handcuffs connected them at the wrists. There was very little blood, but the jagged edges to the wounds suggested they didn’t come off easily.

“I suspect an axe.” Phil poked at the wound with a gloved finger. “See the mark along the humerus, here? It took two swings to sever the appendage.”

“It doesn’t look humorous to me.” Benedict had snuck up behind us.

“Funny,” Phil said. “Never heard that one before, working with dead bodies for twenty years. Next will you make some kind of gimme a hand joke?”

“I did that one already,” Herb said. “How about: It appears the suspect has been disarmed?”

“She was always such a cut-up?”

“Would you like a shoulder to cry on?”

“Can I go out on a limb here?”

“At least she’ll get severance pay?”

Phil cocked an eyebrow at Herb.

“Severance?” Herb said. “Sever?”

I tuned out their act and got a closer look at the arms. Snapping on a latex glove, I pushed back the cold, hard fingers and peered at the handcuffs. They were Smith and Wesson model number 100.

“Those are police issue.” Benedict poked at them with a pencil. “I’ve got a set just like them.”

So did every other cop in our district, and probably in Chicago. They were also sold at sporting goods stores, sex shops, and Army/Navy surplus outlets, plus a zillion places over the Internet. Impossible to trace. But maybe we’d get lucky and the owner had etched his name and address on the . . .

I inhaled sharply.

This couldn’t be right.

On the cuffs, next to the keyhole, were two small initials painted in red nail polish. I tugged out my .38, holstered under my blazer, and looked at the butt. It had the same two red letters.

JD.

“Herb.” I kept my voice steady. “Those handcuffs are mine.”

Praise for
Whiskey Sour

“If you like your mystery fresh and your heroine even fresher, don’t miss Whiskey Sour. A detective for the new millennium: sharply witty, deftly wry, and unabashedly clever.”

—James Rollins, bestselling author of Map of Bones

“Competent, fast-paced . . . (a) cross between Carl Hiaasen and Thomas Harris.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Engaging . . . full of humor . . . fans of Janet Evanovich will like this.”

—Library Journal

“Put Donald Westlake in a blender with a jigger of James Ellroy, mix in a dollop of Dorothy Parker, and you’ve got the hilarious, horrific world of Lieutenant Jacqueline ‘Jack’ Daniels. I can’t wait until the next fix!”

—Jay Bonansinga, author of Frozen

“A first class, totally absorbing crime thriller.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Suspense thrillers are often compared to rollercoasters and this one’s the Big Kahuna. There’s that first wild, breathtaking drop and then the excitement never lets up until you roll into the last page.”

—Raymond Benson, bestselling author of Face Blind

“Whiskey Sour is very good indeed.”

—January Magazine

“Everything about Whiskey Sour is smart—smart characters, smart writing, and a smart pace that keeps you reading long after you’d meant to turn out the lights. This superb debut goes down smooth and will leave readers demanding a refill!”

—Michael Prescott, bestselling author of Dangerous Games

“An original, humorous character study of a woman on the edge of her career and personal life. Whiskey Sour moves at a brisk pace to a surprising and tense finale that has quite a kick.”

—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

“An easy, breezy read, well written and very funny.”

—Kingston Observer

“Even us non-drinkers will enjoy J.A. Konrath’s detective story, with its witty dialogue and enjoyable characters. With an intriguing female as his protagonist, Konrath gives us our first glimpse of a promising series.”

—Steve Alten, bestselling author of The Loch

“I found myself laughing out loud many times. The second book in the series can’t come soon enough!”

—Murder Express

“A rapid-fire debut thriller . . . (with) a savvy heroine.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Whiskey Sour introduces J.A. Konrath, a fresh, fierce and frightening new voice, and a delightful heroine in Jack Daniels, who is as funny and resilient as she is feisty and determined.”

—David Wiltse, author of Heartland

“Lightning fast action, chilling suspense, and biting humor.”

—Book Reporter

“Finally—a heroine for the rest of us! Funny, feisty, and gutsy, Jack Daniels is a delightful addition to the pantheon of female detectives.By turns hilarious and horrific,
Whiskey Sour is a compulsively readable mystery. I couldn’t put it down! J.A. Konrath is a writer to watch!”

—Libby Fischer Hellmann, author of An Image of Death

“Pithy banter . . . it’s like a Monty Python rendition of a crime novel.”

—The Courier

“Whiskey Sour is detective fiction at its finest. It’s filled with jackknife plot turns, edge of the blade suspense, and razor-sharp, laugh-out-loud wit. J.A. Konrath has created something special here—a new series character I’ll follow with the same devotion I read Spenser and Dave Robicheaux.”

—Rick Hautala, bestselling author of Bedbugs and The Mountain King

“What a fabulous book!”

—Mystery Morgue

“Fast action, involving characters, twists galore. Easily one of the best debut suspense novels in recent years. Bring on the sequel!”

—BookPage

“Whiskey Sour is a stunning debut novel. Konrath has brewed up a compulsive page-turner populated by real people, a heroine to empathize with and root for, and a monstrous vil-lain serving up enough red meat to satisfy the hungriest Hannibal Lecter fan.”

—George C. Chesbro, author of Strange Prey

“Four stars . . . tough, funny, and smart.”

—Deadly Pleasures

“Whiskey Sour: take the grim doings of a vicious psychopath, stir in quirky characters and crisp dialogue, then shake with dollops of laugh-aloud humor. A fast, fun read. I’m looking forward to the next Jack Daniels outing.”

—F. Paul Wilson, bestselling author of Infernal

“Sharp dialog and dry wit . . . it has all the polish of any suspense thriller bestseller.”

—Murder and Mayhem Book Club

“If you want a wonderful, funny, believable, well-researched murder mystery/thriller, look no further.”

—Rendezvous Magazine

“Without question, you have to meet Konrath’s characters and the dynamo of his narrative to believe anyone can call out and sink every shot with such verve and confidence—but Whiskey Sour is on game from page one to the last. I can honestly say that I have seen the future of suspense thrillers, and it is J.A. Konrath . . .”

—Robert W. Walker, author of City for Ransom

“Suspense skillfully balanced with brilliant humor . . . powerful and exciting.”

—MyShelf

“This book lives up to its hype.”

—Reviewing the Evidence

“Thriller lovers rejoice. The prose is so polished, so assured, you’ll feel you are reading the tenth novel by a master pro at the peak of his powers. I can’t wait for the next one.”

—Steven Harriman, author of Sleeper

“A brilliant debut . . .”

—Chizine

“An exciting book, with a teasing sort of style that draws you in.”

—Pahrump Valley Times

“Whiskey Sour captures the feel and flavor of what it’s really like on the streets chasing violent offenders. Konrath’s characters are tough, gritty and flawed just enough to make them real. I can’t wait for the next sip of Jack Daniels.”

—Sergeant Dave Putnam, San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department

“Readers who are familiar with Stephanie Plum will feel right at home.”

—Mystery Reader

“Konrath displays genuine talent.”

—Mystery Scene

“Whiskey Sour is a combination of Jilliane Hoffman’s Retribution edginess with an Evanovich sense of humor.You gotta love it.”

—Tulsa World

“Whiskey Sour is one hell of a ride!”

—Rob Kantner, author of the Ben Perkins series

“J.A. Konrath’s Whiskey Sour is the best mystery series debut I’ve read in years. From electric excitement to laugh-out-loud humor, this book has it all.”

—Warren B. Murphy, bestselling author of Pigs Get Fat

“Being a police officer and an occasional drinker of whiskey myself, Whiskey Sour immediately caught my eye—especially with a main character with the name ‘Lt. Jack Daniels.’ I am a big fan of Ed McBain (87th Precinct) and Robert B. Parker (Spenser novels)—so finding a book that combines both their styles was a real treat. Whiskey Sour is fast, fun, and witty, with humor and just the right amount of gore to keep me turning the page.”

—Colin Sullivan, Texas-based police officer

Praise for
Bloody Mary

“As sharp and tangy as its title cocktail. Snappy dialogue. Powerful action. A fabulous character to spend time with. What a recipe for a page-turner.”

—David Morrell, bestselling author of The Brotherhood of the Rose

“If the Grim Reaper has a sense of humor, he reads J.A. Konrath . . . If you prefer your mysteries served up like a good steak—sizzling, juicy, and tasting of blood—there’s not a better item on the menu.”

—William Kent Krueger, author of Blood Hollow

“Konrath captures not only the mind of a serial killer, but an accurate attitude of the cops working the case. It’s funny and scary, just like real life.”

—James O. Born, author of Shock Wave

“Characters you care about and a breath-stealing plot. Reading Bloody Mary is a ride on a rocket-propelled roller coaster. Strap in and hold on tight.”

—Jack Kerley, author of The Hundredth Man

“Raise a glass to J.A. Konrath. BLOODY MARY is bloody good. Jack Daniels has heart, smarts, and all of Chicago to detect in.”

—Barbara D’Amato, author of Death of a Thousand Cuts

“Take one large psychopath, mix with an unusually violent cat, add a fast pace, a lean plot, and Jack Daniels and what do you get? Believe it or not, a Bloody Mary.”

—Bill Fitzhugh, author of Radio Activity

“A healthy shot of colorful characters, dizzying dialogue and a potent plot, Bloody Mary is laugh-out-loud funny . . . even when read sober.”

—PJ Parrish, bestselling author of A Killing Rain

Acknowledgments

The author wishes to thank (in alphabetical order): Bruce Arnoux, Mark Arnoux, Latham Conger III, George Dailey, Jeff Evens, Mariel Evens, Elaine Farrugia, Stacey Glick, Miriam Goderich, Carl Graves, Todd Keithley, Chris Konrath, Joe Konrath Sr., John Konrath, Mike Konrath, Talon Konrath, Elisa Lee, Jim McCarthy, Ursel Schmidt, Ace Streng, and Marge Streng.

Special giant-sized thanks go to Jim Coursey—my friend and sounding board; Jane Dystel—agent extraordinaire; Laura Konrath—my mother and biggest critic; Leslie Wells—world’s greatest editor; and most of all to my spouse, for the ceaseless efforts and relentless encouragement.

ALSO BY J.A. KONRATH

Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Fuzzy Navel
Cherry Bomb

Copyright

The Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels mystery series is in no way sponsored by, endorsed by, or related to Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc., or to Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey.

Copyright © 2004 by Joe Konrath

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

Mass market ISBN: 978-0-7868-9072-9

EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9781401399863

FIRST MASS MARKET EDITION

10 9 8 7 6 5

Bloody Mary

This book is for Laura Konrath, whom I’m honored, blessed, and tickled pink to call Mom.

I love you.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents Book

Preface

Prologue

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

Acknowledgments

Also by

Copyright

BLOODY MARY

11/2 oz. vodka

4 oz. tomato juice

1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce

Several drops of Tabasco sauce

Shake well over ice and strain into an old-fashioned glass.

Add a celery stalk.

PROLOGUE

“It would be so easy to kill you while you sleep.”

He rolls onto his side and faces his wife, tangling his fingers in her hair. Her face is shrouded in a dried blue mask; an antiaging beauty product that has begun to peel. The moonlight peeking through the bedroom curtains makes her look already dead.

He wonders if other people look at their partners at night, peacefully dozing, and imagine killing them.

“I have a knife.” He brushes his fingertips along her hairline. “I keep it under the bed.”

Her lips part and she snores softly.

So ugly, especially for a model. All capped teeth and streaked hair.

He wedges his hand between the mattress and box spring and pulls out the knife. It has a large wooden handle, disproportionate to the thin, finely honed blade. A fillet knife.

He places it against his wife’s neck, gently.

His vision blurs. The pain in his head ignites, a screw twisting into his temple. It tightens with every heartbeat.

Too many headaches in too many days. He should, will, tell the doctor. The six aspirin he took an hour ago haven’t helped.

Only one thing helps when the pain gets this bad.

He caresses her chin with the edge of the knife, shaving off some of the mask. Sweat rolls down his forehead and stings his eyes.

“I can cut your throat, reach in and rip out your voice before you even have a chance to scream.”

She twitches, her head tilting away. Her neck is smooth, flawless. He clenches his jaw hard enough to crush granite, teeth grinding teeth.

“Or maybe I should go through the eye. Just a quick poke, right into the brain.”

He raises the blade up, trying to control the trembling in his hand. The blade wavers over her lid, creeping closer.

“All you have to do is open your eyes, so you can see it coming.”

She snores.

“Come on, honey.” He nudges her shoulder. “Open your eyes.”

He bites down on his tongue, the inside of his mouth hot and salty. His brain is a tiny clawed demon trying to dig its way out.

“Open your goddamn eyes!”

She shifts toward him, mumbling. Her arm falls over his bare chest.

“Another headache, honey?”

“Yeah.”

He places the knife behind her head, at the base of her skull. He imagines jabbing it in, the tip poking through the front of her throat.

Wouldn’t she be surprised?

“Poor baby,” she says into his armpit. She rubs his cheek, her fingers cool against his burning ear.

He gives her a little prod with the knife, just under her hairline. Her head jerks away.

“Ow! Honey, cut your nails.”

“It’s not my nails, dear. It’s a knife.”

She snores her response.

He nudges her again. “I said, It’s a knife. You hear me?”

“Did you take some aspirin, baby?”

“Six.”

“They’ll work soon. You should see a doctor.”

She hooks a leg over his stomach. He feels himself become aroused, unsure if it’s her touch that’s causing it, or the thought of peeling off her face.

Or perhaps both.

He smiles in the darkness, knuckles white on the knife handle, ready to finally give in to the nightly temptation. But as he readies the blade, he notes that the pain in his head has begun to subside. Gradually, the sharp throbbing melts away into a dull ache.

Bearable.

For now.

“I’ll kill you tomorrow.” He kisses her on the scalp.

The knife goes back under the mattress. He holds her tight and she makes a happy sighing sound.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s to the image of cutting her open and bathing his face with her blood.

CHAPTER 1

“Dammit.”

My fan had died. It didn’t surprise me. The fan had ten years on me, and I came into the world during the Eisenhower years. It belonged in a museum, not an office.

Today was the first day of July, and hot enough to cook burgers on the sidewalk, though you probably wouldn’t want to eat them afterward. My blouse clung to me, my nylons felt like sweatpants, and I’d developed a fatal case of the frizzies.

The 26th Police District of Chicago, where I slowly roasted, was temporarily without air-conditioning due to a problem with the condensers, whatever the hell they were. We were promised it would be fixed by December.

I hit the base of the fan with my stapler. Though I was the highest ranking female cop in the Violent Crimes Unit, I tended to be useless mechanically. My handyperson skills maxed out at changing a lightbulb. And even then, I had to read the instructions. The fan seemed to sense this, slowly wagging its blades at me like dusty tongues.

My partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict, walked into my office, sucking on a soda cup the size of a small garbage can. It didn’t seem to be helping him cool off. Herb weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds, and had more pores on his face than I had on my whole body. Benedict’s suit looked like it had been soaked in Lake Michigan and put on wet.

He waddled up and placed a moist palm on my desk, leaving a streak. I noticed droplets in his gray mustache; sweat or diet cola. His basset hound jowls glistened as if greased.

“Morning, Jack.”

My birth name was Jacqueline, but when I married my ex-husband, Alan Daniels, no one could resist shortening it to Jack.

“Morning, Herb. Here to help me fix my fan?”

“Nope. I’m here to share my breakfast.”

Herb set a brown paper sack on my desk.

“Donuts? Bagels? Cholesterol McMuffins?”

“Not even close.”

Benedict removed a plastic bag containing, of all things, rice cakes.

“That’s it?” I asked. “Where’s the chocolate? Where’s the canned cheese?”

“I’m watching my weight. In fact, I joined a health club.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You know the one that advertises on TV all the time?”

“The one where you get to work out with all of those Olympic bodybuilders for only thirty bucks a month?”

“That’s the one. Except I’ve got the Premier Membership, not the normal one.”

“What’s the difference?”

He named a monetary figure, and I whistled at the amount.

“But with it, I get full access to the racquetball and squash courts.”

“You don’t play racquetball or squash.”

“Plus, my membership card is colored gold instead of blue.”

I leaned back in my chair, interlacing my fingers behind my head. “Well, that’s different. I’d pay extra for that. How is the place?”

“I haven’t worked out there yet. Everyone that goes is in such good shape, I thought I should lose a few pounds before I start.”

“I don’t think they’d care, Herb. And if they do, just impress them by flashing your gold card.”

“You’re not being very supportive here, Jack.”

“Sorry.” I picked up a file to fan myself. “It’s the heat.”

“You need to get in shape. I’ve got guest passes. They’ve got Pilates at the club. I’m thinking of taking a class after work.”

Herb smiled, biting into a rice cake. His smile faded as he chewed.

“Damn. These things taste like Styrofoam.”

The phone rang.

“Jack? Phil Blasky. There’s, um, a bit of a situation here at County.”

County meant the Cook County Morgue. Phil was the Chief Medical Examiner.

“I know this is going to sound like a paperwork problem . . .” He paused, sucking in some air through his teeth. “. . . but I’ve checked and double-checked.”

“What’s wrong, Phil?”

“We have an extra body. Well, actually, some extra body parts.”

Phil explained. I told him we’d stop by, and then shared the information with Herb.

“Could be some kind of prank. County are a strange bunch.”

“Maybe. Phil doesn’t think so.”

“Did he say what the extra parts were?”

“Arms.”

Benedict thought this over.

“Maybe someone is simply lending him a hand.”

I stood up and pinched the center of my blouse, fanning in some air. “We’ll take your car.”

Herb recently bought a sporty new Camaro Z28, an expensive reminder of his refusal to age gracefully. Silly as he looked behind the wheel, the car had great air-conditioning, whereas my 1988 Nova did not.

We left my office and made our way downstairs and outside. It was like stepping into a toaster. Though it couldn’t have been much hotter than the district building, the blistering sun amplified everything. A bank across the street flashed the current temp on its sidewalk sign. One hundred and one. And the sign was in the shade.

Herb pressed a gizmo on his key chain and his car beeped and started on its own. It was red, naturally, and so heavily waxed that the glare coming off it hurt my eyes. I climbed in the passenger side and angled both vents on my face while Herb babied the Camaro out of its parking space.

“Zero to sixty in five point two seconds.”

“Have you taken it up to sixty yet?”

“I’m still breaking it in.”

He put on a pair of Ray-Bans and pulled onto Addison. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the cool air. We were at County all too soon.

Cook County Morgue was located on Harrison in Chicago’s medical district, near Rush-Presbyterian Hospital. It rose two stories, all dirty white stone and tinted windows. Herb pulled around back into a circular driveway, and parked next to the curb.

“I hate coming here.” Herb frowned, his mustache drooping like a walrus. “I can never get the smell out of my clothes.”

Years ago, when my mother walked a beat, cops would smear whiskey on their upper lip to combat the stench of the morgue.

Sanitation had improved since then; cooler temps, better ventilation, greater attention to hygiene. But the smell still stuck with you.

I made do with some cherry lip balm, a small dab under each nostril. I passed the tube to Herb.

“Cherry? Don’t you have menthol?”

“It’s a hundred degrees out. I wasn’t worried about windburn.”

He sniffed the balm, then handed it back without applying any.

“It smells too good. I’d eat it.”

The heat hit me like a blow dryer when I got out of the car.

A cop walked over and eyed the Camaro—there were always cops around County. He was young and tan and didn’t give me a second glance, preferring to talk to Herb.

“Five speed?”

“Six. Three hundred ten horses.”

The uniform whistled, running his finger along some pinstriping.

“What’s under the hood, five point seven?”

Herb nodded. “Want to see?”

I left the boys with their toy and walked into the entrance, to the right of the automatic double doors.

The lobby, if you could call it that, consisted of a counter, a door, and a glass partition. Behind the counter was a solitary black man in hospital scrubs.

“Phil Blasky?”

He shot his thumb at the door. “In the fridge.”

I signed in, received a plastic badge, and entered the main room.

Death overpowered the cherry, so strong I could taste it in the back of my mouth. It had a sickly-sour smell, like rotting carnations.

To the right, a mortician in an ill-fitting suit hefted a body off a table and onto a rolling cot. When he finished, he pulled off his latex gloves and shot them, rubber-band-style, into a garbage can.

Next to him, resting on a stainless steel scale built into the floor, was a naked male corpse, grossly obese, with burns covering most of his torso. The LCD screen on the wall blinked 450 lbs. He smelled like bacon.

I held my breath and pulled open the heavy aluminum door, which led into the cooler.

The stench worsened in here. Bleach and blood and urine and meat gone bad.

Cook County Morgue was the largest in the Midwest. Indigents, unclaimed bodies, accident victims, suicides, and cases of foul play all came through these doors. It held about three hundred bodies.

Just my luck, they were running at capacity.

To my left, corpses lay stacked on wire shelves warehouse-style, five high and thirty wide. Stretching across the main floor was a traffic jam of tables and carts, all occupied. Some of the dead were covered with black plastic bags. Some weren’t.

Unlike movie depictions of morgues, these bodies didn’t lie down in peaceful, supine positions. Many of them had kept the poses they died in; arms and legs jutting out, curled up on their sides, necks at funny angles. They also didn’t look like a Hollywood conception of a corpse. A real dead person had very little color. Regardless of race, the skin always seemed to fade into a light blue, and the eyes were dull and cloudy, like dusty snow globes.

The temperature hovered at fifty degrees, fans blowing around the frigid, foul air. It chilled my sweat in a most unpleasant way.

To the right, in an adjacent room, an autopsy was being performed. I focused on the figure holding the bone saw, didn’t recognize him, and continued to look around.

I found Phil Blasky near the back of the room, and walked up to him carefully; the floors were sticky with various fluids, and all of them clashed with my Gucci pumps.

“Phil.”

“Jack.”

Phil was leaning over a steel table, squinting at something. I stood next to him, trying not to gape at the nude body of a toddler, half wrapped in a black plastic bag, lying next to him. The child was so rigid and pale, he appeared to be made out of wax.

“I went through every stiff in the place a second time. No one is missing arms.”

I glanced down at the table. The arms were severed at the shoulder, laid out with their fingertips touching, the elbows bending in a big M. They belonged to a female, Caucasian, with fake pink nails. A pair of black handcuffs connected them at the wrists. There was very little blood, but the jagged edges to the wounds suggested they didn’t come off easily.

“I suspect an axe.” Phil poked at the wound with a gloved finger. “See the mark along the humerus, here? It took two swings to sever the appendage.”

“It doesn’t look humorous to me.” Benedict had snuck up behind us.

“Funny,” Phil said. “Never heard that one before, working with dead bodies for twenty years. Next will you make some kind of gimme a hand joke?”

“I did that one already,” Herb said. “How about: It appears the suspect has been disarmed?”

“She was always such a cut-up?”

“Would you like a shoulder to cry on?”

“Can I go out on a limb here?”

“At least she’ll get severance pay?”

Phil cocked an eyebrow at Herb.

“Severance?” Herb said. “Sever?”

I tuned out their act and got a closer look at the arms. Snapping on a latex glove, I pushed back the cold, hard fingers and peered at the handcuffs. They were Smith and Wesson model number 100.

“Those are police issue.” Benedict poked at them with a pencil. “I’ve got a set just like them.”

So did every other cop in our district, and probably in Chicago. They were also sold at sporting goods stores, sex shops, and Army/Navy surplus outlets, plus a zillion places over the Internet. Impossible to trace. But maybe we’d get lucky and the owner had etched his name and address on the . . .

I inhaled sharply.

This couldn’t be right.

On the cuffs, next to the keyhole, were two small initials painted in red nail polish. I tugged out my .38, holstered under my blazer, and looked at the butt. It had the same two red letters.

JD.

“Herb.” I kept my voice steady. “Those handcuffs are mine.”

CHAPTER 2

I treated the morgue like a crime scene, calling in the CSU, cordoning off the area, gathering a list of employees to question.

No one had seen anything.

The Crime Scene Unit, consisting of Officer Dan Rogers—tall, blond, goatee—on samples and Officer Scott Hajek—short and compact, blue eyes hidden behind glasses—on photographs. They were young, but knew their stuff.

Rogers scanned the arms with an ALS, and they glowed flawlessly pale under the high-intensity light.

“Not a thing.” Rogers scratched at his beard.

Unusual. Under Alternate Light Source, even the tiniest bit of foreign matter glowed like a hot coal. Particles, hair, dirt, bone fragments, blood, semen, bruises, bite marks—they all fluoresced.

Dan bent down, his nose to one of the wrists.

“They’ve been washed. Smells like bleach.”

“Are you sure? The whole morgue smells like bleach.”

Rogers, in a move characteristic of his thoroughness, touched the tip of his tongue to the arm.

“Tastes like bleach too. Probably diluted with water, or it would have mottled the skin.”

“Get a sample to burn. And go brush your teeth.”

Rogers dug into his breast pocket for some cinnamon gum. After popping three pieces, he moved the soft blue light closer to the fingers on the right hand.

“I have a slight indentation on the index finger. Looks like she usually wore a ring.”

Hajek brushed past me, zooming in on the fingers. He snapped a close-up.

“I missed the taste test.” He playfully shoved Rogers. “Can I get one with you sucking on the fingers?”

Rogers showed him a finger of a different kind. Hajek’s shutter clicked.

“When you’re done scraping the fingernails, I need one of the fakes.”

“Finished already, Lieut.”

Rogers snapped off a pink press-on nail, bagged it, and handed it to me. Then he used a scalpel to take skin samples from each arm, putting them into glass tubes.

“Nothing on the handcuffs?”

“Wiped clean. I can take them back and fume them to make sure.”

“Do it. You’ll need these.”

I took the cuff keys from my ring, where they’d been attached for the last year. Rogers undid the handcuffs and placed them in an evidence bag. Then he brought the ALS around.

“No abrasions on the wrist.”

Hajek moved in, shooting a few frames.

“Thanks, guys,” I said. “If you can get the pictures on my desk tomorrow, along with the prints.”

“I’m on it.”

Rogers dug into his bag, removing fingerprint ink and two sets of cards. I left him to his work and went off in search of Herb.

Benedict stood in the lobby, talking to one of the attendants. Herb’s hand cradled a snack-size potato chip bag, half full. The other half was in his mouth.

He must have noticed the question on my face when I approached, because he said, “They’re fat-free.”

“Herb—it’s a morgue.”

“My Pilates instructor told me to eat small snacks several times a day to keep my metabolism up.”

He offered the bag.

“Try one. They’re baked. One-third less sodium too.”

I politely declined. “Get anything?”

“They run three eight-hour shifts, twenty-four hours. I questioned the four attendants here, and no one saw anything. Full list of employees is in my pocket.”

“Won’t help.”

The thin black man standing next to Herb offered his hand. I took it.

“And why won’t it help, Mr. . . . ?”

“Graves. Carl Graves. All them bodies come here in bags. Cops and EMTs wrap them up before dropping them off. Be real easy to put some extra parts in a bag, wheel it in, then sneak them out. No one would see a thing.”

“How many bodies are dropped off every day?”

“Depends. Sometimes, five or six. Sometimes, a few dozen.”

“Who has access to the morgue?”

“Cops, docs, morticians. Some days fifty people sign in.”

“How many employees?”

“Around twenty, with the ME’s staff.”

I frowned. If the arms had been here for a few days before being discovered, we could be dealing with several hundred suspects.

“Thanks, Mr. Graves.” I handed him my card. “If you hear anything, let us know.”

Graves nodded, walked off.

“Anything with the arms?” Herb asked, lips flecked with bits of greasy potato.

“Nothing, other than the fact that they’re my handcuffs.”

“Should I read you your rights?”

“Not yet. First you have to trick me into confessing.”

“Gotcha. So . . . was the rest of the body hard to dispose of?”

“Yeah. I’ll never get those stains out of my carpet.”

My cell rang, saving me from further interrogation.

“Daniels.”

“Ms. Daniels? This is Dr. Evan Kingsbury at St. Mary’s Hospital in Miami. Mary Streng was just admitted into the Emergency Room. You’re listed on her insurance as a contact.”

My heart dropped into my stomach.

“She’s my mother. What happened?”

“She’s sedated. I know you’re in Chicago, but is it possible for you to get here? She needs you right now.”

CHAPTER 3

I hadn’t realized how fragile my mother had become until I saw her in that hospital bed, an IV cruelly jabbed into her pale, thin arm. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds, eyes that were once bright and active now sunken and sparkless.

This couldn’t be the woman who raised me, the tough-but-loving beat cop who played both mother and father in my upbringing. The woman who taught me how to read and how to shoot. The woman with such inner strength that I modeled my life on hers.

“The doctors are overreacting, Jacqueline. I’ll be fine.” She offered a weak smile in a voice that wasn’t hers.

“Your hip is broken, Mom. You almost died.”

“Didn’t come close.”

I held her hand, feeling the fragile bones under the skin. My veneer started to crack.

“If Mr. Griffin hadn’t made the police break down your door, you’d still be lying on the bathroom floor.”

“Nonsense. I would have gotten out of there soon enough.”

“Mom . . . you were there for four days.” The horror of it stuck in my throat. I’d called her yesterday—our twice weekly call—and when she hadn’t answered, I assumed she was out with Mr. Griffin or one of the other elderly men she occasionally saw.

“I had water from the bathtub. I could have lasted another week or two.”

“Aw, Mom . . .”

The tears came. My mother patted the back of my hand with her free one.

“Oh, Jacqueline. Don’t be upset. This is what happens when you get old.”

“I should have been there.”

“Nonsense. You live a thousand miles away. This is my dumb fault for slipping in the shower.”

“I called you yesterday. When you didn’t pick up, I should have . . .”

My mother shushed me, softly.

“Sweetheart, you know you can’t play the what-if game, especially in our profession. This isn’t the first time this has happened.”

She couldn’t have hurt me more if she’d tried.

“How many times, Mom?”

“Jacqueline—”

“How many times?”

“Three or four.”

I didn’t need to hear that. “But you never hurt yourself, right?”

“I may have had a cast on my elbow for a while.”

I fought not to yell. “And you never told me?”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“Yes . . . you are.”

She sighed, her face so sad.

“Jacqueline, when your father died, you were the only family I had left. You were also the only family that I ever needed. I would never, ever allow myself to become a burden to you.”

I sniffled, found my center.

“Well, get used to it. As soon as you’re released, you’re moving in with me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Please, Mom.”

“No. I have a very active social life. How could I get intimate with a gentleman when my daughter is in the other room?”

Reluctantly, I played my trump card.

“I spoke with your doctors. They don’t feel that you’re able to take care of yourself.”

Mom’s face hardened.

“What? That’s ridiculous.”

“They’ll only release you from the hospital into my custody.”

“Was it that Dr. Kingsbury? Smarmy little bastard, talking to me like I’m a three-year-old.”

“You don’t have a choice, Mom.”

“I always have a choice.”

“It’s either me, or assisted living.”

I watched my words sink in. My mother’s biggest, and only, fear was going into a nursing home. Before meeting my father, she worked briefly as an activity director in a continuing care facility, and swore that she’d jump in front of a bus before ever checking into one of the “death hotels,” as she called them.

“No way in hell.”

“Mom, I can invoke power of attorney.”

“My mind is sound.”

I made myself keep going, even though I hated this.

“I have friends in the courts, Mom.”

My mom turned away, shaking her head.

“You wouldn’t do that to me.”

“Look at me, Mom. How far do you think I would go to protect you?”

Mom continued to stare at the wall. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

“Bullying an old lady. Is that how I raised you, Jacqueline?”

“No, Mom. You raised me to care. Just like you said: You’re the only family I’ve ever had. You took care of me for eighteen years.” I squeezed her hand. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

Mom pulled her hand away.

“I’d like to be alone.”

“Please. Don’t be like this.”

She pressed the button to page the nurse.

“Mom . . . please.”

A white-clothed figure poked her head into the room.

“How are we doing, Mrs. Streng?”

“I’m very tired. I’d like to take a nap.”

The nurse looked at me, sympathetic.

I stood up, briefly fussed with the get-well flower arrangement I’d brought, and then turned to leave.

“Nurse,” Mom’s voice cracked. “Please make sure I don’t have any visitors for the next few days.”

“Perhaps you’ll feel differently tomorrow, Mrs. Streng.”

“No. I’m sure I won’t.”

The tears came again. I took a deep breath and stopped my chest from quivering.

“I love you, Mom.”

For the first time ever, she didn’t respond with “I love you too.”

The nurse put her hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle push.

I took one more look at my mother, and walked out of her room.

CHAPTER 4

Mom lived in Dade City, a pleasant town that seemed out of place in Florida. Rather than tourist-crammed beaches and mega theme parks, Dade boasted gently rolling hills, actual woods, and so many antique malls you couldn’t spit without hitting one.

The night had arrived, hot and thick like a soggy blanket, but I kept the windows down. The rental had decent air-conditioning, but I didn’t feel I deserved it.

I’d been to her place twice before, and always missed the turn onto her street. Tonight was no exception. I pressed through three lefts and found it on the second pass.

Her condo had a matching numbered space in the parking lot. Overnight bag slung over my shoulder, her keys in my hand, I was just about to enter the lobby when I stopped, mid-step.

Was I doing the right thing?

A quick image of Mom facedown in the bathtub spurred me on.

The Highlands were retirement condos, regardless of what the brochures promised. No one under fifty-five lived here. A full-time staff kept the pool clean, ran errands for the tenants, and tended the prerequisite eighteen-hole golf course. They also had EMT training, a necessity since the elderly often acted, well, elderly. But even though they were available twenty-four hours a day, they didn’t routinely check on their residents.

I took the elevator to the fifth floor, and found a painfully thin old man in a bright Hawaiian shirt crouched before my mother’s open door, fiddling with a screwdriver.

“Hello?”

He peered at me through thick glasses; first the upper half, then tilting his head up so he could squint through the bifocals. The man had a bald head so speckled with age spots it was a dead ringer for a sparrow’s egg.

“Mmm? Oh, hello.”

The man stood, with much creaking of bones. Fully erect, he wasn’t much taller than when he’d been squatting; his back curved like a question mark. He smiled, flashing bright white dentures, and offered his hand.

“You must be Jacqueline. Sal Griffin. I’m a friend of your mother’s.”

I forced down my smile. Mom often told me stories of her trysts with Mr. Griffin, and usually described him as “insatiable,” “unrelenting,” and “He’s a machine; his pelvis is spring-loaded.” I’d always pictured him as a distinguished, Sean Connery type. Instead, standing before me was a bald Don Knotts.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Griffin.”

“The police made a bit of a mess.” He motioned to the door. “I’m putting in a new jamb.”

“Don’t they have people here that can fix it?”

“Sure. But I wanted to make sure it was done right. Excuse me, where are my manners? Let me take that for you.”

Mr. Griffin reached for my carry-on. I thought about protesting, fearful he might hurt himself lifting it, but then let him play the gentleman. He led me into the condo, flipping on lights as he walked.

The place was clean, tidy, well-kept. I resisted the immediate urge to check the fridge and the cupboards to make sure Mom was eating right.

“I spoke with your mother a little while ago. She mentioned you might be coming.”

He set my bag down on the dining room table.

“How long ago? I’ve tried to call a few times since leaving the hospital, but she has a Do Not Disturb on the line.”

“Oh, about five minutes. She called me. I’ve never heard her so upset before.”

“We had a . . . disagreement.”

He frowned, nodding.

“Proud woman, your mother. When I had the police break in, earlier today, her first words to me were to get the hell out of her bathroom, because she didn’t want me to see her like that.”

I smirked. “That sounds like Mom.”

“I’m sorry she was there for so long. I just got back into town this morning. If I’d have even considered . . .”

“Thank you for coming to her rescue, Mr. Griffin. I’m the one who should be feeling guilty. She’s fallen before.”

“I know. Eight or nine times. I installed the safety bar in her shower.”

I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice. “Eight or nine? She told me four.”

“I’m not surprised. You’d have just . . .”

His voice trailed off. We both knew what was unsaid. If I’d known she’d been falling a lot, I’d have forced her to move in with me earlier.

“Well, I appreciate all you’ve done for her. Thank you.”

Mr. Griffin shrugged. “Beautiful woman, your mother. Nice to finally meet you. She talks about you incessantly.”

“It must be irritating.”

“Not at all. I’d love to hear your version of how you got that guy who killed all those women, the Gingerbread Man. The way your mom tells it, that private investigator fella, the one who was the hero in the TV movie, he really didn’t do a damn thing.”

“True.”

“And you’re much prettier than that fat actress they got to play you.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Though I will admit, that scene in the sewer, where you grabbed that fella’s leg and begged for him to save you . . .” Mr. Griffin chuckled. “That was pretty funny.”

I frowned. That wasn’t how it happened, but I figured I got off easy. In the original screenplay, the writer had me wet my pants in that scene. I had to threaten legal action to get that taken out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s fine.”

Mr. Griffin grinned. “It’s hard, having your pride trampled on.”

Then he winked at me. Clever old coot. I was about to explain the difference between having a bruised ego and having a broken hip, when a beeping sound interrupted us.

“My phone. Pardon me.”

He removed a cell from his baggy shorts.

“Hello? . . . Hi, how are you feeling, Mary? . . . Yes, she’s here right now. . . . Hmm. I see. Would you like to talk to her? Perhaps you should tell her that yourself. I wouldn’t feel comfortable . . . Yes. Okay. I understand. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

He folded up the phone and put it away, his wrinkled face pained.

“Just tell me.”

“Your mother said that she’d prefer it if you didn’t stay at her place.”

I think I flinched.

“She’s just angry right now, Jacqueline. Angry and hurt. I’ll talk to her.”

“She was stuck on the bathroom floor, in pain, for four days—”

“I know.”

“—lying in her own mess—”

“I know.”

“She could have died, Mr. Griffin. I can’t let that happen to my mother again.”

Mr. Griffin put a hand on my shoulder, patted.

“You have to understand something about getting old, Jacqueline. We can’t hold on to our health. It’s impossible. But we try like mad to hold on to our dignity.”

My eyes teared up, but I refused to cry.

“I just want my mom to be safe. Dignity doesn’t matter.”

“But it does, Jacqueline. Once dignity is gone, the will to live isn’t far behind.”

I walked away, heading for my overnight bag.

“Fine. I’ll stay at a hotel.”

“You can, but your mother was quite clear. She refuses to speak to you until you stop bullying her. I’m sorry.”

I clenched my teeth and my fists, wanting to scream. Instead of picking up my carry-on, I walked past it and headed for the bathroom. Seeing where it happened, seeing the mess, would help steel my resolve.

The bathroom was spotless.

“I cleaned it up earlier.” Mr. Griffin put his hand on my shoulder again. “She’ll come around. Just give her time. Asking for help just isn’t your mother’s way.”

I spun, ready for a fight.

“Neither of you seem to think she needs help.”

Now it was his turn to look sad.

“Oh, she does. Yes, she does.”

“So you agree with me?”

He nodded.

“Why does that make me feel even worse?”

Mr. Griffin, with the spring-loaded pelvis, hugged me, and I hugged him back, and we spent a moment trying to understand the unfairness of it all.

“Should I get a motel room?” I asked. “Try to force her hand?”

“She doesn’t want you here right now, Jacqueline. It’s best if you go home. I’ll talk to her. This will all work out.”

I nodded, but deep down I knew differently.

The three-hour plane ride back to Chicago seemed to take a million years.

CHAPTER 5

I made it home a little after three in the morning. I live in Wrigleyville, in an apartment on Addison and Racine. It’s a loud neighborhood, the streets always full of Cubs fans and barhopping kids, many of whom like to spend their evenings directly under my window, shouting at one another. As a consolation, the rent is too high.

Exhaustion hammered at me like the tide, but sleep and I weren’t close friends. On good nights, I could get two hours of REM before stress woke me up.

Tonight wouldn’t be a good night.

I blame my job, since it’s easier than blaming myself. I’ve been to several general pracs, but haven’t broken down and seen a shrink yet. The latest wonder drug, Ambien, worked for me, but with consequences—the next morning I swam in an unending groggy haze that severely impaired my ability to serve and protect. So I only took it as a last resort. Besides, insomnia gave me an edge; less sleep equaled more productivity. Plus, my boyfriend found baggy eyes sexy.

There was a message from him on the machine. I let it play as I undressed.

“Hi, Jack. The conference is going well. Accountants are actually a fun bunch, once you get a few drinks in them. Naw, I’m kidding—we become even more boring. I just had a two-hour argument with some guy about accruals. I’ll be back in Chicago tomorrow night, so tell your other suitors you’re mine for the evening. I have an important question to run by you. Miss you. Love you. Hope you’re keeping the city safe. Bye-bye.”

I smirked. I met Latham Conger, head accountant at Oldendorff and Associates, ten months ago, through a dating service that Herb had conned me into joining. Latham was pleasant, attractive, attentive, employed, and heterosexual. Which, for a forty-something woman in Chicago, was like winning the lottery. He also loved me, and wasn’t put off that I didn’t return the sentiment yet.

I liked Latham, a lot. And I might love him someday. But my heart muscle atrophied when Alan left me, and I haven’t been able to get it up to speed since.

I pulled on an old T-shirt and climbed into bed. Latham’s cologne clung to the pillows, and I hugged one to my chest, thinking about his phone call.

I have an important question to run by you.

What could that mean?

As if I didn’t have enough on my mind.

Rest, as expected, defied me. I tossed. I turned. I did deep breathing and relaxation exercises that brought me close to sleep, and perhaps actually into sleep for short periods of time, but I always jerked myself awake after a few minutes.

I felt immense relief when my alarm went off and it was time to go to work.

After showering and changing into a yellow blouse, a tan jacket, and matching slacks, I did a quick makeup job with extra attention to eye concealer and headed for work.

Eight in the morning, and already the temp hovered in the nineties. Chicago, a city that didn’t smell good on average days, reeked in heat like this. I had to pass an alley on the way to my car, and the smell from the garbage cans hit me like a punch.

Kitty-corner to the 26th District, a gourmet coffee place had set up shop. I got a Columbian dark roast, black, for myself, and almost ordered a double chocolate hazelnut cappuccino for Herb until I remembered his diet. He also got a dark roast.

Caffeine in hand, I entered my building and was surprised to find it cool. In fact, it was downright chilly.

Violent Crimes Division was on the third floor. Herb sat in his office, hand in a box of fat-free chocolate cookies. He brightened when he saw me.

“Jack? Why aren’t you in Florida? Is your mom okay?”

Rather than get into it, I nodded a yes and handed him his cup.

“Coffee, thank God. I’m freezing.”

“I see they fixed the air-conditioning.”

“They did, but the temperature regulator isn’t working. They can’t shut it off.”

“Feels good.”

“Give it ten minutes, and you’ll start seeing your breath. I tried opening a window, but I can’t handle the Dumpster smell. This is just what I needed.” Herb took a sip, then made a face. “What’s this?”

“It’s coffee. That’s what it tastes like without cream and sugar.”

“It’s supposed to be this bitter?”

“Yeah.”

Herb dug through his desk and pulled out a fistful of little pink packets.

“Well, I’m glad your mother’s okay, and it’s good that you’re back. Index got a match on the prints.”

As Herb added carcinogens to his brew, I leafed through the reports on his desk.

The arms belonged to Davi McCormick of 3800 North Lake Shore Drive. Arrested once for solicitation, but clean for the last five years. Mug shots were known to be unflattering, but hers looked good enough to print. Davi was an attractive woman, much more so than the average prostitute.

I read her case details and it made sense. At the time of her arrest, she’d been working for Madame Pardieu, a high-class escort service that charged up to a grand a night. That would account for the nice neighborhood.

“Does she look familiar?” Herb asked. His jowls were stuffed with fat-free cookies, giving him a chipmunkish appearance.

“Yeah, she does.”

“You’ve probably seen her a few dozen times. When we got her name I cross-reffed with Missing Persons, and found a report from yesterday, called in by her agent. She’s Sure-a-Tex Girl.”

Sure-a-Tex was a brand of tampon marketed to the younger crowd. Sure-a-Tex Girl, wearing a not very subtle red cape, flew to the rescue of women who started their period in extreme situations, such as mountain climbing or white-water rafting. The product came in a variety of designer colors, including neon green and hot pink.

“Did you contact the agent?”

“He’ll be here any minute.” Herb took a sip of coffee and searched his desk for more saccharine.

Phil Blasky’s postmortem report was the shortest I’d ever read, due to the amount of material he had to work with. An elevated histamine level and platelet count indicated the victim had been bleeding prior to her arms being severed. Tests for several dozen drugs came back negative. Lipid levels normal. No evidence of heart disease, STDs, or pregnancy. Everything else about the arms was unspectacular.

Phil noted that the handcuffs were put on after death; axe marks indicated the swings came from the front, with the arms splayed out crucifixion-style.

Officer Dan Rogers knocked on my open door. I invited him in.

“Got the GC results from the burned skin samples.” He handed me a file. “My tongue was correct. The arms were diluted with bleach.”

“No trace of anything else?”

“Nope. Bleach will clean up just about anything. That’s why it’s used by HazMat teams. Hey, Lieut, you got any aspirin? I’ve got a headache that’s making my eyes water.”

I found a bottle in my desk and tossed it to him. He shook out five, and swallowed them dry.

“Thanks, Lieutenant. Call me if I can be any more help. I like CSU, but Detective Rogers has a nice ring to it too.”

Rogers left. Herb made a grunting, satisfied sound, and tossed his empty cookie box into the garbage, on top of three other such cookie boxes.

“Herb, not that I want to question your dieting efforts, but how many boxes of those cookies have you eaten today?”

“Why?”

“Let’s just say you could hibernate with all I’ve seen you eat in the last ten minutes.”

“So what? They’re fat-free.”

“Chocolate syrup is fat-free too. Look at the calories.”

He fished out the box he’d tossed and squinted at the nutrition panel. “Ah, hell. No wonder I’ve gained four pounds on this diet.”

“You need to watch the carbohydrates, not the fat.”

“Oh. These only have fifteen grams of carbs.”

“Per serving. How many servings per box?”

“Ah, hell.”

A knock. I turned to see Officer Fuller in the doorway. Fuller was an ex-pro football player, tall and wide, and he towered over his companion, a short, balding man wearing Armani and too much Obsession for Men.

“This is Marvin Pulitzer.”

Marvin smiled, his caps unnaturally white, and offered his hand to me. I took it, and discovered he was palming something.

“Pulitzer Prizes Talent Agency. Very pleased to meet you, Miss . . . ?”

“Lieutenant. Jacqueline Daniels.”

He held on to me a moment longer than necessary. When I got my hand back I saw he’d given me his card.

“You’ve got great bone structure, Lieutenant. Do you model?”

“I did Vogue a few issues back.”

Pulitzer narrowed his eyes, then smiled again.

“Joking. I get it. Funny. But seriously, I just landed this new account. They’re looking for distinguished, mature women. You should come in, take some test shots.”

“What’s the company?”

“Ever-Weave.”

I confessed to never hearing of them.

“They sell protective undergarments. You know, adult-sized diapers.”

Fuller chortled, deep and throaty. I dismissed him.

“Think it over. You wouldn’t have to pose wearing the product. You just have to stand there, looking embarrassed.”

No kidding.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready to delve into the glamorous world of modeling, Mr. Pulitzer. Come in and have a seat.”

Pulitzer and Herb exchanged greetings, and then he sat in a chair between us on the right side of the desk.

“So, where’s Davi?”

Herb handed Pulitzer the mug shot.

“This is Davi McCormick?”

“Yeah. Oh, Christ, she’s in trouble, isn’t she? What did she do? Has she called a lawyer yet?”

Pulitzer pulled out a cell phone the size of a matchbook and flipped it open, dialing with his pinky.

“She doesn’t need a lawyer, Mr. Pulitzer. The county medical examiner found Davi’s severed arms in the morgue yesterday morning.”

“Her . . . arms?”

Herb handed him another picture. Pulitzer lost all color.

“Oh shit! Those are Davi’s? Shit! What the hell happened to her?”

“When was the last time you spoke with Davi?”

“Four days ago. We did lunch at Wildfire. Right after that I had to catch a flight to New York.”

“What did you talk about during lunch?”

“The usual stuff. Upcoming gigs. Auditions.”

“Did Davi seem nervous, or afraid?”

“No, everything was completely normal.”

Herb and I took turns interrogating Pulitzer. We confirmed his trip, and asked several dozen questions about Davi, her friends and family, her state of mind, her life.

“She has no enemies. Not one. Which, in a competitive business like this, is amazing. She’s just a nice girl.”

“You called in a missing person’s report yesterday.”

“Yeah. She missed a shoot two days ago. Davi never missed a shoot. I called her. Even dropped by her place. She just disappeared. Jesus, who could have done something like that to her?”

Pulitzer had to take a time-out to reschedule his afternoon appointments. While he was on the phone, Herb and I conferred.

“Davi was a celebrity. She may have had stalkers.”

“We’ll call Sure-a-Tex.”

I added it to my notes.

“We also need to call Davi’s parents, check with her friends, and try to pinpoint her movements for the last week.”

Pulitzer finished his call and asked where he could get some water. I pointed him to the washroom.

Herb took a sip of coffee, then reached for more sweetener. The pile of pink wrappers on his desk was almost as high as his cup.

“If it’s someone who knew Davi, where do your handcuffs come in?”

“Coincidence? They could have fallen out of my pocket, someone picks them up and pawns them?”

“I don’t buy it.”

“It’s thin. But the only people with access to my office are cleaning people and cops.”

The maintenance staff was carefully screened during the hiring process, and cops were, well, cops. I didn’t know anyone working out of the two-six with a grudge against me, and I especially didn’t think I had any murderers on my squad. The process to become a police officer included psych profiles, mental evals, and endless personality tests and interviews. Wackos were supposedly weeded out early on.

“Maybe someone pinched them.”

That seemed more likely. I didn’t carry a purse, and most of my outfits had oversized pockets to hold all of my essentials, cuffs included. Even a mediocre thief could have gotten them from me without much effort.

“But why me?”

I used Herb’s phone to call Fuller back into the office. He’d been particularly helpful on the Gingerbread Man case, and I needed an extra man.

“Officer, I’d like you to cross-reference my previous case files with the names from County’s sign-in book. You know how to build a database?”

Fuller snorted.

“You think because I can bench three-fifty I can’t work a spreadsheet?”

“You can bench three-fifty?” Herb asked. “I almost weigh three-fifty.”

“It’s not that hard. Just a combination of diet, exercise, and supplementing.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m not getting results. I’m not supplementing.”

I thought of a hundred things to say, but managed to keep a lid on them.

Fuller walked next to Herb and leaned against his desk. The desk creaked. “I stack to boost my metabolism. Plus I use chromium, L-carnitine, CLA, and I protein-load before working out. If you want, I could take you through my NFL routine sometime.”

Herb beamed in a way that he usually reserved for chili dogs. “That’d be great! Can I get a list of those supplements you’re taking?”

“Sure. See, an ECA stack is a combination of—”

“Officer Fuller,” I interrupted, “we could really use that database.”

“Gotcha, Lieut. I’ll get right on it.”

Fuller left. Herb gave me a frown.

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

“I wanted to stop the conversation before the two of you started flexing.”

“Too much guy talk, huh? Sorry, didn’t mean to exclude you.”

Herb said it without sarcasm, but the comment chafed. Being a woman in the CPD meant constant, unrelenting exclusion. It didn’t matter that I was the number-one marksman in the district. It didn’t matter that I had a black belt in tae kwon do. Herb wouldn’t ever think to ask me about my workout routine. Unconscious sexism.

Or perhaps I was just being overly touchy because of the situation with my mom.

Pulitzer returned, looking a little better.

“I thought of something, but I don’t know if it will help or not.”

We waited.

“If Davi was doing anything illegal, it wouldn’t matter now, right? Because she’s gone? It’s silly, but I still feel protective of her.”

“Drugs?” I asked.

Pulitzer’s shoulders slumped.

“Cocaine. Recreational, as far as I knew. It didn’t affect her work.”

“Do you know where she got her drugs?”

“No idea.”

Again, we waited.

“I really have no idea. I want to help, but I’m not into that scene. I could put you in touch with some of my other models who might know, but I wouldn’t want them getting into trouble.”

Pulitzer reached up to rub the back of his neck, exposing a bandage beneath the cuff on his right wrist.

“How did you get that?” Herb asked, pointing it out.

“Hmm? Oh. Mr. Friskers.”

“Mr. Friskers?”

“Davi’s cat. I hate that damn thing. Mean as hell. I went over to Davi’s apartment before I called the police. She gave me a set of keys. I figured, I don’t know, maybe she had a heart attack, or fell and broke her leg so she couldn’t get to the phone.”

I felt Herb’s eyes on me. I kept focus on Pulitzer.

“We’ll need to check the apartment. The keys would save us some time.”

Pulitzer dug into his pants and handed me a key ring.

“Be careful. That thing is like a little T. rex.”

After assuring Pulitzer we wouldn’t pursue any narcotics possession charges with his models, he gave us the names of three who used coke.

“Is there anything else? I wasn’t able to reschedule my afternoon meeting. Big client. I want to help Davi, but I really can’t miss this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pulitzer. We’ll be in touch.”

We shook hands.

“Please catch the guy that did this. Davi is—was—a real sweetheart.”

After he left, I stood up and tried to stomp some blood back into my toes, which felt frostbitten.

“You up for a drive, Herb?”

“Hell, yes. My nose hairs have icicles hanging from them.”

“We can only hope those are icicles.”

Keys in hand, we headed for his car to check out Davi’s apartment.

The summer heat felt wonderful for the first five minutes. Then Herb cranked the air-conditioning.

CHAPTER 6

It’s a bad one.

He looks around his office, a knuckle jabbed against his temple, trying to will the pain away.

Does anyone notice? They must. His neck muscles are tight enough to strum, he’s drenched in sweat, and he can’t control the trembling.

He’s never experienced pain this intense. Not even his injury hurt this much. It’s as if his head is in a vise, being slowly tightened until his eyes are ready to pop out. The pills he took earlier aren’t doing a damn thing.

Maybe his wife is right. He should see a doctor. But the idea terrifies him. What if the doctor finds something seriously wrong? What if he needs surgery? He’d rather deal with the pain than let some quack poke around in his brain.

“You okay?”

A coworker. Female. Plain-looking, heavy hips, short brown hair in a spiky Peter Pan style.

“Headache.” He manages a sickly grin.

“Do you need some aspirin?”

He decides to kill her.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She walks to her desk. He imagines her, kneeling on the floor in his plastic room. She’s crying, of course. Maybe he’s taken a belt to her first, to loosen her up. Leaving marks on this one will be okay. Since she works with him, he can’t allow her body to be discovered.

“Tylenol?” she calls over the cubicle wall.

“Fine.”

How should she die? Her haircut inspires him. He will draw his knife across her forehead, pull back the skin to expose the bone. Work a finger in there, then two and three.

Skin stretches. His hands are large, but he should be able to get his entire hand between her skull and her scalp.

“Like a warm, wet glove,” he says, shivering.

“What’s like a glove?”

She’s holding out the Tylenol bottle, one eyebrow raised.

“I want to thank you for this.”

“No problem. I used to get migraines. I would have killed somebody to take the pain away.”

Me too.

“You know, Sally, we’ve worked in the same building for a few years now, and I don’t know anything about you.”

She smiles. Her front teeth are crooked. He can picture her mouth stretched open, screaming and bloody, as he practices some amateur dentistry with a ball-peen hammer.

“I’m married, with two kids, Amanda and Jenna. Amanda is eight and Jenna just turned five.”

He forces a grin, his hopes shattered. Who would have guessed an ugly thing like her had a family? He doubts he’ll be able to get her alone, and even if he manages, she’ll be missed.

“How about you? Married?”

“Yes. No kids, though. My wife is a model, and she doesn’t want to ruin her body. You know, hips spreading, stretch marks, saggy tits.”

Ugly Sally’s smile slips a degree.

“Yeah, well, it happens. But I think it’s worth it.”

“Look, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the Tylenol.”

“No problem. TOSAP.”

He inwardly cringes at the slogan. “Yeah. TOSAP.”

Ugly Sally waddles away, and he works the cap off the bottle and dry-swallows six Tylenol. The throbbing, which abated slightly during his murder-fantasies, comes back harder than ever.

He needs to kill somebody. As soon as possible.

The pain-relieving properties of murder were discovered by him at a young age, when he was in his third foster home. Ironically, he’d been removed from his previous home for being neglected—the couple who had taken him in had also taken in eight other children, for the monthly check from the government. They would blow it all on drugs and let the children go without food. Well-meaning Social Services had whisked him away from the neglect, and handed him over to a psychotic alcoholic instead.

After a particularly nasty beating with a car antenna, he and his younger foster brother were locked in a closet.

He’d really been hurting. But along with the pain was a sense of helplessness, of frustration.

He took that frustration out on his foster brother, in the dark, muffled confines of the closet. The more he hurt the smaller boy, the more his own pain went away.

His new foster father went to jail for the murder.

When the headaches began, he knew just how to deal with them.

After four clicks of the mouse, his monitor fills with eligibles.

He finds a girl, one who lives just a few blocks away. Address seems to be current. He calls, using his cell.

A woman answers, her voice deep and throaty.

Perfect.

CHAPTER 7

The doorman at Davi McCormick’s apartment building wore a heavy wool blazer, dark red, complete with gold epaulets and matching buttons. In this heat he looked positively miserable.

“Last time I saw Ms. McCormick was Sunday evening, right before Murry took over. Murry works the six P.M. to two A.M. shift, and she left the building about fifteen minutes before that.”

“Do you remember what she wore?”

“A black cocktail dress, heels, diamond-stud earrings. Her hair was up. As I held open the door I told her she looked beautiful and asked where she was going.”

“What did she answer?”

“She said, Big date. Real big. And then laughed. Is she okay?”

Herb gave him the news, then got the phone numbers for Murry and the morning doorman. He called them during the elevator ride. Neither had seen Davi since Sunday.

Pulitzer’s key got us inside. I could have fit three of my apartments inside of Davi’s, with room left over to park my car.

“I’ll take the bedroom,” I told Herb.

Then we heard the scream.

I tugged my .38 from the holster strapped to my left armpit, senses heightened.

Movement, to the right. Both Herb and I swung our guns over.

A cat, wearing a large disposable diaper, bounded out from under the dining room table and into the hallway, screaming like a train whistle.

Herb exhaled. “I just had about four heart attacks.”

“That must be Mr. Friskers.”

“Either that or a small, furry toddler. Did you check out the diaper?”

“Yeah. Talk about pampering your pets.”

I tucked my gun back under my blazer and fished a pair of latex gloves from my pocket.

“We’ve got an hour,” I told Herb, indicating when the CSU would arrive.

Davi’s bedroom was the bedroom of a typical young woman, albeit one with money. Her unmade bed had a stuffed animal infestation, over a dozen of them swarming on top of the pink comforter. A framed Nagel print hung on the far wall. The near wall was obscured by a collage of pictures, most of them Davi, snipped from magazines.

A large pile of clothing rested near the closet, and a makeup mirror—the kind movie stars have with bare lightbulbs surrounding the frame—hung above the dresser. Cosmetics rested on every flat surface in the room.

On the nightstand, next to the bed, a phone/answering machine combo blinked, indicating twelve messages. I scrolled through the caller ID numbers. Four of them read “blocked call,” the last from 4:33 P.M. Sunday night.

I played the messages. All were from Pulitzer but one: a long-distance call from Davi’s mother. The blocked calls didn’t seem to correspond to any messages.

Davi’s walk-in closet was so crammed full of clothing I could barely walk in. Some of it occupied hangers, but most of it rested in large heaps on the floor. Rummaging through the piles yielded nothing but an empty cat carrier.

A quick search of her drawers found more clothes, makeup, and a nickel bag of cocaine. I placed it in one of the evidence bags I always keep in my pocket. Then I pulled every drawer completely out and checked to see if anything was hidden behind them or taped under them. I’d been doing that ever since seeing a Hill Street Blues episode where a cop found a clue that way. Maybe someone somewhere saw the same episode.

No such luck today.

Under the bed I discovered two stray stuffed animals, a cat toy, and several years’ worth of dust. Nothing hidden between the mattress and box spring. Nothing behind the Nagel print.

I returned to the phone and hit Redial, copying down the last number called and disconnecting before it went through. Then I copied down all of the numbers on the caller ID.

“Jack!”

I’ve been partners with Herb for over a decade, but had never heard such raw panic in his voice before. I rushed out of the bedroom, gun drawn.

Herb stood in the living room, stock-still. Tears ran down his cheeks.

Perched on Herb’s head was Mr. Friskers, claws dug in tight.

“He leaped off the curtains. His claws are like fishhooks.”

I took a step closer. Mr. Friskers hissed and arched his back.

Herb screamed.

“Get it off before he scalps me, Jack!”

“You can’t pull him off?”

“His claws are stuck in my skull bone.”

Only years of training and consummate professionalism prevented me from breaking down in hysterical laughter.

“You want me to call Animal Control?” I tried to say it straight, but a giggle escaped.

“No. I want you to shoot him.”

“Herb . . .”

“Shoot the cat, Jack. Please. I’m begging you. It’s not just the pain. There’s gotta be several days’ worth of cat mess in that diaper. The smell is making my eyes water.”

I’d never owned a cat and had zero experience with the species. But I did recall an old TV commercial where the cat came running when it got fed. Couldn’t hurt to try.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t leave me, Jack.”

“I’m just going to get my camera.”

“That’s not even close to being funny.”

I located the canned cat food in a cabinet. When I opened one of the tins, Herb screamed again. Mr. Friskers appeared in the kitchen a heartbeat later.

“You were just hungry, weren’t you, kitty?”

The cat yowled at me. I set the can on the floor and watched him inhale the food.

Herb came through the doorway. His gun was out, pointing at Mr. Friskers.

“Herb, put that away.”

“It’s evil, Jack. It has to die.”

Mr. Friskers looked at Herb, hissed, then bolted out of the room. Herb holstered his weapon.

“Am I bleeding?”

“A little.” I handed him some paper towels. “Find anything?”

“Bank and credit card statements, phone bills, a few personal letters. You?”

“A few grams of cocaine.”

“Give it to the cat. Maybe it will calm him down.”

I gave Herb a fake smile. “Funny, for someone bleeding to death. Want to stop by the ER on the way back for your rabies shot?”

Herb narrowed his eyes, then looked past me, through the kitchen.

“The crime scene unit will be here soon.”

“So?”

A yowl pierced the room, and Mr. Friskers shot past us and pounced his diaper-clad ass onto the counter. He sat there, hissing. His tail, which poked out through the center of the diaper, swished back and forth like a cobra.

“I’ll try Animal Control.” I took out my cell.

The news wasn’t good.

“Sorry, Lieutenant. The heat wave has all of us doing triple time. Soonest we could pick it up is Monday.”

“We might all be eaten by then.”

“It’s the best I can do. You can try the Humane Society.”

I tried the Humane Society.

“Sorry, Officer. We couldn’t come for at least a week. When the temperature gets this high, animals are hit hardest. We don’t even have any room for another.”

Herb nudged me.

“Tell them this cat is evil. If you shaved its head, you’d see a 666.”

I relayed the info, but they weren’t swayed. Herb suggested calling the Crocodile Hunter, but neither of us knew his number.

“We can’t let him stay here, Jack.”

I agreed. A cat could mess up a scene in a dozen ways. Not just by destroying evidence—it could get in the team’s way, hurt someone, or even get hurt itself if it inhaled the wrong chemical.

“You want him?” I asked.

Herb frowned and tore off another paper towel to blot his scalp.

I reached a tentative hand out to stroke the cat, and he bared claws and took a swipe at me.

“Try offering him your head,” Herb suggested. “He’ll jump on and we can walk him out.”

I left the kitchen and went into Davi’s bedroom, returning a moment later with the cat carrier and some ski gloves.

Herb raised an eyebrow. “Should I start dialing 911 now?”

“No need to worry. Animals love me, because they can sense my pure heart.”

Without hesitating, I grabbed Mr. Friskers around the body. He countered by screaming louder than humanly possible and locking his fangs onto my right index finger. The gloves protected me, and I managed to get him in the carrier without losing a digit.

“So now we throw him in Lake Michigan, right?”

“I’m sure one of Davi’s friends will take him.”

“And in the meantime?”

I let out a big, dramatic sigh.

“I guess I’ll have to keep him for a few days.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jack. I don’t want the next murder I investigate to be yours.”

“He’s just scared and grumpy. You’d be grumpy too if you had the same diaper on for four days. Right, little guy?”

I poked my gloved finger into the cat carrier, and Mr. Friskers pounced on it, biting and scratching.

“Try showing him your pure heart,” Herb suggested.

The cat screamed for the entire ride back to the office.

CHAPTER 8

“My place is just up the next block.”

“This isn’t a very nice neighborhood.”

“On purpose. My wife would never think to look for me here.”

He smiles at the girl. Eileen Hutton. Young, pretty, perfect body. She knew it, too, which is why this date cost a cool thousand bucks.

She won’t get the chance to spend it.

They’re driving south on Kedzie, property values dropping block by block. The flophouse where he takes his women is dilapidated, filthy, and came complete with a handful of winos lounging in front. When he parks in the adjacent alley, she doesn’t want to get out of the car.

“What’s wrong?” He grins. His head feels ready to burst, an incessant pounding that’s making his vision blur. Sweat streaks down his face in rivers. Hopefully, she’ll think it’s just the heat.

“I don’t feel comfortable here.”

“Don’t you trust me? I’m one of the good guys.”

He unlocks the glove compartment, takes out a silver cigarette case. Lined up inside are six rolled joints. He lights one up, hands it to her.

“I married my wife for money, and believe me, she’s got a lot. She won’t put out, though. So I have to get it on the side, and I have to be discreet about it. You understand.”

She puffs and nods.

Enjoy it, baby. It’s your last.

No one gives them a glance as they walk into the building. The hallway smells like piss and worse. Lighting is at a minimum. She holds his arm until they get to his room.

His hand is trembling as he unlocks the door.

Almost there. Just a few more minutes.

They enter and she turns in a full circle, taking it all in. “Wow! What’s your kink, man?”

The floors and walls are lined with clear plastic sheets. The only piece of furniture in the room is a bed, and that’s also similarly covered.

“I like plastic.”

“I can tell.” She smiles in a way that she probably thinks is sexy. Annoying bitch. He’s going to enjoy slicing her up.

“I want you to wear something for me.”

“Let me guess. A plastic garbage bag?”

“No. These.”

He reaches into his pocket and takes out a pair of earrings. Silver hoops, antique-looking.

“Those are pretty.”

She removes the dangly gold ones she has on, shoves them into her little spaghetti strap designer purse. When she puts the first hoop in, he begins to pant. His expression must scare her, because she stops smiling.

“You know, I usually don’t make dates on my own. I normally go through the escort service.”

“Don’t worry. You trust me, remember?”

She nods, but it’s uncertain.

“These earrings look beautiful on you, Eileen.”

“Thanks. Um, how did you get my number, anyway?”

“I have ways.”

“Yeah. I guess you do.”

“The bathroom is over there. I’d really like it if you came out wearing nothing but those earrings.”

She gives him a half smile, hesitates, then trots off to the bathroom like a good little whore.

He undresses, folding his clothes neatly and putting them on the floor of the closet, next to the axe. His other instruments are laid out on a stained towel.

What to use, what to use?

He selects a garrote for the murder and a box cutter for the detail work. The garrote is something he picked up at work—a twenty-inch strand of piano wire, the ends twisted around wooden pegs. He hasn’t tried it yet. Should be fun.

She comes out of the bathroom, strutting. Her confidence is back. Her naked body is flawless.

But it won’t be for long.

“Well, you’re a big one, aren’t you? What do you want to do first, big boy?”

Severing her head is harder than he’d have guessed. He has to prop his knee up against her back for leverage, and then use a sawing motion with the garrote to get through the spine.

There’s a lot of blood.

When he’s finished, he goes to work with the utility knife.

He attends to her eagerly, like a starving man. The feeling is more than sexual. It’s euphoric. Mind-altering.

Pain-relieving.

The moment he walked behind her and stretched the wire across her pretty little throat, the pain vanished. His vision cleared, his jaw unclenched, and a feeling of pure relief a thousand times better than any orgasm flooded through him.

He doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t care why. The throbbing is gone, replaced by a mad giggling fit as he works harder and faster with the utility knife.

It soon escalates into a mindless frenzy.

Afterward, he takes a shower. The water is tepid and smells like rust. He doesn’t care.

The pain is gone.

How long it will stay gone is unknown to him. Sometimes it lasts for weeks. Sometimes, only a few hours.

He takes what he can get.

He scrubs his nails with a toothbrush and a lot of soap, cleaning out all of the gore and little bits. He notices similar bits in his mouth, spits something bloody onto the shower floor.

Must have really gotten crazy there.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees how crazy he’s actually been.

It’s a mess. Worse than he’s ever done.

He sits on the bed, naked, in a Thinker pose, staring at the body. He doesn’t even remember doing half of these things to her. And using only a one-inch blade and pure strength. Impressive.

“I am one scary son of a bitch,” he says to himself.

Careful to avoid the blood pool, he pads over to the closet and quickly dresses. On his cell phone, he presses 3 on speed dial.

“I’ve got another one.”

Chuckles on the other end. “Busy little bee, aren’t you?”

“Come get her.”

“I’m already out the door.”

He stands in the corner. Staring at the mess. Memorizing it.

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock.

“Who the hell is it?”

“The password is psycho. Open up.”

He grins, letting Derrick inside. The man is short, compact, with acne scars on his chubby cheeks and a lazy eye that always looks to the left.

Derrick views the room and whistles.

“Damn! This is some piece of work. I’m going to need a shovel to clean this up.”

“So?” He hands Derrick fifty dollars. “Go buy a shovel.”

“Be right back, tiger.”

In half an hour, Derrick returns. He wheels in the cart, the body bag resting on top.

“I thought you went to get a shovel.”

“It’s in the bag.”

Derrick gets to work, rolling up the body and the mess in the plastic tarps lining the floor.

“Boy, you really did a number on her,” Derrick says. “Where’s her heart?”

The killer belches, pounds his chest.

Derrick laughs. “Talk about having heartburn.”

The joke is lost on him. He’s becoming anxious. Now that the rage has passed, he has to make sure everything goes according to plan.

“How are you going to dispose of her?”

“This one I think I’ll cremate. I can’t risk one of my famous two-for-one specials. The casket would leak.”

“I want these to be found at the morgue, same as before.”

The killer hands him a plastic bag.

“Ears? That’s a riot.” Derrick brings the bag to his mouth and yells, “Hello! Can you hear me?”

Idiot. But beggars can’t be choosers.

“Leave the earrings on. They’re important.”

“No problem. These will be easier to sneak in than those arms. Hell, I could keep them in my pocket.”

“Her things are in the bathroom. Take what you want. There’s a grand in her purse.”

“Righto, chief.”

The cleanup continues for another fifteen minutes. The body and bloody tarps are zipped up in the bag.

“I’ll line the room with new plastic sometime next week.”

“Sooner.”

“Sooner? You got the itch again already?”

“Not yet. But it could come back.”

Derrick didn’t know about the headaches. He thought he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill sex killer.

“Damn. I’m glad I’m not a good-looking chick with you loose in this city.”

That won’t save you. When the time comes, I’ll gut you as well.

They leave the room, Derrick pushing the cart, the killer walking alongside. A few liquor-stained eyes peek at them, then quickly turn away. Derrick’s van is parked in the alley, behind the killer’s car. He pushes the cart into the rear, spring-loaded legs collapsing as he eases it in.

“Hey, you think, maybe, next time you do one of these women . . .”

“You want to watch?”

Derrick’s face lights up. “Yeah! I mean, I’m no stranger to this shit. I’m not as, uh, extreme, as you are. But I’ve done things.”

You pimple-faced freak. I know about the things you’ve done. You make my stomach turn.

“We’ll see. A tag-team match might be fun.”

“A tag-team. Yeah, I like that.”

He claps Derrick on the shoulder, forces a grin. He knows the hardest thing about getting away with murder is disposing of the body, and having a mortician under his thumb makes things a lot easier. Still, there’s no way he’ll ever let Derrick see him in action. He might have to get rid of him sooner than expected.

“Hey, I’ll call you when I drop the ears off at County.”

“Make sure you wash them, first. I don’t want to leave trace.”

“Got it. See you, man.”

Derrick climbs into his van and pulls away. The killer takes a deep breath, sucking in foul alley air that reeks of garbage.

It doesn’t bother him at all.

Nothing does.

CHAPTER 9

“That cat’s driving me crazy.”

Herb pushed away from the computer and shot Mr. Friskers a look. Mr. Friskers howled his reply.

“He probably wants to be let out of the carrier.”

“I’d sooner let Manson out. What are you going to do with him, anyway?”

I rubbed my temples, trying to work out the tension. We’d gotten back to the station two hours ago, and the cat hadn’t shut up for any longer than it took to catch his breath.

“I’ve called all of Davi’s model friends, her ex-boyfriend, and her mom. No one wants the cat.”

“What a surprise. He’s such a lovable bundle of joy.”

“I also called a few pet stores. Apparently the heat wave doesn’t affect a cat’s promiscuity—the stray population is the highest it’s ever been, and no one is accepting any more cats.”

Herb stroked his mustache, an indication he was lost in thought.

“Stray . . . that’s not a bad idea. Just let the little monster free to prowl the city. That’s what he’s howling about anyway.”

I considered it. On one hand, a cat that wore diapers probably wouldn’t last too long on the street. On the other hand, Mr. Friskers was so damn mean he might do fine. I wouldn’t even put it past him to join a gang and start robbing banks.

“Fine. We’ll release the cat into the wild. You coming?”

“I’m staying. Kiss him good-bye for me.”

I picked up the carrier, which caused Mr. Friskers to increase the pitch of his howling. A brief, chilly elevator ride later, we were in the back parking lot.

“Okay, my loud friend. This is where we go our separate ways.” I unlatched the door on the cat carrier and opened it up. “Go. Be free.”

Mr. Friskers stayed where he was.

“Go on. You got your wish.”

The cat howled again, but didn’t move.

Figuring he just needed a little help, I lifted up the cat carrier and tilted it forward. The cat spread out all four paws and clung to the sides, refusing to be dumped out.

I knelt down and peered into the carrier. “What’s the problem, cat?”

He stared back, as if asking me the same question.

I thought about leaving him there. He’d get the hint eventually. Chances are he’d run off as soon as I was out of sight.

Then I thought about my mother.

Sometimes the ones who need help the most are the ones who refuse to accept it.

“Fine,” I said, latching the carrier door. “You’re stuck with me, then.”

He yowled his reply.

Herb wasn’t impressed to see his nemesis still hanging around.

“I thought you were going to let the cat out of the bag.”

“I did. He wouldn’t go.”

“Did you try poking him with a stick?”

“No, I didn’t. Maybe I should check a taser out of the armory and zap him a few times.”

“Want me to go get it?”

“I’ll save it as a last resort.”

Herb took a bite out of a rice cake. He made a face, found a packet of saccharine in his pocket, and dumped it onto the remaining half.

“Want one?”

“Thanks, but I’m trying to cut back.”

Herb took another bite, then added more sweetener. “At least the cat finally quieted down.”

I looked into the carrier. Mr. Friskers had curled up into a little ball of fur.

“He’s sleeping. Maybe we can get some work done.”

“Those few minutes of silence were all I needed. I got a name to go with that last number Davi called. Cell phone, belongs to a man named Colin Andrews. Twenty-three, black, lives on 95th and Wabash.”

“He’s got a record?”

“A long one. He’s a dealer.”

“Davi’s coke supplier?”

“All of his charges are for marijuana, but that’d be my assumption. And he was a guest of the city just a few weeks ago. Guess which district.”

For the first time since the case began, I had that flutter feeling in my stomach that indicated we were getting close.

“You’re kidding. Here?”

“The old two-six. For possession.”

The ducks weren’t perfect yet, but they were forming a row. If Colin Andrews had been in our building, he could have had an opportunity to pick up my handcuffs.

“Who booked him?”

“Hanson.” Herb pressed a few computer keys. “She’s gone for the day. Speaking of which, I need to leave early.”

“Big plans?”

Herb gave me a grin that was positively wicked. I understood.

“Ah, those kind of plans. That requires leaving early?”

“In this instance, yes.”

“Okay then, Romeo. We can get rolling on Andrews tomorrow.”

“Good. You know”—Herb eyed the cat—“I drive by the Chicago River on the way home.”

“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll let him live for the time being.”

Herb said good night and left my office.

“Just me and you, Mr. Friskers.”

At the mention of his name, the cat awoke and commenced howling.

I tried to ignore him, and attempted to finish up a report on a suicide from last week. After struggling through that, I went through my in-box and played pass-along with some current homicides that seemed open and shut.

My position in the Chicago Police Department allowed me more wiggle room than many of my contemporaries. As far as I knew, I was one of the only lieutenants in the Detective Division—the title had been mostly phased out around the time Homicide morphed into Violent Crimes. There are lieutenant inspectors, who are one silver bar below captain, but those are supervisory positions and I had no desire to give up investigative work. My rank allows me to skip morning roll call, operate in other districts without jurisdictional issues, give commands when needed, and pick and choose my cases.

It took over twenty years to gain this autonomy, and I enjoyed it. Which is probably why no one in the office knocked on my door to complain about the cat noise. Rank has its privileges.

In the midst of filing, my cell rang. Latham.

“Hi, Latham. Back in town?”

“I’m back, Jack. What are you wearing?”

I smiled. “A plaid flannel shirt and overalls.”

“Stop it—I’m getting turned on. Might I request the honor of your presence tonight for dinner?”

“I’ll have to check with my boyfriend first.”

“Screw him.”

“I was planning on it. Is six o’clock okay?”

“It’s perfect. I was thinking someplace nice.”

“Heels-and-a-dress nice?”

“Ooh, I like that even more than the overalls.”

“Does this have anything to do with that important question you mentioned on my answering machine?”

“Maybe, maybe so. Are you beating the confession out of some criminal right now?”

“That’s a cat. Long story. I’ll tell you when you pick me up.”

“Great. I’ll be the guy knocking on your door with flowers. See you soon.”

He hung up, leaving me sitting there with a dopey grin on my face. I was glad Latham was back home, and not just because I hadn’t had sex in three weeks. Latham made me feel special. He was funny, considerate, attractive, successful, romantic, and in love with me. What wasn’t to like?

Though, I had to admit, part of me kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had to have something wrong with him. But so far, the annoyances were only minor. Snoring. Back hair. Leaving the toilet seat up. A juvenile affection for bad horror movies and ’80s pop songs.

He probably had wives in four other states. Or his mummified mother tied to a rocking chair in the attic.

Speaking of mothers . . .

I called Florida, but the Do Not Disturb was still on her room phone. I spoke with a nurse, and Mom’s condition had improved, though she still seemed mad as hell. I asked the nurse to pass on an “I love you, Mom,” and hung up, spirits dampened.

“I won’t bend,” I told Mr. Friskers. “She needs my help.”

He howled, which I took to be agreement.

With only two hours to make myself gorgeous before my guy showed up, I decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped at a pet supply superstore and bought the essentials: litter box, litter, cat food, and a mouse toy stuffed with catnip. I asked an employee if they had muzzles for cats, but she looked so disgusted I’d even suggest such a thing that I left without getting an answer.

My apartment was where I’d left it, and it took two trips to bring everything up from my car. I kept the air-conditioning off to save money, which meant my place was roughly the same temperature as hell, but more humid.

The city of Chicago paid me a respectable wage for my services, but Mom’s condo payment took a big bite. I had a private arrangement with her bank; she’d get a token monthly bill, easily covered by her pension and Social Security, and I took care of the lion’s share.

In my quest to pinch pennies, I’d turned my apartment into a greenhouse. It was so hot I had wild orchids sprouting on the sofa. I set the air to tundra and took a cold shower, but the water never got any cooler than lukewarm. Wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, I attended to the Mr. Friskers situation.

My skiing days long behind me, I did own a pair of black leather gloves that would offer me some protection. I slipped them on, ready for battle.

Mr. Friskers sat patiently in the carrier, probably plotting the downfall of the United States. I opened the door latch, but he made no attempt to howl or attack.

Perhaps he’d worn himself out.

I took two bowls from the clean side of the sink and poured water into one. The other I filled with some of the dry cat food I’d purchased. I set the bowls on the floor in front of him.

Mr. Friskers walked out of the carrier, sniffed the food, and gave me a look of utter disappointment.

“Your cream-from-the-bottle days are over, buddy. And come to think of it—”

I reached down and grabbed him by the diaper. He morphed into the Tasmanian Devil, whirling and clawing and spitting and hissing, catching me a good one on the right forearm. But I proved to be the stronger mammal, and managed to pull off the tabs and remove the diaper before losing too much blood.

The aroma was heady. When the dizziness passed, I wrapped the diaper in a plastic garbage bag, then wrapped that garbage bag in another garbage bag, and walked it out into my hallway, depositing the package down the garbage chute.

When I returned, the cat was lapping at the water dish. Without the diaper, he looked less demonic, and more like a plain old cat. After slaking his thirst, he again sniffed at the food dish. He gave me a look that on a human would have counted as a sneer.

“This guy likes it,” I told him, pointing to the cat on the bag of food.

He seemed to consider it, then began to eat.

Now for phase two.

I set the cat box on the floor and read the instructions on the back of the kitty litter bag. Simple enough. I tore the corner and filled the box, getting a noseful of sweet, perfumey dust.

Mr. Friskers looked up from the food dish, cocking his head at me.

“Okay. Time for your first lesson.”

I picked him up gently, and he allowed it, going limp in my hands. But when I tried to set him down in the cat box, he dervished on me, twisting and screaming and kicking up a spray of litter. I had to let go of him, for fear of losing an eye, and he bounded out of the kitchen and down the hall.

I spit out some kitty litter. The bag hadn’t lied; the granules clumped like magic.

“We’ll get to lesson two later,” I called after the cat.

I picked some litter out of my damp hair and attended to my makeup. For work, I made do with a light coat of powder, some eyeliner, and a slash of lipstick. Tonight I went all out—base and mascara and eye shadow and lipliner and a touch of color on my cheeks and a final brush of translucent powder with highlighting bits of glitter in it.

Satisfied I looked as good as I could with my bone structure, I went into the bedroom to pick out special occasion underwear. I put on black satin French-cut panties and my only good bra, a cleavage-enhancer that Latham had only seen me in twice before.

I hated my clothes closet for more than simple fashion reasons, so I didn’t dally choosing an outfit. I went with a classic black dress, low cut and strapless. It was calf length, but had a dramatic slit on the right side up to mid-thigh. I liked it because it hung rather than clung, meaning I didn’t have to suck in my tummy all night.

I was searching through my sock drawer in a fruitless effort to find a pair of nylons without a run, when I noticed Mr. Friskers on my bed, clawing at my sheets. He wasn’t tearing them, just kind of gathering them in a ball as if burying something.

“Hey, cat. What are you . . . aw, dammit.”

So much for the litter box.

I stripped the bed and went to the kitchen for some stain remover. Cat litter blanketed most of the kitchen floor, trailing into the living room. Not a bad effort for an animal without opposable thumbs.

It was coming up on six, and I hadn’t even started on my hair yet. I hurried back to the bedroom, dumped some cleanser on the stain, then did a quick blow-dry.

My intercom went off. I hit the button to buzz Latham through the lobby door, squeezed into my least-runny pair of hose, and managed to tug on some two-inch heels just as the knock came.

Mirror-check. Not bad. I gave my hair a final finger-fluff and went to let Latham in.

Only it wasn’t Latham after all.

CHAPTER 10

“Hiya, Jackie. Wow, you’re all dressed up and looking girly. How’d you know I was coming?”

Harry McGlade had gained a few pounds since I’d last seen him a few months back, on my solitary visit to the set of Fatal Autonomy: Harry McGlade Meets the Gingerbread Man. He wore his usual three days’ growth of beard and a wrinkled yellow suit jacket over a solid red T-shirt.

“I didn’t know the Miami Vice look was back.”

Harry grinned. “I don’t have socks on, either. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“No.”

“Come on, Jackie. You can’t still be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” I lied. “I’m getting ready for a date. Why don’t you stop by sometime after Christmas? Of 2012?”

“Jackie, partner—”

“We’re not partners anymore, McGlade.”

Harry spread out his hands. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought the screen credit would make you happy.”

I’d visited a location shoot because McGlade had insisted on me meeting the director and the actor playing me. “So they get the authenticity right,” he’d told me.

It turned out my character was there for comic relief, and so stupid she had mismatched shoes for half the film. I cringed, recalling the scene where the idiot with my name read a suspect his Fernando rights.

I crossed my arms, anger rising. “You had me listed as a technical consultant on a movie that failed to accurately portray one single aspect of police procedure.”

“Heh, heh. Remember the Fernando rights scene? Biggest laugh in the flick.”

I tried to slam the door, but Harry shoved a foot inside.

“Jackie! Please! I really need to talk to you. It’s hugely important.”

I pushed harder, leaning into it.

“It’s life or death! Please! These loafers are Italian!”

If I knew Harry, and unfortunately that was the case, he’d continue bothering me until I gave in. I considered arresting him, but as much as that would amuse me, Latham would be here any minute and I didn’t want to spend our date at the district house booking McGlade.

“Thirty seconds, McGlade, then you go.”

“Sixty.”

“Thirty.”

“Forty-five.”

“Twenty.”

“Fine. Thirty seconds, then I’m out of here.”

I released the door. Harry grinned.

“Thanks, Jackie. You going to let me in?”

I stood to the side, allowing him entrance. He sauntered in, trailing a fog of Brut.

“So, this is your place, huh? Kind of dumpy.”

“You have twenty-five seconds left.”

Harry stopped fingering my couch and faced me.

“Okay, I’ll get to the point. I need a favor. You know a sergeant out of the one-two, name of Pierce?”

“No.”

“Well, he’s—”

My buzzer sounded. Nice timing, Latham. I hit the intercom button.

“I’ll be right down, Latham.”

“Could I come up? These need to get in some water.”

I pressed Talk, unsure of what to say. I really didn’t want Latham to have to deal with McGlade.

“Jackie!” Harry yelled. “Come back to bed!”

I punched McGlade in the ribs, hard. Though I didn’t weigh a lot, I was working on my second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and knew how to hit. McGlade yelped.

“Jack, who was that?”

“Harry McGlade. He’s just leaving.”

McGlade pulled a face. “You promised me thirty seconds!”

“Jack,” Latham sounded flustered. “We can go out tomorrow, if you’ve got something going on.”

“No! Come on up.”

I buzzed him in, then jabbed a finger at McGlade’s spongy chest.

“You. Out.”

“But you said . . .”

“If you don’t leave right now, I promise that I’ll dedicate my life to making sure you never get whatever favor it is you want from me.”

McGlade considered it.

“So if I leave, you’ll do the favor?”

“I don’t even know what the favor is.”

“When would be a good time to discuss it?” Harry dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a PDA. “I think I’m free for lunch tomorrow.”

“Fine. Lunch tomorrow. But you have to leave right now.”

I shoved Harry out the door, hurried to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup, and swallowed two aspirin; McGlade never failed to induce a headache.

When the knock came, I did my damnedest to put on a nice smile.

“Hi, Latham.”

Latham stood in my hallway, a dozen roses in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. Standing next to him, arm around his shoulders, was Harry.

“Good news, Jack. We can cancel lunch tomorrow. Your boyfriend invited me to dinner with you guys.”

Latham shrugged.

“He said it was life or death.”

I gave Harry a look I normally reserved for rapists and murderers.

“McGlade . . .”

“I won’t stay long. And I’ll pay. The best bar and grill in the city is right around the corner.”

“Wait out here,” I told him, tugging Latham into my apartment and closing the door.

Latham looked good. He wore a dark gray suit, a light gray shirt, and a rich blue silk tie. Businessman chic.

“So that’s Harry, huh? He’s older and fatter than the guy who played him on TV.”

“He’s stupider too. Are those for me?”

Latham handed me the roses. I took a compulsory sniff.

“They’re gorgeous.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

Latham moved in for the kiss, and when his lips touched mine I felt it all the way down to my toes. I had a sudden urge to forget about dinner, and McGlade, and drag Latham into the bedroom. And I might have done just that, if my bed hadn’t been covered with cat stains.

“We should put those in some water.” Latham brought the roses into the kitchen, stopping when he saw the mess.

“What happened in here? It looks like Pompeii after Vesuvius.”

“Long story. I’ll tell you over a romantic dinner.”

“Jackie!” McGlade pounded on the door. “What’s taking so long? You guys bumping uglies in there?”

Latham laughed. “Romantic dinner, hmm?”

“My gun’s in my purse. Want me to shoot him?”

“Let him pay for dinner first.”

I found a vase in the cabinet while Latham cut an inch off the bottom of the stems. When the flowers were arranged, I kissed him again, then wiped a smudge of my lipstick off his lips.

“So what’s this big thing you wanted to ask me, Latham?”

Latham smiled, eyes twinkling.

“I’ll tell you soon enough.”

CHAPTER 11

“So this was back in the ’80s, and crack was still pretty new to the streets, and me and Jackie catch an officer down squeal at this known crack house.”

Latham nudged me. “You two used to ride together?”

I took a large swig of Sam Adams and frowned.

“No one else would ride with Harry, so I got stuck with him.”

“That’s true. It’s because I was reckless.”

“It’s because you’re obnoxious. Every partner Harry ever had put in for a transfer.”

Harry shook his head. “Wrong. Steinwank got shot.”

“Steinwank shot himself in the foot to get away from you.”

“Whatever. Anyway, we pull up to this crack house, and sure enough, there’s a uniform down on the sidewalk right in front.”

I drank more beer and looked around the room. We’d wound up at the Cubby Bear, a Chicago bar and grill across the street from Wrigley Field, just a few blocks from my apartment. Harry’s face was a mess of BBQ sauce, and he gnawed at his two-dozenth buffalo wing while he spoke.

“So Jack gets out of the car, checks the guy. He’s out.”

“Was he shot?” Latham asked. He’d been humoring McGlade for the last half an hour, and I wished he’d quit it. Neither he nor Harry had gotten around to telling me the reasons they wanted to talk to me, and I was antsy, overdressed, and getting very bored with the cigarette smoke and loud noise and college kids bumping the back of my chair.

“That’s the thing. He wasn’t shot, but he’s got this big goose egg on his head. Won’t wake up—the guy’s even snoring. Anyway, Jackie uses this as probable cause for entering the crack house. She marches right inside, which was suicidal. Crack houses are like fortresses. I even remember a raid where Vice nabbed a rocket launcher. Those guys don’t play around.”

Latham looked at me with such frank admiration I almost blushed.

“They didn’t have a rocket launcher,” I said.

“Let me finish the story. So anyway, because I’m Jackie’s partner, I go in after her. Jackie’s in there, screaming and waving her gun, and scares the absolute shit out of them. They practically trip over themselves trying to surrender. We made eighteen felony arrests, all by ourselves, not a single shot fired. Even made the nightly news.”

“What about the cop?”

“That’s the best part. Turned out the cop was there to score some coke for his personal use, and he tripped on a shoelace and knocked himself out.”

Harry laughed, slapping his thigh and staining it with sauce.

“That’s a great story,” Latham said. He took a pull on his beer. “Jack really doesn’t talk about herself.”

“Do you know about the time she loaned out to Vice to go undercover as a hooker?”

“No. I’d like to hear that one.”

I didn’t mind hearing stories about my past so much as I minded Latham getting chummy with Harry McGlade, whom I couldn’t stand for a handful of reasons. This was a good time to change topics.

“So what’s the problem you’re having with Sergeant Pierce?” I asked Harry.

“Oh. I tagged his wife.”

“Tagged?”

“Slipped her the Harry Special, with extra sauce. She’s a fine woman—too good for him.” Harry licked his fingers and reached for the last wing.

“And you need me because . . . ?”

“Apparently—and Mrs. Pierce failed to mention this before we did the worm—her husband plays golf with the mayor.”

“And?”

“And now the City of Big Shoulders refuses to let me renew my PI license.”

I was about to express my amusement at this fortuitous news, when the pop-pop of handgun fire cut through the bar.

Harry and I, both instantly recognizing the sound, dropped to the floor. I yanked Latham down with me.

“You get a fix?” McGlade had his gun already out. A .44 Magnum, one of the biggest hand cannons on the market. Insert Freudian overcompensation joke here.

“Near the entrance,” I told him, thumbing open my purse and yanking out my S&W .38.

Another gunshot. Half of the crowd still didn’t know what was happening, and stood around looking confused or oblivious. I peered through the sea of legs and spied the perp by the front door. He was white, thin, his face nearly as disheveled as his clothing. He had a semiautomatic in his hand—looked like a 9mm—and was waving it around without direction.

At his feet, the bouncer lay in a widening pool of blood.

“Looks homeless and whacked out on something. Nine mil. One person down that I can see.”

“I’ll flank him. Cover me.”

Harry scooted off to the right, heading for the far wall. I dug out my badge with my left hand.

“Stay down,” I told Latham. Then I stood up and raised my badge over my head.

“Police! Everybody get down!”

The people around me screamed, yelled, ran, panicked, and some actually listened. The rock music playing through the house speakers stopped. I slipped off my heels and drew a bead on the perp, who stared up at the ceiling with his mouth open.

“Drop the weapon!”

No response. I couldn’t tell if he even heard me. I glanced to the right but couldn’t see Harry with all of the people running around.

Three steps closer, right arm at full extension, left arm supporting it from underneath, my gun fully cocked. I aimed for his heart.

“Drop the weapon, sir!”

He might as well have been deaf. I closed the distance between us to less than fifteen feet. An easy shot. I didn’t have extra rounds, and I hoped six would be enough.

“This is your last warning, sir! Drop the weapon!”

He didn’t move. I had no other options.

Breathe in, breathe out, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

Three rounds, a tight grouping in the chest.

He staggered back, stared at me, raised his 9mm.

Harry’s cannon went off just as I fired my last three bullets.

I hit high, two in the shoulder and one in the neck.

Harry hit all over the place. His slugs were larger, faster, and ripped through the perp like stones through tissue paper.

The guy went down, hard. I moved in, kicked away his gun. There were cuffs in my purse, but I didn’t think I’d need them; he looked like chicken Parmesan with a slice of Swiss cheese on top.

I turned my attention to the fallen bouncer. Stomach wound. Pulse strong, but irregular. I heard sirens coming closer, looked around for something to stop the bleeding.

“Well, shit on my head and call me a toilet.”

Harry tapped me on the shoulder. He’d been removing the spent brass from his cylinder, and when I looked up at him he pointed forward with his chin.

The perp, our perp, was running out the front door.

I glanced at Harry. He shrugged.

We went after the guy.

I bolted out the door, barefoot, the heat pressing down on me. The blood trail went left, and I saw the shooter sprinting through traffic—a helluva lot faster than should have been possible.

Harry whistled. “Damn. You miss every shot?”

“I landed all six. How did you miss with a barrel that long?”

“All mine were sweet. That guy had more holes than a golf course.”

We jogged after him.

The pavement was hot underfoot, and little bits of rock and debris dug into my soles. For the first time in my life I was grateful for my ugly calluses.

“Jesus!” McGlade huffed next to me. “I’m not used to exercise in the vertical position.”

“Have another buffalo wing.”

The perp rounded the north entrance to Wrigley Field, bystanders giving him a wide berth. He was bleeding, but not as much as I would have guessed. Maybe the layers of filthy clothes were absorbing it all.

McGlade dropped a few paces behind me, lost to a coughing jag. I lengthened my stride. My dress clung to my legs, but the slit was big enough to give me room. I still had the gun in my right hand, where it was beginning to get heavy. With my left hand I tried to adjust my underwire, which dug painfully into my ribs.

I took a short detour to avoid a broken beer bottle, turned a corner, and almost wet myself.

The perp had changed directions and was charging straight at me.

I skidded to a halt, losing some skin on my pinkie toes, and recovered quickly enough to fall into a front stance; right leg straight behind me, left leg forward, knee slightly bent, left fist clenched and parallel with the leg. A blocking position.

Tae kwon do originated in Korea. Students progress through ten belts before reaching black. Testing for each belt was broken down into four parts: forms, which were memorized steps similar to karate’s katas, breaking boards, which partially accounted for my callused feet, Korean terminology, and sparring.

My forte was sparring.

The perp swung with his right arm, bringing it down overhead in a chopping motion.

I blocked easily, spun, and back-kicked him in the spine, adding to his momentum.

He ate pavement, hard, then rolled onto his side. The sidewalk under him was soaked with blood. I stared into his eyes—nothing but pupil, focused on someplace other than the here and now. His chest wounds oozed like a squeezed sponge.

I’d seen corpses in better shape.

But this guy didn’t die. He sat up, trying to get to his feet.

I switched the grip on my gun and tapped him, butt-first, on the forehead.

He fell back, then sat up again, head wound gushing.

For years I’d heard the stories about PCP crazies breaking out of handcuffs, jumping off ten-story buildings and surviving, getting shot a dozen times and still putting up a fight. But I’d never believed them.

Until now.

Wheezing, coming from behind me. Harry trotted up, gasping for air like an asthmatic who’d just snorted pollen.

The perp looked at Harry, screamed something unintelligible, and launched himself at the PI.

Harry screamed as well, an octave higher, and whipped his Magnum across the perp’s face.

Again the guy went down.

Again the guy sat up.

McGlade took a step back. “This isn’t right, Jackie. Maybe we should just let him go.”

“If he gets away, he’ll bleed to death.”

“And that would be bad?”

The man made it to his knees, and then his feet. I didn’t want to hit him with the gun again, so I went with a roundhouse kick to the side of the head.

He went down. Came up.

Harry scratched his chin. “It’s like one of those old toys. The little egg-shaped people that wobble but don’t fall down.”

“Weebles. But I don’t remember them being this bloody.”

Harry hummed the Weebles theme from the old commercial.

“I think I’ve got an idea.” He turned and began walking away.

“You going to rent a tank?”

“No. Just need a running start.”

McGlade took four quick steps toward the guy, then punted him square in the stones.

The perp’s howl punched through the hot Chicago night and seemed to echo on forever.

“There.” McGlade smoothed out his jacket. “That would knock the Terminator out.”

He was right. The guy wheezed, then toppled over, hands clutched between his legs.

“He’s all yours, Jackie. You can go ahead and read him his Fernando rights.”

I fitted him for bracelets, then left McGlade with the perp while I went to find backup.

CHAPTER 12

The cab spit us out at my place just after four in the morning. Latham, gentleman that he was, stuck with me through two debriefings and a trip to the ER to get some glass removed from my foot. He walked me up to my apartment, and I gave him a hug.

“Some romantic evening, huh?”

He smiled, kissed my nose.

“Are you kidding? On our first date I get kidnapped by a serial killer, and tonight I get to see you save a bar full of yuppies from a drug-crazed maniac. Are you free tomorrow? Maybe we can find a bank robbery in progress.”

He slipped his hand around the small of my back, pulled me gently against him.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

I opened the door, knowing that I had no sheets and wondering if I was too old to do it on the sofa.

“Too late for a drink?” I asked. “Too early?”

“I’d drink muscatel from a dog bowl right now.”

“Settle for a whiskey sour?”

Latham nodded.

I went into the kitchen, frowned at the gigantic mess, and built two serviceable highballs. Latham stood in the living room, his jacket off. A good sign.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, as I handed him his drink.

“Here with you?”

“Here in this apartment. I know you don’t really like the neighborhood, and I know some—well—bad things happened here.”

“I guess I never really thought about it. Why do you ask?”

He smiled; a little-boy smile tinged with mischief.

“I just bought a condo on the lake. Big place, plenty of room, killer view.”

“That’s great.” I took a sip of my drink. “What about the house?”

“Sold. Move in with me, Jack.”

Before I had a chance to answer, I noticed Mr. Friskers perched on top of my television, ready to pounce.

“Latham, don’t move.”

“But I have to move, I signed the papers—”

“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. “It’s the cat. He looks like he’s about to jump on you.”

“Hey, I like cats. If you want to bring a cat along, that’s fine with—Jesus Christ!”

Mr. Friskers launched through the air like a calico missile and attached himself to Latham’s face, all four claws locking in.

Latham screamed something, but I couldn’t hear it through the fur. I grabbed the cat and gently tried to tug him free. Latham’s reaction was muffled, but came through.

“No! Stop pulling! Stop pulling!”

I let go, frantic. On the floor, next to the sofa, was the catnip mouse I’d bought at the pet store. I picked it up and held it under the cat’s nose.

“Good kitty. Let go of his face. Let go of his face, kitty.”

Mr. Friskers sniffed once, twice, then went totally limp. I carried him into the bathroom, keeping the catnip up to his nose, and then set both of them down in the bathtub and locked the door.

I found Latham in the kitchen, liberally applying paper towels.

“Oh, wow, are you okay, Latham?”

He forced a smile.

“I may need a transfusion.”

“I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“I thought it was illegal to keep mountain lions as pets.”

I gave him the short version, helping him dab at his wounds. They weren’t as bad as Herb’s, so perhaps Mr. Friskers was mellowing down.

“So you’re not keeping him?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Good. I mean, if he was part of the package, I’d accept him. But I wouldn’t want to take off my pants with him in the room.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but I wasn’t sure what to say. Moving in with Latham would be great. He was right—I didn’t like the neighborhood, and I didn’t like my apartment, and having him to hold every night would go a long way toward helping my insomnia.

But instead of focusing on all of that, I focused on my mom, stranded on the floor of her bathroom.

“Latham, I’d love to move in with you—”

“That’s great!”

“—but I can’t. When my mom gets out of the hospital, she’s coming to live with me.”

I winced, watching the disappointment slowly seep into his face.

“The condo only has one bedroom.”

My guard went up. “Latham, I didn’t ask if my mother could move into your condo.”

“I know. I mean, I’d want her to, if she’s with you, but the place is only one bedroom. There wouldn’t be any room for her.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask.”

“That came out wrong.” Latham touched my cheek. “Look, Jack, I really want to be with you. This whole I-sleep-over-at-your-place, you-sleep-over-at-my-place thing, we’re too old for that, you know what I mean?”

“I know, Latham. I wish there was some way.”

“Is there? Some way, I mean?”

I didn’t like where this was going, but I baited him anyway.

“What do you mean?”

“How about she stays here, at your place? It’s only a twenty-minute drive away.”

“She needs someone around her at all times.”

“Okay, fine. There are facilities. Good ones. Your mother could get the assistance she needs, the medical care, and we could visit her every—”

“I’m going to say good night now, Latham.”

I took him by the crook of the arm and escorted him to the front door.

“Jack, all that I’m saying is that taking care of an elderly parent is a lot of work. I don’t want you wasting your life—”

I opened the door.

“Caring for my mother is not wasting my life.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. Look, Jack, it’s been an awful night and I’m not thinking clearly.”

“Apparently not.”

Latham’s eyes got hard. I’d never really seen him angry before, and I didn’t like the preview.

“I may be tooting my own horn here, Jack, but I think I’m a pretty decent guy.”

“You’re right,” I told him. “You’re tooting your own horn.”

I felt terrible the moment it left my lips, but before I could apologize, Latham was halfway down the hall.

“Latham . . .”

He disappeared through the stairwell door, not giving me a backward glance.

Nice one, Jack. You just screwed up a relationship with the last decent guy in the Midwest.

From the bathroom, Mr. Friskers howled in agreement.

I walked back into my apartment, finished my drink, Latham’s drink, and one more on top of that. Pleasantly tipsy, I let the screaming cat out of the john, took off my makeup, curled up on my sheetless bed, and slept for forty-five wonderful minutes before jerking awake.

For the next three hours, sleep was a stop-and-go affair, short stretches interspersed with bouts of anxiety, nagging questions, and doubt.

When I finally got up for work, the mirror was not kind.

I forced myself through some push-ups and sit-ups, took a cool shower, and dressed in a tan Perry Ellis blazer, matching skirt, and a striped blouse.

Venturing into my living room, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had a busy night. To my endless amusement, Mr. Friskers had clawed most of the paint off my grandmother’s antique rocking chair. He perched on the sofa, staring, while I inspected the damage.

“Now I understand why so many people own dogs.”

He didn’t reply.

I cleaned up the kitty litter as best I could, poured him another bowl of food, forced down some Frosted Flakes, and went out to face the day.

Chicago was a furnace, hot enough to make my eyeliner run. Stopping for coffee seemed absurd, but I needed the caffeine. I bought an extra for Herb.

The district house still had an air-conditioning problem, which felt great for about two minutes, and then became painful.

Herb wasn’t in his office, which was unusual. He always beat me to work. I set his coffee on his desk, then returned to my office and did some follow-up calls about the incident last night.

The gut-shot bouncer had stabilized, and the perp, defying all expectations, still clung to life. I left word with the doctor to call when toxicology finished the blood work, but she said it wasn’t necessary.

“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he was high on Hydro.”

“Water?”

“No. Hydro is the nickname for a new street drug. It’s a mean mix of phencyclidene hydrochloride, phentermine hydrochloride, and oxycodone hydrochloride; basically angel dust, speed, and codeine. Why anyone would want to mix those is beyond me. Plus, someone is cutting the drug with mephyton phyonadione.”

“Which is?”

“Vitamin K. It’s commonly given to patients before surgery because of its ability to aid in blood coagulation.”

“This drug turns people into psychotic supermen who don’t feel pain or bleed?”

“Makes you long for the sixties and good old LSD, doesn’t it?”

“Who would make something like this?”

“After working the ER for six years, I’ve lost count of the different ways people attempt to destroy themselves. I just patch them up so they can go do it again.”

“You sound cynical.”

“I’m the one who stitched up all the holes you put in this guy, and you’re calling me a cynic?”

She had a point. Curiosity prompting me onward, I called the DEA.

“You’ve no doubt heard about the Big Bust.”

The Big Bust the agent referred to was a capture of almost a billion dollars in heroin off the Florida coast. One of the largest drug seizures in history.

“That left a vacuum in the market,” he went on. “The junkies still needed something to shoot, so a West Coast drug ring hired some chemists to cook up a replacement. We’ve already shut down three Hydro labs, but they’re popping up all over the place. It’s a bad high too. Causes some major freak-outs.”

“I’ve seen it. We shot a man eleven times, and he took off like Carl Lewis.”

“Eleven? Not even close to the record. Two cops in Compton cornered a Hydro-head with a Mac-10, took twenty-eight shots to bring him down. Bad drug.”

“My guy’s still alive.”

“So’s this guy. Has to be fed through a tube, though. We’re thinking of using him as our new antidrug poster boy.”

My faith in human nature restored, I checked Herb’s office again. No Herb. I took his coffee, mine long gone, then went to check on Officer Fuller and the database.

“Just get in?” I asked.

He was hunched over his computer, squinting at a spreadsheet. I must have surprised him, because he flinched when he heard my voice.

“Oh, hi, Lieut. No, been here for a while. Why?”

“It’s ten degrees in here, and you’re sweating.”

He smiled. “I’ve been blessed with a high metabolism.”

“I wish I was that lucky. How’s the database coming?”

“Slow. You’ve had a lot of arrests.”

“I’ve been blessed with a long career. Any matches yet with County’s sign-in book?”

He shook his head. “If I find one, you’ll be the second to know.”

“Thanks, Officer. Carmichael is retiring this October, which means a slot in the Detective Division is opening up.”

Fuller mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t make out.

“Pardon me?”

“Just saying a silent prayer, Lieut. I’ve been trying to get into DD for over a year, and you guys keep passing me over.”

“You’re a good cop, Fuller. But the cops that took those slots had seniority.”

He mumbled something again, and I got the distinct impression I’d been insulted. I let it go. Fuller had a right to be disappointed—he went above and beyond the call of duty to help Herb and me whenever possible, even off the clock. Fuller had a nose for homicide, especially the violent ones, and more than once his input had proven valuable.

Still, he’d only been a cop for three years, and no one rose up the ranks that quickly. The system didn’t allow it.

“Don’t have anything yet, huh?” I asked.

“Not yet, but if there’s something, I’ll find it.”

I thanked him, and noticed Benedict out of the corner of my eye. Actually, I’d heard him before seeing him. He was whistling.

“Good morning, Herb.”

“Morning, Jack.” He smiled, and then winked.

I eyed him suspiciously. “Everything okay, Herb?”

“Everything is wonderful. Couldn’t be better.”

“You’re late this morning.”

“I slept in.” Herb winked again.

“Is something wrong with your eye?”

“No. Why?”

“You keep winking at me.”

“Just in a good mood, that’s all. Are we off to shake down the dealer?”

He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.

“Yeah. I’ll stop by my office for a bag. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m absolutely perfect, Jack.” And he winked at me again.

I went to my desk, followed by some weird alternate-universe version of my partner, and retrieved a plastic bag filled with powdered sugar. Davi’s supposed dealer probably wouldn’t be forthcoming with the police. The bag would help him loosen his tongue.

I handed it to Herb. In this day and age, it was risky for a woman to frisk a man, and vice versa. Sexual harassment laws protected criminals too.

After a quick stroll through the desert that was our parking lot, we got into Herb’s Camaro and he cranked up the air. It was only a matter of time before the constant flux between hot and cold would give me pneumonia.

Herb pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, heading south. Chicago didn’t seem to be bothered by the heat. People littered the walkways along the beach, and a few suicidal individuals were even jogging. Out on Lake Michigan, hundreds of boats competed for space. It looked as if someone sprinkled some kosher salt on a gigantic polished mirror.

Herb began whistling again, keeping tempo by drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

“All right,” I said after five minutes of biting my tongue. “Spill it.”

“Spill what?”

“Why you’re so damn happy.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like you’ve been possessed by one of the Care Bears.”

He looked at me, and winked.

“There are some things best kept private, Jack.”

“That’s bull, Herb. We’re partners. We have no secrets.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Herb winked at me again. I made a fist, ready to slug him.

“Okay. Bernice and I were . . . intimate last night.”

I stared at him.

“That’s all? You’re this happy because you got laid?”

He smiled. “Five times.”

I did a double take.

“Five times?”

He nodded. “Three last night, and then two more this morning.”

I looked at Benedict with newfound respect.

“You haven’t been possessed by a Care Bear. You’ve been possessed by a porn star.”

He winked at me again. “Viagra.”

“Really?”

“Bernice and I have been doing the once-a-week thing for thirty years. So last night I decided to spice things up a bit.”

“Apparently it worked.”

“I was a dynamo, Jack. You should see the scratch marks on my back.”

I had no idea how to respond to that. Pat him on the shoulder? Tell him to nail her once for me? I settled on, “That’s great.”

“She was begging me for mercy, Jack. But I kept a-goin’. I haven’t heard her scream like that since—”

“Herb,” I interrupted, “you were right. Maybe we should keep some things private.”

Colin Andrews’s neighborhood was primarily low-income. Gang-bangers flashing colors eyed us, trying to figure out what business a white couple in a new sports car had in their hood. At a stoplight, a kid with baggy pants pimp-walked up to the passenger side and tapped on my window.

“Y’all lost?”

I smiled at him. “Five-O. Y’all holding?”

He put his hands in the air and backed off, smiling at me with gold caps. The way he wore his bandanna told me he was a Gangsta Disciple. Couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.

“I blame rap music,” Herb said.

“That’s much easier than blaming the parents.”

“I’m serious. Think about how gang violence would be reduced if they all listened to Perry Como.”

“Reduced? I think they’d riot. Hell, I’d riot.”

Ninety-sixth Street had more potholes than asphalt, and Herb cringed every time his car took a dip. Andrews’s apartment building was the nicest one on the block, but that didn’t mean much. Graffiti still colored the sidewalk and walls, and three divots in the front door were obvious bullet holes.

Herb parked directly in front of the building, on the street. Our leather badge cases had cords attached, and we hung our stars around our necks. I got out of the car, feeling the same sense of uneasiness I always felt when on the South Side, being a white female cop. None of those traits were looked upon with respect here.

Herb turned to me. “What’s your take on this?”

I knew what he meant. It was unlikely Davi McCormick got her drugs from Colin, unless he made frequent visits to the Gold Coast—dealers tend to stay local. And two severed arms planted in the county morgue wasn’t your typical gang-related or drug-related crime.

“The calls from her apartment were to his cell phone. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

The security door had a broken lock, allowing us an easy entry. The lobby reeked of heat and decay. More graffiti tags marked the walls, and someone had shattered two of the three hallway lights.

Colin Andrews rented an apartment on the first floor. The number had been removed from the door, but we figured it out by counting.

Herb rapped his knuckle on the door.

“Colin Andrews? Chicago PD.”

No answer.

“Mr. Andrews, this is the police. We’d like to ask you some questions. It’s in your best interest to open the door.”

“How it my best interest letting cops in?”

“Because if you don’t talk to us,” Benedict said, “we’ll start knocking on all of your neighbors’ doors. It would be hard for you to live here if everyone thought you were a police snitch.”

“I ain’t no damn snitch.”

We waited. I noticed Herb had his hand near his holster, and realized that mine had drifted there as well.

After a minute, the door opened a crack. A brown eye squinted out at us.

“What this about?”

I smiled pleasantly. “You want everyone to see you talking to us in the hall?”

He opened the door.

The apartment was air-conditioned, neat, nicely furnished. An entertainment center crammed full of state-of-the-art equipment sat next to a wide-screen TV.

Colin stood about Benedict’s height, but rail thin. He wore an oversized Steelers jersey and a thick gold chain around his neck that seemed to weigh him down.

“Business must be good.” I eyed his place, annoyed that the crooks always had better stuff than I did.

Colin shrugged.

“Colin?” A woman’s voice came from one of the back rooms. “Who’s there?”

“No one, Mama. Stay in your room.”

“Mama know you deal?” I asked.

“I don’t deal. That’s all a big misunderstanding.”

I fished through the pockets of my blazer and took out a folded head shot of Davi McCormick.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

I watched Colin’s face. He glanced at the photo without changing his expression.

“Never saw her.”

“She called your cell phone a few days ago.”

“Don’t got no cell phone.”

I read the phone number to him.

“Don’t got that phone no more. Lost it.”

“When did you lose it?”

“Couple weeks ago.”

Herb bent down, reaching for Colin’s foot.

“I think you dropped something, Colin. Well—lookee here.”

Herb held up the bag of powdered sugar.

“Dog, that ain’t mine!”

Herb made an innocent face. “I saw it fall out of your pocket. Didn’t you, Jack?”

“I don’t even deal that shit, man. I just distribute the herb.”

“Where’s your phone, Colin?”

“I told you, I lost the phone.”

Benedict dipped a finger into the bag, then touched his tongue.

“How much you think is here? Eight, ten grams? That’s what—thirty years?”

I moved closer to Colin. “We found the arms. We know she called you.”

“What arms? I don’t carry, man. I’m low-key.”

“Where’s the phone?”

“I don’t know.”

Colin looked frightened. Though I couldn’t arrest him for possession of a known confectionary, I decided to push my luck.

“You know the drill, Colin. On your knees, hands behind your head.”

“I don’t have the phone! I swear! You need to ask your people!”

“What people?”

“Cops. When I got arrested last month, they took my phone. I never got it back.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Herb was dipping back into the bag for another taste. I stepped between him and Colin.

“You’re saying we have your phone?”

“I had it with me when I got booked, and when I got sprung no one knew anything about my phone.”

I had a pretty good internal BS detector, and Colin was either a much better liar than I was used to, or he was telling the truth.

“Have you canceled the service?”

“Haven’t got round to it.”

“Why not?”

I saw fear flash across Colin’s eyes.

“Colin, do you know who has your phone?”

“No.”

“Colin, the person who took your phone is very dangerous. If you tell us who it is, we can protect you.”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Maybe a trip to the station will help jog your memory.”

Colin glanced at Herb and smirked. “I don’t think you be charging me with nothing.”

I looked. Benedict was licking a large mound of white powder out of his palm.

“I’m testing the purity,” Benedict said. His beard was dusty with sugar.

Colin went to the door and held it open.

“Y’all can go now.”

“Colin . . .”

“I know my rights. If I tell you to go, you got to go.”

“We want to help you, Colin.”

“Yeah, right.”

I handed him my card. He took it, reluctantly.

“If a police officer stole your cell phone, you can file a formal complaint. You can help us get this guy.”

“Whatever.”

We left the apartment.

“Jesus, Herb. Real professional.”

“I couldn’t help it. I haven’t had anything sweet in over a week. Once I had that little taste, I couldn’t stop.”

He drove his point home by upending the remainder of the bag into his mouth.

“Do you know how many carbs are in that?”

“I don’t care. It’s like an orgy on my tongue.”

“During the orgy, did you manage to pick up on what Colin said?”

He nodded, his face turning somber.

The perp had access to my handcuffs, to the county morgue, and to Colin’s cell phone.

All signs pointed to the killer being a cop.

Unfortunately, this did little to narrow it down. Chicago had a police force of over seventeen thousand. I had eight hundred working out of my district, plus cops from the other districts came and went on a daily basis. So did cops from out of town, Feds, lawyers, and government officials.

Benedict seemed to sense my thoughts. “Maybe we’ll be able to narrow it down once we go through the complete phone log.”

“Who’s Colin’s carrier?”

“FoneCo. They want a subpoena before they release his records.”

“We can swing by the courthouse.”

Benedict probed his goatee with his tongue, seeking out stray calories.

“Should we put a team on Colin?”

I considered it. If Colin saw cops hanging around, he might freak out and try to run. Plus, who could I trust to put on him? What if I accidentally sent the killer?

“No. We should talk to the assistant State’s Attorney first. Colin’s court case is coming up.”

I didn’t like driving away knowing that Colin was hiding something, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Coming to him with a deal might loosen his tongue.

“I hope it’s not a bad cop, Jack.”

Me too. If cops were viewed as the enemy, the tenuous balance of power could shift. Laws would be broken out of contempt. Authority wouldn’t be acknowledged. Police officers might even be attacked, or worse.

I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about rioting.

“We’re probably wrong, Herb. It’s probably not a cop at all.”

But deep down, I knew we were right.

CHAPTER 13

He watches them get into the sports car and pull away. That bitch Daniels, and her fat-ass partner, Herb Benedict.

He climbs out of his car and walks toward Colin Andrews’s apartment.

He expected them to eventually find Andrews, but not this quickly.

No matter. He’ll just jump ahead in the plan a little.

There’s an empty plastic soda bottle next to the security door. He snatches it up and enters the building.

It’s hot. Dark. He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket, and they make a snapping sound. They’re tight on his large, sweaty hands.

He has a slight headache, but the aspirin is keeping it under control. He’s here for business, not pleasure.

But his arousal is apparent.

He knocks on Andrews’s door.

“Chicago Police Department.”

Silence. He knocks again.

“Open the door, this is the police.”

“You ain’t getting in without a warrant.”

A male voice. Scared.

“We have a warrant,” the killer lies.

“Slip it under the door.”

He looks left, then right. All clear.

Taking one step back, he sets his shoulder, and then charges the door.

The frame snaps like balsa wood. Colin Andrews sprawls backward, hands clutched to a bleeding nose. The killer enters and shuts the door, shoving it hard so it fits back into the splintered jamb.

“Colin? Who’s there?”

He grins. A woman. He hadn’t expected that.

This is gonna be fun.

Colin is on the floor, scrambling backward, eyes wide as dinner plates.

He considers kicking him, decides he doesn’t want to get blood on his pants, and pulls out his throwaway piece: a 9mm Firestar that he liberated from the evidence locker at the same time he’d taken Colin’s cell phone.

The gun presses against Colin’s forehead.

“Ask her to join the party.”

Colin opens his mouth. No words come out.

He taps him on the skull, hard, with the butt of the gun.

“Get her in here, now.”

The blubbering begins. Colin calls for his mama, voice cracking though the sobs.

Colin’s mother is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. She’s younger than the killer expected. Prettier too.

“Hi, Mama.” He blows her a kiss. “Go sit on the sofa. The three of us are going to have a conversation.”

Mama cops an attitude, hands rising to her hips. “What the—”

“Mama, sit down!” Colin screams at her, blood and tears rolling down his face.

His mother nods, then sits.

“Okay, here’s the dealio.” The cop smiles at his use of street slang. “I’m going to ask some questions. I get answers I like, I go away and never come back. I don’t get answers I like . . .”

He slaps the gun across Colin’s face, knocking him to the floor.

“Do we understand each other?”

He looks at the mother. Her eyes are cold, but she nods.

Colin is hugging the floor like a security blanket, trembling. The killer nudges him with his foot.

“Do you know who I am, Colin?”

Colin stares up. Nods.

“Tell me who I am.”

“When I got brung in, you the one that locked me up.”

“That’s right, Colin. Do you remember what I said to you?”

Colin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a basketball.

“You told me not to cancel my phone service.”

“Or else?”

“Or else you’d hang my ass from the nearest lamppost.”

“Good, Colin. You remembered. Did you believe me, when I said it?”

“I didn’t cancel the service! I didn’t!”

“I know, Colin. That’s why you’re not swinging from the streetlight out in front. But you did talk to the cops about me, didn’t you?”

Colin shakes his head so fast it’s comical.

“I din’t say nothin’!”

“Are you sure?”

“Jesus, I din’t say nothin’!”

“Get up, go sit next to Mama on the couch.”

Colin pulls himself off the floor, plops down next to his mother. The cop knows he’s broken him. Knows he’s telling the truth.

He checks his watch. There’s still a little time for some fun.

“Is your boy lying to me, Mama?”

She puts an arm around Colin’s shoulders as he cries into his hands.

“Colin don’t tell no lies.”

The killer admires the defiance in her eyes. He becomes even more aroused. “He doesn’t? But Colin deals drugs, doesn’t he?”

She strokes Colin’s head, as if petting a dog.

“I heard him, when those other cops came. He din’t tell them nothin’.”

The cop moves closer to the sofa. He feels ready to burst.

“You seem like a smart lady. If you and your boy want to live through this, you’re gonna have to do something for me. You know what it is?”

Colin’s mama stares at him, nods.

“There’s a condom in my front pocket. Take it out.”

Her hands are hot in his pants.

“Put it on me and get to work, Mama. Make me happy and I’ll spare your life.”

She’s not the best he’s ever had, and the condom limits some of the sensation, but she’s much better than his bitch of a wife.

“Hey, Colin, I think your mama’s done this before. She’s got some good moves.”

A few minutes pass. The only sounds are Colin’s sobs and the killer’s breathing, which gets faster and faster.

“That’s right. Yeah. Good.”

As he nears climax, he places the base of the plastic bottle he’s been holding against the top of the woman’s head. He puts the barrel of the 9mm into the bottle opening.

“That’s it!”

His hips spasm, and at the same moment he fires into the bottle, the slug shooting straight through her forehead, embedding itself in the sofa.

The bottle traps most of the noise, and the sound is no louder than a hand clap.

Colin’s head snaps up, staring as his mother falls away.

“Don’t look so surprised, Colin. You know you can’t trust cops.”

He tosses aside the bottle, now filled with swirling white smoke. Then he picks up a sofa cushion and shoves it into Colin’s face, jamming the gun into the fabric.

Four shots. Colin goes slack.

Condom still on, the killer zips up his pants, picks up the plastic bottle, and leaves the apartment. There’s no one in the hallway, and no one outside.

His headache, happily, is gone.

The cop hops into his car and checks his watch. He’s on his lunch break, and has already used up fifty-five minutes.

He speeds back to the station. After ten blocks, the condom goes out the window. A few blocks later, so does the soda bottle.

On his way back to the district house, the killer stops in front of the Wabash Bridge and pulls over to the curb. Palming the gun, he gets out and walks over to the Chicago River.

No one gives him a second glance as he drops the gun into the greenish water.

When he arrives back at the station, he doesn’t see Benedict’s Camaro in the parking lot. He’s beaten them back.

The cop parks and walks into the building, wondering whom he hates more, Jack or that fat piece-of-shit Herb.

He climbs the stairs, heading for Benedict’s office. His plan, such as it is, is deceptively simple.

He’ll keep killing women and leaving various things belonging to Jack and Herb at the crime scenes.

Eventually, they might get close to figuring it out. When that time comes, he’ll kill them both, making it look like they’ve killed each other.

Then he’ll solve these current murders himself, framing his mortician friend Derrick Rushlo.

Sadly, Derrick won’t make it to trial.

Simple. Effective. And so much fun.

The killer makes sure no one notices as he slips into Herb’s office.

He’s looking for something, anything, that Herb will recognize when he sees it on the next victim. A tie clip, a wrist watch, a picture of his ugly wife . . .

“Here we are.”

In Herb’s desk drawer, he finds a library card. Without hesitating, he picks it up.

“May I help you, Officer?”

His head snaps around. Benedict is walking into the office, holding a large coffee. One of his eyebrows is raised in silent inquiry.

“Hi, Detective Benedict. I was dropping these off for you.”

In one smooth motion he slips the library card into his chest pocket and removes a small bottle of pills. He hands it to Benedict.

“Non-aspirin pain reliever?” Herb reads.

“Remember that bottle I borrowed last month?”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Benedict slaps him on the shoulder, like they’re best buddies.

“Well, back to work,” he says. “TOSAP.”

“That’s what we get paid for.” Herb chuckles. “To Serve and Protect.”

Too bad there’s no one to protect you from me, old man.

Leaving Herb’s office, he bumps into Jack, causing her to spill some coffee.

“Good afternoon, Officer.”

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

Bitch.

Well, if things go as planned, Herb and Jack won’t be around to irritate him for much longer.

He walks back to his desk, sits down, and takes a deep, full breath.

Close one.

He thinks about Herb Benedict, thinks about killing the man. He’s never killed someone that big before. It might actually be a challenge.

A challenge could be fun.

He decides, when the time comes, he’ll do it hands on. Mano a mano. No gun. No knife. He’ll beat him to death.

As for Lieutenant Daniels . . .

The good lieutenant is tough, and strong. She’ll be good for a whole evening’s entertainment, in his little plastic room on the South Side.

And maybe, if he’s careful, he could make her last the whole weekend.

CHAPTER 14

It took most of the afternoon to set up the surveillance.

After playing catch-the-subpoena at the courthouse, Herb and I managed to get access to the call log from Colin Andrews’s cell phone. There were only three numbers on the list. One was to Davi McCormick’s place, one was to a call girl named Eileen Hutton, and one was to a TracFone owned by someone named John Smith.

Eileen Hutton had a record—she worked for a high-roller escort service similar to Davi’s. A search of her apartment found it empty and without any signs of foul play, and a call to her employer found them worried sick because Eileen had missed her last two dates.

A TracFone was one of those prepaid cell phones that could be bought at drugstores, electronics stores, or on the Internet. They’re a cop’s worst nightmare. It’s simple to set up an anonymous account by using a fake name and then buying phone cards with cash.

We obtained another subpoena and secured the records from the TracFone that the killer had been calling. No calls listed going out, and the only calls coming in were from Colin’s cell.

After talking at length with several people at the phone company, it proved impossible to set up any kind of tracking or tracing of the phone. But we were able to track the prepaid cards being used for minutes. The phone had been bought two months ago at an Osco Drug on Wabash and Columbus. Two weeks after that, a twenty-minute phone card had been purchased at the same place.

According to the recent bill, those minutes were due to expire tomorrow. Which meant a new phone card would have to be purchased, hopefully from the same drugstore.

Since we suspected the killer to be a cop, I was climbing the walls trying to figure out who to put on the surveillance teams. I played the sexism card, and put two teams of three female officers on eight-hour shifts. If the killer was a woman, I might have been blowing the entire stakeout, but I just couldn’t reconcile a woman cutting off someone’s arms.

Anyone who bought a phone card or a new phone at the Osco would be tailed. Anyone with access to the county morgue—cops, morticians, doctors—would be red-flagged and I’d get an immediate call.

According to the store, they sold between five and ten phone cards a day. I hoped three officers on the scene would be enough, but I did have the resources for more.

“We’re getting close,” Herb said.

“It’s still a shot in the dark, Herb. The person who owns the TracFone might not even be an accomplice. It could be someone who doesn’t even know the perp.”

“If we look at the call logs, it works out. The perp called Davi’s place at two forty-five P.M. She called him back at six fifteen. Then, at nine twenty, the perp calls the TracFone. In Eileen’s case, the perp calls her yesterday at ten thirty A.M., then again at three twelve P.M. Three hours later, at six oh two, he calls the TracFone.”

“You think he’s abducting these women, then calling someone to join the party?”

“Or to help with the disposal.”

I mulled it over. My eyes drifted to the phone. I’d called Latham three times, and he hadn’t called back. I fought the urge to check my messages again.

I’d also called my mother, twice. She still wasn’t accepting my calls.

I wonder if Alexander Graham Bell knew, back when he invented the telephone, how much control his device would have over the lives of so many people. Especially mine.

I switched gears. “We might be missing a connection between Davi and Eileen.”

Benedict flipped through his notes. “There doesn’t have to be a connection. Both have priors. The killer could have been searching for likely victims by going through arrest records. All cops have computer access.”

Chicago had several psychiatrists specifically for its law enforcement officers. Cops had the same problems as everyone, but they tended to be amplified. I’d called the three doctors in the city’s employ, and all gave me the same lecture about patient confidentiality. The off-the-record question of “Do you know of any cops who might be capable of this?” was met with three enthusiastic “yes” answers.

Herb popped something into his mouth, chasing it with old coffee. He looked at his watch.

“I’ve got to hit the road, Jack. These things kick in pretty fast.”

“You took a Viagra? Herb, can’t you give the poor woman a rest?”

“Do you want to try one? For Latham?”

I crossed my arms.

“Latham’s fine in that area, thanks.”

“You sound defensive.”

“I’m not defensive.”

“Jack, all couples have problems sometimes. I’m sure he finds you very attractive.”

“We’re not having any problems in bed, Herb. That is, when we find the time to go to bed.”

“I thought, last night . . .”

“Did you hear about the shooting at the Cubby Bear?”

I watched Herb put two and two together in his head.

“You know, I was thinking that might be you, but when you didn’t say anything this morning . . .”

I gave Herb a quick rundown of the events last night, ending with my argument with Latham.

“So I didn’t get laid last night, because he was acting like a jerk.”

“Wanting to move in with the woman he loves is him acting like a jerk?”

“I . . . uh . . .”

“He’s told you he loves you, right?”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Have you said it back?”

“I . . . uh . . .”

“You called him today?”

This I could answer.

“Three times. He hasn’t called me back.”

“When you called him, did you apologize for acting like a horse’s ass?”

“Why should I apologize? He wants to stick my mother in a nursing home.”

“He wants to figure out how to share his life with you, and you told him he was tooting his own horn.”

Oops.

“Jack.” Herb turned a shade of red usually reserved for apples. “I don’t mean to cut out on you, but I have to run, and you might want to avert your eyes.”

“Why? Oh—the Viagra’s kicking in?”

“I just pitched a tent in my pants.”

Herb picked up a manila folder and held it out well in front of his lap.

“That stuff really works,” I said, for lack of anything better.

“Good night, Jack. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Good night, Herb. Give Bernice my best. Er, I mean, your best. Have a nice evening. Have fun. I’ll shut up now.”

Herb slunk out the door while I counted the ceiling tiles.

After he made his embarrassing exit, I picked up the phone, swallowed pride, and called Latham. His machine picked up.

“Hi, Latham. Look, I . . .”

Say you’re sorry, I told myself. Say it.

But nothing came out.

“. . . I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Why the hell had I choked? Why was apologizing such a big deal? I could admit to myself I’d made a mistake, why couldn’t I admit it to Latham?

“Lieutenant?”

I looked up, saw Fuller standing in my doorway.

“Come in.”

He set a computer printout on my desk.

“I finished the database. There weren’t any connections between your previous cases and County’s sign-in book.”

“Thanks. I’ll go over it later.”

I’d intended that to be a dismissal, but he stayed put.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Look, Lieut, I . . . I’d just like to help.”

I considered it. The only person I really trusted was Herb. But Fuller had been extremely helpful to many of my investigations, going above and beyond his normal duties. I didn’t know very much about him, personally, but as a cop he was smart, efficient, and always 100 percent professional.

I made a judgment call, and decided to let him in.

“Okay, there is something you can do. I want you to add some names to the database.”

“Sure. What names?”

“Start with this district, then the surrounding districts, until you get all twenty-six.”

Fuller furrowed his brow. “Cops? You think this might be a cop?”

I had to play this carefully, lest the rumor mill begin to turn.

“No. But if I find out which cops visited the morgue during the past week, I’ll be able to start questioning them to see if they noticed anything strange.”

“Got it.”

“There’s no rush. You can get started tomorrow.”

He nodded, offered a grin, and left my office.

I finished typing the report of the interview with Colin Andrews (leaving out the powdered sugar fiasco), and then decided to head home. Perhaps Latham had left a message on my answering machine.

He hadn’t. Neither had Mom. But Mr. Friskers, the lovable ball of fluff, had shredded both of the living room curtains.

“Tomorrow,” I promised, “you get declawed.”

I changed into an oversized T-shirt and wandered into the kitchen, cat litter sticking to the bottoms of my feet. I swept it all up, dumped it back into the litter box, and was surprised to find that Mr. Friskers had made several deposits of his own.

“Good kitty,” I called to him, wherever he was hiding.

I went to the fridge to get him some milk, and stepped barefoot into another deposit he’d made, on the floor.

This required a shower. After the shower, I finished cleaning the kitchen, gave the cat some milk and food, and searched my cabinets for dinner. I found a can of soup. I wasn’t in the mood for soup, especially mushroom, but it was expiring next month, so I ate it before I had to throw it out.

Halfway through, Mr. Friskers wandered in.

“I like the curtains,” I told him. “Very feng shui. The whole room flows much better.”

He ignored me, sticking his face in the milk.

I didn’t finish the soup, so I set that on the floor for him as well, then I went into the bedroom and stared at my nemesis, the bed.

My sheets were in the dryer. I put them back on, climbed in, and closed my eyes.

It took all of five seconds for me to realize that I had a better chance of winning lotto than falling asleep. So instead, I flipped on the television.

Reruns. Sports. Crap. Movie that I’ve seen before. Crap. Crap. Reruns. Crap. Home Shopping Network.

I finally let it rest on an infomercial about the antiaging effects of juicing. A tiny ninety-year-old man did dozens of push-ups and exclaimed how celery shakes were life’s elixir.

Did anyone buy that?

I did, and sprung for the rush delivery.

I also bought a Speedy Iron, guaranteed to do the job in half the time, a Bacon Magic, since the show proved beyond any scientific doubt that bacon was a health food, and a new home waxing system that promised it wouldn’t hurt as much as the four other new home waxing systems gathering dust in my bathroom closet.

The only thing that saved me from plunking down serious cash for a countertop rotisserie oven was the fact that my counter space was barely large enough for a toaster. I toyed with the idea of buying one anyway, and keeping it in the bedroom. Even though I’m a single woman and rarely home, the novelty of roasting two entire chickens at the same time more than made up for that.

I drifted off sometime in the middle of a seminar on how to improve your memory, and slept on and off until seven A.M., when the phone rang.

I bolted up in bed, hoping it was Latham or Mom.

“Lieutenant? This is Officer Sue Petersen on the Osco stakeout. I just followed a man who bought a twenty-dollar phone card. ID’ed him as one Derrick Rushlo, thirty-six years of age. He’s the owner of the Rushlo Funeral Home on Grand Avenue.”

“Hold on a second.”

I’d left Fuller’s report in the kitchen. Rushlo’s name was on the second page. He’d been to the county morgue last week.

“Are you still watching him?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stay on him. Call if he moves. I’ll be there within the hour.”

CHAPTER 15

The Rushlo Funeral Home faced the busy street of Grand Avenue, its storefront only ten yards wide. It was book-ended by a thrift shop on the left and a dental office on the right, all three of them done in the same cream-colored brick. On either side of the ornate front door were matching bushes in large concrete pots, carefully pruned to resemble corkscrews.

Herb and I entered. It looked like the inside of any funeral home; tasteful, somewhat opulent, with deep rugs and fancy lighting fixtures. The air-conditioning smelled faintly of lilacs.

“You okay, Herb?” Benedict had been walking funny.

“I strained a muscle in my back.”

“Working out?”

“Making nookie. Viagra ought to come with a warning label.”

We passed two parlors, and located the arrangement office at the end of the hall. Empty.

“May I help you?”

He’d come from a side door, next to the office. A squat man with a carefully trimmed beard that accentuated his double chin. He wore black slacks, a solid blue dress shirt, and a paisley tie, which hugged his expansive stomach.

“Derrick Rushlo?” Herb asked.

The man nodded, shaking Herb’s hand.

“I’m Detective Benedict, Chicago Police Department.”

Rushlo’s eyes were bright blue, and spaced widely apart. The left one was lazy, and it appeared to be staring at me while the other stared at Herb. When Benedict mentioned the CPD, both eyes bugged out.

“I’m Lieutenant Daniels.”

Rushlo hesitated, offered his hand, then let it fall when he realized I wasn’t going to offer mine.

“Do you know why we’re here, Derrick?”

“I haven’t a clue, Lieutenant.” His voice was high-pitched, breathy.

“We’d like to take a look around, if you wouldn’t mind giving us a tour.”

He blinked a few times in rapid succession.

“Normally, I wouldn’t mind. But I’m in the middle of an embalming right now. If you could come back in . . .”

Benedict held up the search warrant.

“Now would be good.”

Rushlo nodded, his chins bobbling.

“The embalming area is back there?” I indicated the door he had come through.

“Uh, yes. Come on.”

We followed him behind the scenes. White tile replaced the beige carpet, and the area lacked adequate lighting. We walked through a hallway, which led to a large loft complete with two garage doors. A hearse and a van were parked off to the side. A gurney rested by the far wall.

“This is the, uh, back area. Feel free to look around.”

“We’d like to see the embalming room.”

His features sank, but he led us to another door.

When I stepped inside, I winced. It smelled like the morgue, but fresher. Brown spills marred the floor and the walls. Several buckets, crusted with dried bits of something, were stacked in the corner. An embalming machine, which looked like a giant-sized version of the juicer I bought last night, sat on a table. Behind it, bottles of red liquid in various shades lined the shelves.

In the center of the room stood a large, stainless steel table. It had gutters on all four sides, which drained into a slop sink at the foot. The table was currently occupied, a bloody sheet covering the body.

“Take that off.”

Rushlo hesitated, then tugged the cover to the side and let it drop to the floor.

On the table were the remains of a woman. Caucasian, young, eviscerated from her pubis to her sternum. Her body cavity was empty, and I could see the ribs from the inside.

She had roughly the same build as Eileen Hutton, but I couldn’t make a positive ID because her head was missing.

“Who is this?”

“Her name is Felicia Wymann. Just got her in yesterday.”

“She’s an autopsy?” I asked. That would explain why her organs had been removed.

“Yes. Not local, though. She’s from Wisconsin. Hit and run. I know the family, and they asked me to take care of her. I’ve got the paperwork right here.”

Herb looked over the death certificate, and I took a closer look at the corpse. The skin around the neck stump was smooth; it looked to me as if the head had come off cleanly. The likelihood of that happening from a car was slim.

Even more unlikely were the marks on her hands. Her fingertips were just fleshy stumps; they’d been cut off.

I looked higher, and discovered several bruises on her shoulders and arms. Angry, oval shapes. Some had flesh missing.

Bite marks.

Her legs were splayed open, knees bent as if she were giving birth. I noticed some soft tissue damage to the vagina, felt my stomach becoming unhappy, and looked away.

“Where’s her head?” I asked.

“Her head? Um, it was crushed in the wreck.”

“Shouldn’t it still be here?”

“I cremated the head and vital organs earlier today. The family wanted her cremated.”

“Why didn’t you cremate her as well?”

Rushlo scratched the back of his neck.

“I was going to do that later today.” One eye on me, one on Herb. “The crematory is sort of on the fritz, and it works better in sections.”

“Where’s the autopsy report?” Herb asked.

“The autopsy report? I have no idea. It should be around. You’d be surprised how often paperwork gets misplaced.”

He giggled, manic.

“Do you have a cell phone, Derrick?”

“Um, sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Is it the kind that you buy phone cards for, so there’s no contract with the provider?”

He opened his mouth, lips forming a yes, but he stopped himself.

“I think I’d like a lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest, Derrick. Why would you need a lawyer?”

He folded his arms.

“I’m not saying anything else without my attorney present.”

I glanced at the corpse, 90 percent sure it was Eileen Hutton. I recalled seeing a hairbrush when we’d searched her apartment. All I needed was one strand of hair with the end bulb still attached, and I could get a DNA match.

But, contrary to cop shows on television, DNA testing took weeks, even the rush jobs.

In the meantime, we couldn’t arrest Rushlo for anything. I needed something immediately incriminating. We needed to find the TracFone.

“I’m going to call my lawyer now.”

He walked out of the room. I nodded at Herb, who followed. He’d watch who Rushlo called, making sure he didn’t alert whoever his accomplice was.

I pulled on some latex gloves and began by searching the cabinets lining the rear wall. I found tubing, trocars, scalpels, a box of something called “eye caps,” gallon jugs of various fluids, and a few extra scrubs.

The closet held a foul-smelling mop and bucket, some dirty rags, and several containers of bleach. Looking at the bleach, I thought of Davi’s severed arms. Nausea be damned, I went back to the corpse and sniffed her cold hand.

Bleach. She’d been washed down, the same as Davi.

Several stained embalming books sat on the counter, along with a tray of sharp instruments. One drawer was stuffed with a large wad of cotton. Another had several unopened packs of large, curved needles.

In the final drawer, near the back, rested a small metal box with a wire handle. A cash box. It had a combination lock on the front.

I took it out, gave it a tiny shake. Something bumped around inside. Something that didn’t sound like cash.

I picked up a clean-looking scalpel and spent about a minute trying to pry open the top. It held.

I left the prep room with the box, and found Herb and Rushlo in the arrangement office. Rushlo sat behind his desk, looking six kinds of nervous. Herb busied himself searching the bookshelves.

“What’s in the box, Derrick?”

I tossed it onto his desk. The thud made him jump.

“That’s private.”

“We have a blanket warrant. That entitles us to search anything we’re interested in. Open it up.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Did he contact a lawyer?”

Benedict nodded.

“Not cooperating with us is just making it harder on yourself, Derrick. Open the box.”

He folded his arms and tucked his chin into his chest, like a petulant child.

“I’ve got a crowbar in the Camaro. Want me to get it?”

“Thanks, Herb.”

Benedict waddled off. I sat in the chair across from Rushlo, leaning toward him.

“Let me tell you what I think, Derrick. I think you faked that death certificate. I think that woman in the embalming room is actually Eileen Hutton. I think I’ll be able to prove that. The head may be gone, and the fingerprints may be gone, but we’ve got more than enough DNA to make a positive ID.”

Rushlo began to rock back and forth, humming to himself.

“You’re going to be charged with first-degree murder, Derrick. The jury will take one look at the pictures of that poor girl, and you’ll get the death penalty.”

More humming.

“We know about the TracFone. We know you have a partner. Your only chance at getting through this is by giving us a name.”

“I’m not saying anything until my attorney gets here.”

“You think your attorney is going to help you get out of this? You’ve got a murder victim in there. Give me a name.”

Silence.

Benedict returned, holding his pry bar.

“May I?”

I handed him the box. He worked the thin side of the tool into the crack, and then popped the cover open.

It took me a second to understand what I was seeing. At first I thought they were white prunes.

But they weren’t prunes. They were ears.

And the silver hoop earrings in the lobes were mine.

CHAPTER 16

“You should talk to them, Derrick.”

Derrick Rushlo sat in Interrogation Room E, arms crossed, one eye focused intently on the ceiling and the other staring off into space. He continued to hum tunelessly.

His lawyer, a cousin named Gary Pludenza, had been trying for the last hour to get Rushlo to take the deal.

I leaned closer to Rushlo, talking softly so he had to strain to hear me.

“Prison isn’t a nice place, Derrick. I promise, you’re not going to like it. We know you’ve got a partner. Tell us who your partner is, and I can promise you a reduced sentence. Or else you’re looking at life.”

Rushlo kept humming to himself.

“Here, Derrick.” I took my driver’s license out of my wallet and showed him the photo, keeping my thumb over my address. “See what I’m wearing in the picture? Those same silver hoop earrings we found in your office.”

Derrick said nothing, but the humming stopped. I would have liked to say we had his prints on the jewelry, but they’d been wiped clean.

“We know you falsified that death certificate. That’s not Felicia Wymann from Wisconsin. We checked. No one named Felicia Wymann died recently. There was no autopsy.”

I’d mentioned that three times already, trying to hammer it into his head.

“Now look at these.”

I showed him two pictures, one of Eileen Hutton in a bathing suit, and one of the corpse’s right shoulder.

“See the birthmark, Derrick? The pear-shaped one right here and here? It’s identical in both pictures. And soon, we’ll have the DNA tests back, and they’ll prove without a doubt that the woman on that table is not Felicia Wymann. It’s Eileen Hutton.”

Silence. I tried a different tactic, and slammed my palm down on the table. Both Derrick and his lawyer jumped.

“Don’t you get it, Rushlo? You’re going to spend the next fifty years sharing a twelve-by-twelve cell with some body-building rapist who’s going to trade your ass for cigarettes. We found the TracFone. We’ve got you connected to two homicides. Is your partner worth that?”

Pludenza gave me a weak smile. “Can I speak to my client privately, for a moment?”

I stormed out of the room, my anger not entirely playacting. I needed some coffee, but had no idea where the vending machine was. Because Herb and I were convinced Rushlo’s accomplice was a cop, possibly from our station, we’d brought him to the 12th District rather than the 26th. For all I knew, the bad cop might be from the 12th, so we tried to do this on the hush-hush.

I flipped a mental coin and chose to go right. After turning two corners, I found a coffee machine.

Unfortunately, all I had in my wallet were two nickels and a twenty-dollar bill.

“How’s the interrogation going?”

Herb walked toward me, coming down the hall. He held a stack of papers.

“Do you have seventy-five cents?”

“That’s what you need to break him? Seventy-five cents?”

“For coffee, Herb.”

He fished around in his pants pockets and came up with a crusty penny and a stick of gum covered in lint. He ate the gum.

“Nailed the ID on the body,” Herb said, chewing. “Eileen Hutton broke her leg in a skiing accident two years ago. We got her X-rays, and they match with the ones Blasky just took at County.”

Herb offered me the papers. Even though the faxes weren’t perfect, the match clearly was.

“How soon before he finishes the autopsy?”

“He’s almost done—the organs are missing, so it’s going quick. He estimates she’s been dead for about eighteen hours. Neck wound is consistent with some kind of wire or garrote. He’s got pictures and casts of the bite wounds, and is confident he can match them up with a suspect’s teeth. Found semen. Should be able to type it if the guy’s a secretor—Phil said it’s only a few hours old.”

“I thought she was killed eighteen hours ago.”

Herb gave me a pained look, and I put two and two together.

“Rushlo?”

“Yeah. He’s got the new high score on my personal Yuck Scale.”

I got an involuntary image of Derrick, naked and grunting on top of Eileen’s corpse, and immediately buried it. While the concept unnerved me, it didn’t completely surprise me. Being a cop for so long, I had zero faith in humanity.

“Necrophilia isn’t a crime, right?” I asked.

“If not, it should be. He hasn’t cracked yet?”

“Hasn’t said a word. You want to take a shot?”

Herb nodded. We walked back to the interrogation room and Herb popped his head inside.

“Ready to deal?”

The lawyer sighed, loud and long.

“I’m sorry, Detective. He refuses to say anything.”

Herb sat in the chair across from Rushlo, and I stood behind him, wearing my no-BS face.

“We just got some X-rays, Derrick. They confirm the woman is Eileen Hutton. We’re going to charge you with first-degree murder. I’ve spoken with the assistant state’s attorney, and if you make a statement and name the partner, we’ll go easy on you.”

Rushlo began to hum again. I felt an urge to whack him upside the head.

“Are you not talking because you’re worried about your partner? Or are you embarrassed to admit what you did to Eileen after you received the body?”

Rushlo’s lawyer furrowed his brow.

“What do they mean, Derrick? What did you do to the body?”

I dropped the papers on the table. “We have evidence that your client had sexual relations with the corpse, roughly two hours ago.”

I’d never seen a lawyer look so completely disgusted. In a way, it was refreshing.

“Derrick—I think you need to get other representation.”

Rushlo turned to him, panicked.

“You’re my cousin! You can’t desert me!”

“I don’t know if I can handle this, Derrick. My specialty is DUIs, not humping dead bodies.”

“I don’t have anyone else!”

The lawyer gathered up his things and stood.

“I’ll make some calls, see if I can find someone. Don’t say anything without counsel present.”

He made a sick face, then left the room.

I wanted to keep going at Rushlo, but no lawyer meant no questions. We booked him, taking prints and mugs, and tossed him into a holding cell.

“Dammit, Herb. I really don’t think he’s going to give up his partner.”

“We can check Rushlo’s background. Try to narrow it down.”

“That will take time. And meanwhile, we’ve got a crazy cop running around, slicing up call girls.”

“How about a mole ploy?”

I considered it.

“What if one of the cops here is the killer? Maybe that’s why Rushlo is so scared.”

Herb rubbed his mustache.

“Bring in someone from the outside? Stick a wire on him, stick him in the cell, maybe he could get Rushlo to give up a name.”

“Do you know anyone other than cops? Someone who would know how to get information out of him?”

“I know a few retired cops. I could make a few calls. How about you?”

I shook my head. “No one.”

“How about your ex-partner? That McGlade guy?”

“No. He’d find some way to make everything worse.”

“We’ve only got tonight, Jack. Tomorrow they’ll ship Rushlo to the county lock-up. We wouldn’t be able to get a mole in there.”

“McGlade is an idiot.”

“He used to be a cop. Plus he owes you one, from the way they depicted you in that awful TV movie. Remember how they made you into a binge eater, constantly shoving things into your mouth? That must have been humiliating.”

I thought about McGlade’s suspended PI license, and knew I could use that to get him to help. But, dammit, it was using a machine gun to kill a gnat.

“If the choice is working with Harry, or letting a maniac run free, I’m not sure which is the worse of the two.”

“Call him.”

“Maybe I can dress up as a man and do it myself. I can paint on a mustache with mascara.”

“Call him.”

“Ah, hell.”

I needed to dial directory assistance to get McGlade’s number. As his phone rang, I silently hoped he wouldn’t pick up.

“This is Harry McGlade, World’s Greatest Private Detective, featured in the television movie Fatal Autonomy. Talk to me.”

I swallowed a gallon of pride. “Harry, it’s Jack.”

“Jackie! Calling to give me good news about my license?”

“Sort of. I need a favor.”

“Consider it done, sugar. I had no idea you wanted to ride the Harry Rocket, but I’m more than happy to give you a taste. I usually like them younger, though.”

“Even if you tied me down, McGlade, I’d chew off my own arms to get away. I need you to run the mole ploy for me.”

“Gimme details.”

I filled Harry in, lowering my voice when a pair of cops walked past.

“And if I help you out with the stiff-sticker, you’ll get me my license back?”

“You have my word.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour, ready to be wired. See you soon.”

Harry hung up. Herb gave me a pat on the shoulder.

“It’s for the greater good, Jack.”

I took a deep breath and rubbed my temples.

“That’s what Oppenheimer said.”

CHAPTER 17

“Want to help me tape on the wire?”

McGlade waggled his eyebrows at me. He’d unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a flabby chest completely carpeted with curly brown hair. It was like looking at a gorilla, if the gorilla used Rogaine.

“Is it a full moon?” Herb asked.

“Could be,” McGlade answered. “Does the full moon turn you into a fat pig?”

Herb narrowed his eyes. Harry had a wonderful way of immediately getting on a person’s bad side.

“Don’t get angry, Porky.” Harry grinned. “It’s just a joke.”

Herb folded his arms. “For your information, I just lost ten pounds.”

“You didn’t lose them—they’re hiding in your ass.”

I stepped between them and used some tape to attach the lavaliere microphone to Harry’s chest. More tape than necessary.

“You’re so gentle, Jackie. You’re turning me on.”

Harry put his hand on my hip, and I pinched his nipple hard enough to draw milk. He yelped and dropped his hand.

Herb shook his head in disbelief; Harry got that reaction a lot. “You were right, Jack. He’s an idiot.”

“Herb,” I warned.

“A fourteen-karat, card-carrying idiot. How did you survive all those years with him as a partner?”

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Harry asked. “Your local grocery store run out of Sara Lee?”

Benedict pointed a finger in McGlade’s face. “You make one more fat joke . . .”

“And you’ll do what? Eat me?”

Benedict got in McGlade’s face, and I had to pull him away.

“Can you both please act like professionals?”

“Careful, Jackie, when he’s done with me he may still be hungry.”

Benedict grabbed a fistful of Harry’s chest hair and yanked out a patch. McGlade screamed, then went for his shoulder holster.

“Sit!” I ordered Harry. “And back off, Herb.”

Harry glowered at Herb, then sat back down. Benedict rolled his eyes and walked over to the other side of the room, giving Harry his back.

“Here’s the deal, McGlade. We know Rushlo’s got an accomplice, and we believe it’s a cop. We need a name.”

“No problem.”

“You have to play it cool in there, try to get him to open up. You’ve read the file.”

“Yeah. He’s a mortician, and he likes his sex partners at room temperature. I’ll get the info, Jackie. I’m good at this.”

Benedict chortled.

“You may scoff, Detective Butterball, but I’ve worked undercover many times before. In fact, I’m a master of disguise. Guess who I am now.”

Benedict took the bait and looked. Harry crossed his eyes and scrunched his neck down, giving himself a big double chin.

“I lost ten pounds on the donut diet,” Harry grunted.

Herb made a fist, looked at me, and then excused himself from the room.

“The guy’s got no sense of humor, Jackie. He probably eats to compensate for an inadequate sex life.”

“I don’t think that’s Herb’s problem. Let’s get a level.”

I turned on the receiver, a black box the size of a car radio, and adjusted the volume. The room filled with the squelch of feedback.

“Take a few steps back, McGlade, and say something.”

McGlade walked near the door, singing about his lovely bunch of coconuts. He came in clear, lousy voice aside.

“The desk sergeant is going to put you in the holding tank. I want Rushlo to give up a name, but any other info you get out of him, I’ll be recording. You know what he looks like?”

“I saw the mugs. He looks like a toad with a Lincoln beard.”

“Probably not wise to use that as your opening line. What’s your approach going to be?”

Harry grinned, his smile as wide as a zebra’s hindquarters. “Trust me.”

I had a sudden need for an antacid.

I put the bracelets on Harry and led him to the holding area. After signing him in, I took off the cuffs and let the desk sergeant escort him to his cell.

When I returned to the office we’d appropriated, Herb was already there, signing a piece of paper. It was the authorization to give a prisoner a full body-cavity search. McGlade’s name was on the top. I took the paper and crumpled it up.

“Herb, you’re being childish.”

“Yeah. He’d probably just enjoy it anyway.”

The radio made a clanging sound. Cell door closing. I hit the Record button.

Footsteps. White noise. Shuffling.

“Hey man, got any smokes?” Harry’s voice.

“No. Sorry.” Rushlo.

“I don’t believe this shit. I shouldn’t even be in here. She said she was sixteen, man. It was so worth the hassle, though. The younger the beaver, the softer the pelt, right? Right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

A grunt, perhaps McGlade sitting down.

“You guess? I can tell you like sex, just looking at you. You’ve got that vibe. I bet you’re a real lady-killer.”

Herb sighed and shook his head. “I know people who work at the zoo, Jack. We could have sent a trained monkey in there instead.”

I shushed him.

“Actually, I’m not very good with women.”

“You’re kidding, right? With a face like that, I bet you get laid all the time. When was the last piece of ass you tagged? Come on, don’t be shy. When was it? Last week? Yesterday?”

Seconds of silence went by.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. So when was the last time you got some?”

“This morning.”

“I knew it! I knew it the moment I saw you. I bet you like that kinky shit too. Little rope action, little spanky-spanky. Am I right?”

“Sort of.”

“Look at you, smiling like that. What’s your kink?”

“It’s . . . private.”

Hand-clapping sounds, and McGlade laughing.

“I bet it’s real private. I can see it in your eyes. Well, your one eye. Your other eye is all screwed up. I bet you have a hard time watching 3-D movies.”

Herb sighed again.

“So what’s your kink, man? Kids? Animals? Getting pooped on?”

“Nothing like that.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t really talk about it.”

“Got it. Secret stuff. I’m cool with that. What’s you’re name, man?”

“Derrick.”

“Hi, Derrick. My name’s Barnum. Call me P.T.”

“Unbelievable,” Herb said.

“What do you do, Derrick?”

“I own a funeral home.”

“Funeral home, huh? How’s business?”

“Business is dying.”

They both chuckled. Herb and I managed to restrain ourselves.

“Hey, wait a second! A funeral home! Is that your kink, man? You boning the stiffs? That’s freaking great, man! I bet you get a lot of tail working in a funeral home, and none of it ever says no. Am I right?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Why not? Nothing wrong with grabbing a little afternoon delight at work. I always wanted to nail a corpse.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Don’t have to buy her dinner, don’t have to bother with foreplay, and she wouldn’t want to talk afterward. Sounds like the perfect woman. Tell me the truth: How is it?”

Another long pause.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Not cold?”

“I use a heating pad to warm them up.”

“That’s genius, man! When we get out of here, maybe you’d let me stop by some time? I’d, you know, pay for the privilege. As soon as we both get out . . . hey, what’s wrong, man?”

“I’m never going to get out of here.” Rushlo’s voice was cracking.

“Why not? What are you in for?”

“Murder.”

“No shit! You killed somebody?”

“No. I didn’t kill anybody. They think I did.”

“Well, if you didn’t do it, they’ll let you out. Do you know who did it?”

Sniffling. “Yes.”

“Did you tell them?”

“No. He’ll kill me if I tell.”

“Won’t the cops protect you?”

“He is a cop.”

“No shit? Man, that sucks. You wanna tell me his name?”

“No. Why?”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

Herb slapped himself on the forehead.

“Why do you want to know his name? Are you a cop?”

“Sure, I’m a cop. I’m even wearing a wire. They sent me in here to see if I could make you talk.”

Herb nudged me. “When this is over, let’s leave McGlade in there. He’s too stupid to be allowed in society.”

“You’re not a cop.” Rushlo talking.

“Of course I’m not a cop. I hate cops. Hey . . . you wanna hear a secret?”

“Sure.”

“I killed a cop once.” Harry was whispering. I turned up the volume.

“Are you kidding?”

“No shit, man. I was on a street corner, talking to this cute little girl, and this cop starts hassling me. I didn’t need that kind of hassle, know what I mean? He wants to pat me down, and I’m carrying.”

“You had a gun?”

“Hell yeah, I had a gun. So before he gets a chance to take it away from me, I put him down. Bam Bam! Two in the face. Maybe you read about it, happened a few weeks ago. You wanna hear the cool part?”

“Sure.”

“I liked it.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I’m a stone-cold demon, man. I’m the real deal. Hey . . . you rich? I heard funeral homes make a lot of money.”

“I have money.”

“Maybe I can help you out.”

“How?”

“Maybe I could take care of this cop for you. Sneak up on his pig ass and give him a little Bam Bam.”

Nice, Harry. I was actually a little impressed.

“I don’t think I want to kill him.”

“He’s a pig, man. All pigs should die.”

“I don’t know.”

“Would he kill you, if he had the chance?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got to take this guy out.”

“But he’s my friend.”

Harry’s laughter made the speakers shake.

“Do all your friends want to kill you?”

“No. Most of my friends are dead.”

Benedict snorted. “There’s a shock.”

“Well, maybe you and me can make this one dead too, Derrick.”

“I don’t know.”

“Your call, man. I’ll tell you something, though—if this guy’s a cop, and you think you’re safe in here, you’re crazy.”

“He’s not from this station.”

“Don’t matter. He can still get to you. Sneak in when you’re sleeping, stick you a few times, and then blame it on one of the convicts. Or put something in your food. Or pay one of the other cons to do it. There’s a million ways.”

“Jesus.”

“You could maybe ask to go into protective custody, but that’s even worse. Then he’d have a shot at you when you’re alone. You should let me take the porker out.”

Another long pause.

“I can’t.”

“I could do it for twenty grand. You got twenty grand?”

“Yes.”

“Groovy. Let me whack the guy. Tell the cops he forced you to help him, and they’ll let you go. You could be back at work and getting it on with dear, departed Aunt Sally in a day or two.”

“I can’t.”

“Whatever, man. You’re the one who’s gonna get iced.”

There was no talking for over a minute. Only Rushlo’s off-key humming.

“What if . . . what if I said yes?”

“Half the money up front, the other half when it’s over.”

“How?”

“Cash. You talk to your lawyer, have him deliver it to me.”

“And what if you can’t do it?”

“I can do it. Trust me.”

“He’s a big guy.”

“Size don’t matter if you aim for the head. What’s the pig’s name?”

I noticed I was holding my breath.

“Hey man, if you want me to kill the guy, I got to know his name.”

“It’s Barry.”

Herb and I looked at each other. There was only one Barry we knew on the job. I tried to make it fit, to picture the cop on my team as the one responsible for these atrocities.

“Barry what? Barry Houdini? Barry Flintstone? Barry Manilow? You gotta give me more than that.”

Fuller had access to my office, and to Colin Andrews’s phone. Fuller was angry I passed him over for promotion. Fuller kept butting into this investigation, offering to help.

“I don’t want to say any more. I can’t say any more. I’m sorry.”

“You already said too much, you little squealer.” McGlade’s tone had become harsh, menacing. “Barry knew you’d try something. He sent me to take care of you.”

Rushlo made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.

“Leave me alone!”

“Barry can’t afford to keep you around.”

“I’m sorry! Tell him I’m sorry!”

“Tell who you’re sorry?”

“Fuller! Tell him I’d never betray him.”

“Get him out of there,” I told Herb, the phone already in my hand. We needed to find Barry Fuller, fast.

Before anyone else died.

CHAPTER 18

Barry Fuller cruises Irving Park Road. He’s off duty, dressed in civvies and driving his SUV.

His headache is explosive.

The morning began on a bad note. Holly, his bitch of a wife, had some stupid complaint about the living room curtains. He told her, several times, to buy new curtains if she hated these, but she couldn’t shut her goddamn mouth and kept yapping and yapping and finally he had to leave because if he didn’t he would have gutted her right there.

He needs a substitute, fast. Normally, he’d drop in the station and use the computer to locate a neighborhood hooker. But the pain is so bad he’s practically blind with it, and he needs relief ASAP.

Luckily, the streets are littered with disposables.

He tails a jogger for a block. Blonde, nice ass. She blends into the crowd, and he loses her.

Another woman. Business suit. High heels. He idles alongside, visualizing how to grab her. She walks into a coffee shop.

Fuller fidgets in his seat, sweating even though the air is cranked to the max. He turns down an alley, searching, scanning . . .

Finding.

She’s walking out the rear door to her apartment building. Twenty-something, wearing flip-flops and a large T-shirt over bikini bottoms, a towel on her shoulder. Planning on walking to Oak Street Beach, just a few blocks away.

He guns the engine and hits her from behind.

She bounces off the front bumper, skids along the pavement face-first. Fuller jams the truck into park, jumps out.

“My God! Are you okay?” In case anyone is watching. There doesn’t seem to be.

The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.

“We have to get you to a hospital.”

He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they’re pulling out into traffic.

“What happened?” she moans.

Fuller hits her. Again. And again.

She slumps over in the seat.

He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It’s one of Chicago’s oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.

“We’re in luck,” Fuller says. “It’s dead.”

The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred-year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.

Plenty of room for privacy.

He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.

Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.

Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.

When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman’s arm.

Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.

He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field’s monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.

The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.

He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.

It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.

His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.

Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.

Pain-free.

On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.

The mortician doesn’t pick up.

Alarms go off in Fuller’s head. Rushlo always picks up. That’s part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo’s Funeral Home.

Another call.

No answer.

Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?

Rushlo won’t talk. He’s sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.

But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.

Jack’s earrings.

He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?

Worry creeps up Barry’s shoulders and crouches there.

He calls Rushlo again.

No answer.

He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.

Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.

It’s over. Time to leave the country.

Fuller’s bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.

“You need shoes to enter, sir.”

Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.

“Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I’ll beat your ass right here.”

The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.

“I need to open my security box. Now.”

The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.

“I’ll need a bag.”

The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash—shakedowns from his patrolman days—a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.

A meter maid is writing him a ticket.

“Sorry, sister. I’m on the job.”

She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.

Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancún. It leaves in three hours.

Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.

Fuller doesn’t want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they’re on to him, they’ll be staking out his house.

But he can’t leave the country without killing that bitch he married. That just wouldn’t do.

He dials home, rehearsing the lines in his head.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Holly. It’s me.”

“What do you want?”

No fear in her tone. No nervousness or hesitation.

“Everything okay, babe? You sound strange.”

“Everything is not okay. These damn curtains are driving me insane. How could we have lived with them for so long, Barry? They’re hideous.”

So far, she seems normal.

“Hon, I’m expecting some guys from the office to drop by later. Are they there yet?”

“Nope.”

“Maybe parked out front?”

“Why would they be parked out front?”

“Can you check for me, babe? It’s important.”

“Just a second.” Rustling, footsteps. “I’m looking at the street. No one out front.”

Fuller considers this. Maybe they haven’t found out about him yet. Maybe he can go home, do the bitch, and be able to pack his bags and some things.

He instantly rejects the idea as too dangerous.

“Baby, do you remember where we bought our bedroom set?”

“Sure. Why?”

“Meet me there in an hour.”

“What for?”

Fuller smiles. “We’re shopping for curtains.”

“Really?”

“Really. Oh, and bring me a change of clothes and some shoes.”

“Why? What are you talking about?”

“Long story. Some street lunatic threw up on me, and I’m wearing my workout sweats. Just bring me shorts, a T-shirt, and my Nikes. Meet me in Home Furnishings.”

“Okay, Barry. See you in an hour.”

Fuller puts the cell phone away and turns right, heading for State Street. He’ll kill her inside Marshall Field’s. She’s a clotheshorse, and it won’t take much to get her to try on an outfit. He’ll break her neck in one of the dressing rooms. It’s not the fillet knife that he always wanted to use, but it should be satisfying enough.

Hands-on treatment always is.

CHAPTER 19

“She’s on the move.”

Holly Fuller walked out of her apartment building and hailed a Yellow Cab.

Herb pulled into traffic behind her. I removed the earpiece, shoved it in my blazer pocket. After McGlade made Rushlo sing, we secured a quick subpoena to tap Fuller’s home phone. A fake telemarketing call to the Fuller household proved Barry wasn’t there. Since it was his day off, we decided to keep vigil until we heard from him.

The phone call disturbed me. Fuller seemed extra careful not to mention the name of the store where he wanted to meet his wife. And why would he need a change of clothes? Did he know we had Rushlo? I hoped not. Barry Fuller was not the kind of man who would be easy to subdue if forewarned.

I picked up the receiver on Herb’s police band.

“This is Two-Delta-Seven, tailing Yellow Cab number six-four-seven-niner Thomas X-ray. Passenger is Holly Fuller, thirty-two, blonde, five-eight, hundred and ten pounds. She’s wearing a red and orange summer dress, and carrying a red Nike gym bag. They’re turning south onto Michigan Avenue. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over.”

“Roger, Two-Delta-Seven. Twelve-Homer-Nineteen flanking South on Wabash, over.”

“Roger, both. Sixteen-Angel-Niner turning east on Grand to intercept, over.”

My team was unmarked, but a plain white sedan still screamed COP to all who saw it, so I ordered them to hang back. Even if we lost her, a call to the cab company would tell us where she was dropped off.

“Think she’s headed for Water Tower Place?” Herb asked.

“Could be. Or State Street. Seems like a woman with expensive tastes. Her shoes are Ferragamos.”

“You could tell through the binocs?”

“I’ve had my eye on that same pair for two months. Five hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Do they come with a trip to Rio?”

“Don’t pretend to understand fashion, Herb. And I won’t make any comments about this big red penis you’re driving around in.”

Herb humphed.

“My Camaro? I bought this solely for comfort.”

“So did Holly Fuller.”

Traffic was tight, befitting a weekend on the Magnificent Mile. This was the best-known part of Chicago. The skyscrapers, John Hancock and the AON Center (formerly Amoco, and before that, Standard Oil). Nieman Marcus and Saks. Navy Pier. The Art Institute. Orchestra Hall. Further south, Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium.

The sidewalks were packed—not quite shoulder to shoulder, but personal space was at a premium. The sun beat down on everyone and everything, and I couldn’t use the binoculars because I kept catching glints off of cars and hurting my eyes.

“She passed Water Tower. Continuing south on Michigan. Ease up, Herb—you’re riding her bumper. There’s a pedal next to the gas that I don’t think you’ve tried yet.”

Benedict slowed down, let the cab gain several car lengths.

“Jack . . . what if we have to take him down?”

I knew how he felt. Cops were fiercely protective of their own. Arresting one, or shooting one, was a hard idea to get your head around. The us-against-them mentality ran deep in the force. Us-against-us was anathema.

“Then we do our job. We take him down.”

“I can’t believe it’s Barry. I can’t believe he could do that. I consider him a friend, for chrissakes.”

I couldn’t believe it either. I tried to replay every meeting I’d ever had with Barry Fuller, tried to recall any signs or hints that he was a serial killer.

There were none. Fuller had fooled us all.

“You know as well as I do, Herb. The scariest monsters have the best masks.”

Benedict made his mouth into a thin, tight line.

“He’s supposed to be one of the good guys.”

“Good guys don’t slice up hookers.”

The taxi hung a right onto Randolph, and then another right onto State. It stopped in front of Marshall Field’s.

“The passenger has been dropped off at the northwest corner of State and Randolph. All units converge, but remain out of sight until target is spotted, over.”

Holly Fuller paid the driver and walked into the department store, while Benedict double-parked. I shoved my earpiece in and pinned the lapel mike to my blouse. After informing our backup that Holly was in the building, Herb and I hurried into Field’s.

The store was packed. An equal mix of men and women, their attire running the gamut from business formal to T-shirts and sandals. Heat waves were good for business, especially if you had decent air-conditioning.

We spotted Holly stepping onto the escalator, and lagged behind thirty seconds before following. A lighted sign informed us Home Furnishings occupied the fifth floor.

There was a line for the escalator, and we wedged ourselves on, surrounded by shoppers.

“Do you see her?”

“There. Eleven o’clock.”

I followed his index finger and spotted Holly on the escalator two floors above us. She was easy to spot, which made me aware of how conspicuous Herb and I were. Benedict didn’t exactly blend in.

“I’ll need you to stay on the third floor, Herb. See if you can spot Fuller coming up. Lay low.”

Benedict nodded. I spoke into the mike, requesting further backup to converge on all exits at my command.

Benedict got off the escalator. I pressed onward and upward. On the fifth floor, I searched for Holly and found her examining Oriental rugs. A quick survey of the area failed to reveal Fuller, but the several dozen shoppers milling about made me very uneasy. Too many people, only one me.

I didn’t like this. Not a bit.

I could feel my heartbeat kick up a notch. My palms got damp and my mouth got dry. A crowded department store was not a place for a shoot-out.

I blended into the crowd, pretending to examine loveseats. A saleswoman came up, asked if I needed assistance. I told her no, keeping distance from Holly as she left rugs for window dressings.

Best-case scenario, I sneak up on Fuller, he surrenders without incident.

Worst-case—well, take your pick. He’s a homicidal maniac and a trained marksman. He knows everything I’ll do before I do it. Knows he’s surrounded, exits blocked. Knows he has a much better chance to make a stand when there are this many bystanders hanging around.

“Any sign of the target?”

I received a round of negatives in my earpiece.

“The locale is too crowded. We’ll tail him as he leaves, over.”

That calmed me a bit. We could just hang back, take him down when he’s back on the street, where there were fewer . . .

“I’ve got him.” Benedict, from the third floor. “Taking the escalator. Dressed in green gym shorts and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He’s also barefoot, over.”

“Hold your positions. We will not engage until he’s off site. Repeat, hold your positions. Over.”

I changed directions, facing the escalator. A minute passed, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out, slow.

Fuller rose up out of the floor, seeming much bigger than he looked around the office. His manner was edgy, irritated, and his eyes darted this way and that. I squatted behind a display of bath towels, watched him through a gap in the terry-cloth layers.

He passed within twenty feet of me, beelining to window dressings.

“The target’s on the fifth floor. I have him in my sights, over.”

Holly had her back to him, absorbed in examining a valence. Fuller spotted her, quickened his pace. He reached his hands out before him, huge hands, at neck level.

I stood up, adrenaline surging. It was too far away to take a shot. I broke into a jog, hand going for my gun, and then skidded on my heels when Fuller put his hands over Holly’s eyes and played guess who.

She giggled, turned around, and kissed him on tiptoes. Fuller held out his hand, and Holly handed him the Nike bag she’d been carrying. They exchanged a few sentences, another kiss, and then he led her away from window dressings, back to the escalator.

I spun around, absorbed in the price tag on a bronze floor lamp.

“Target and his wife are heading for the escalators. Going up. Everyone stand their ground, over.”

I gave them half a minute’s lead, then followed the pair up a floor. Women’s Evening Wear.

“They’re on the sixth floor, looking at cocktail dresses. He’s picking one up off the rack, handing it to her. She’s shaking her head. He’s laughing. Now they’re walking over to the dressing rooms. They just went in.”

I examined my options. Keep my distance and wait for them to come out, or move in closer to make sure he isn’t adding to his body count.

They seemed fine. No animosity. Smiling and kissing.

I decided to hang back. It was just a husband and wife, out shopping. Even as crazy as Fuller seemed, he probably wasn’t going to kill his wife in the middle of a busy department store.

Right?

CHAPTER 20

He’s ready to kill the bitch. The excitement of it makes him giddy, light-headed. As soon as she opens that door, shows off that pretty little Dolce & Gabbana dress, he’s going to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until his thumbs meet his index fingers.

He knocks on her dressing room door. “You okay in there, honey?”

“Just a second. This isn’t the right kind of bra, I have to take it off. You really like this dress?”

“I have to see you in it.”

“I didn’t know you cared about fashion, Barry.”

Fuller grins, thinking about the corpse in the back of his SUV.

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, dear.”

Fuller wipes some sweat from his forehead, hands shaking. The store’s swamped with customers, and there’s no one chaperoning the dressing room. He’ll be able to kill his wife in less than thirty seconds, and then slip out before anyone knows what is happening. Remember to take her ring and tennis bracelet, he tells himself. Might not hurt to stop at the jewelry department on his way out and max his credit card on diamonds. He won’t get even half their value at the pawn shop, but he doesn’t plan on sticking around to pay the bill.

“You ready, honey?” Holly’s voice is like a dinner bell.

“I’m ready.”

“The shoes don’t match.”

“I don’t care. Let me in so I can look at you.”

The door opens. Fuller goes in.

Holly smiles at him, the same fake smile she gives photographers.

“What do you think?”

Fuller smiles back, full wattage, his eyes wide and the muscles in his neck stretched taut.

“I’ll show you what I think.”

He reaches for her neck.

CHAPTER 21

I learned to trust my instincts years ago, as a rookie. If a situation didn’t feel right, it usually wasn’t.

Something about the eager way Fuller followed his wife into the dressing room set me on edge. I’d never met a man eager to play fashion show, and the quick way he convinced Holly to try on the dress made me suspicious.

“Change of plan. All units converge on the sixth floor, at the northeast dressing room. We’re taking the target down. Repeat, we’re taking the target down. Over.”

I hung my star around my neck and tugged out my .38, which was happy to be free of its claustrophobic holster.

Several patrons stared at me, mouths open. I warned them to stay back.

Two steps into the dressing room, I heard gurgling and grunting. A muffled scream. I followed the sounds, found the right door. Locked.

I kicked off my flats, planted my left foot, and snap-kicked the door at knob level, grunting with the force of my effort.

The jamb splintered. The door swung inward. My gun came up.

Fuller had Holly by the throat. He spun her around, in the path of my .38, and I jerked the shot high, firing at the ceiling.

I recovered quickly, leveling the gun, bringing my left hand up to steady it. Fuller’s massive forearm was locked around Holly’s throat. Her face was a mess of tears, mascara, and spit, and her eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

Fuller was smiling.

“Hello, Lieutenant.”

I aimed at his head.

“Drop her, Barry!”

“I don’t think so.”

His arm tightened. Holly went from red to purple.

My hands had begun to shake. I tightened my finger on the trigger.

“Dammit, Barry! We can work this out! Don’t make me shoot you!”

I heard Fuller’s shots a millisecond after I felt them, ripping through Holly’s belly and slamming into mine. It was like getting kicked in the stomach.

I fired on reflex, my slug winging Fuller in the forehead.

All three of us went down.

The dressing room was carpeted, and the floor felt plush under my back. Comfortable. I looked down at my belly and saw blood and bits of flesh. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized my outfit was ruined, and that amused me for some reason.

To my left, lying less than two feet away, Holly Fuller stared at me. She blinked. Opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was blood.

“Don’t talk,” I told her.

She nodded, once. Then she closed one eye, and the other continued to stare at me as her life left her body.

Behind her, Fuller was laid out on his back. His head spurted blood with his heartbeat, and I saw bits of bone tangled in his hair. His right hand was clenched around a bloody semiautomatic.

“Die,” I whispered.

He didn’t.

I heard screams, and then Herb’s plump face was staring down at me, filled with anguish. I wanted to tell him not to be so sad, but I couldn’t get the words to form.

He pried the .38 from my hand, and touched my cheek.

“It’s going to be okay, Jack. It’s going to be okay.”

Not for Holly Fuller, I thought. And then it was getting too hard to keep my eyes open, so I went to sleep.

CHAPTER 22

When I woke up, Latham was holding my hand. He smiled at me.

“Hiya, sport. You got out of surgery an hour ago. Had two bullets removed from your abdominal wall.”

I looked around, took in all the standard hospital surroundings, and then went to sleep again.

The second time I awoke, Herb was there.

“Good morning, Jack. How you feeling?”

“Stomach hurts,” I said. Or tried to say. What came out was something that sounded like, “S’hurt.”

“I’ll have the doctor up your morphine.”

I shook my head and tried to say no.

“Thirsty?”

I nodded. Benedict poured me some water from a pitcher and held the glass. I took two sips, and two more sips dribbled down my face.

“Day?” I managed.

“Friday. You’ve been out about twenty-four hours.”

“Olly?”

Herb shook his head.

“Uller?”

“He’s in recovery. I’ll tell you more when you’re feeling better.”

“Ell me.”

“This is how we figured it—lemme know if it’s right. Fuller was holding Holly around the neck. Did you know he had a gun?”

I shook my head.

“He had it pressed to her back, and tried to shoot you through his wife. The slugs ripped through her and got lodged in your stomach muscles. I guess it pays to do sit-ups.”

I grunted. It wasn’t sit-ups. Holly’s body slowed them down, so they didn’t penetrate deep.

“Your round took off part of his head, above his right eye. Mostly skull. The docs picked bone splinters out of his brain for the better part of ten hours. Also, they found something else.”

“What?”

“Fuller had a brain tumor. About the size of a cherry. They removed that as well. He’s in stable condition.”

I mumbled for more water, and we did the slurping/spilling thing again. A small voice whispered to me that I should have shot Fuller immediately, before he had a chance to kill his wife.

“Latham should be back any minute. Went on a burrito run. All of these flowers are from him.”

Herb made a grand, sweeping gesture, and for the first time I noticed all of the bouquets surrounding the bed, replete with stuffed animals and Mylar balloons.

“He hasn’t left your side since you got here, Jack. He’s like Lassie.”

“Case?” I asked. I wasn’t up to talking about Latham.

“Airtight. We found a body in the back of Fuller’s truck. She’s wrapped in plastic, and his prints are all over her, not that it makes a difference at this point. The State’s Attorney is making a case for the two other women, Eileen Hutton and Davi McCormick, plus the Andrewses.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, yeah. You didn’t know. The dealer, and his mother. Both shot. Witnesses saw a large Caucasian man leaving the scene. Fuller was making so many mistakes, it’s almost like he wanted to be caught.”

I took a deep breath, smelling rubbing alcohol and iodine. My arm itched where the IV was jabbed in, and I scratched the skin above the hole. My stomach hurt; not from the inside, like an ulcer, but from the outside, as if someone had kicked me. I pulled down my sheet and pulled my hospital gown to the side. Herb carefully examined his shoes, while I poked and prodded at the large gauze bandage taped to my lower body.

The poking made me realize how badly I needed to go to the bathroom, and I managed to sit up and plant my feet on the floor. The tile was cold.

“Where are you going?”

“Bathroom.”

“I don’t know if you should.”

“You want to cup your hands and hold them next to my knees?”

Herb helped me into the bathroom.

When finished, I was a little dizzy, and held on to the sink until the room stopped twirling. The woman in the mirror looked like hell. Hair, a disaster. Face, scrubbed clean of makeup, letting age and exhaustion shine through. Pallor, not much better than one of Derrick Rushlo’s dates.

So when I stepped out of the bathroom, it was a given that my boyfriend would be standing there.

He was wearing a smile that could charitably be called dopey, and in his hands was yet another floral arrangement, this one blooming from a coffee mug with a rainbow on it.

“Hi, Jack. You look great.”

And I could tell that he meant it.

Maybe it was the drugs, or the pain, or the guilt, but I burst into tears right there. He held me, softly, so as not to hurt me. But I hugged him tight, with everything I had, not ever wanting to let go.

“I’m so happy you’re okay, Jack. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I love you.”

I sniffled, making a mess of his sport coat.

“I love you too, Latham. God, I love you too.”

CHAPTER 23

The hottest summer on record eventually fizzled out, easing into autumn’s first frost. One hundred and three degrees to thirty in three short months. It confirmed my belief that the Midwest would be much more hospitable if we moved it six hundred miles south.

It was a chilly Tuesday morning, and Mr. Friskers was clawing the hide off a pumpkin Latham had bought earlier in the week. The cat hadn’t exactly cozied up to me, but he didn’t attack me constantly either. It was more an uneasy alliance than a friendship, but I was grateful for his presence.

The twelve weeks had been tough.

I hadn’t been back to work yet, and even though I was in love with the most patient, decent, understanding man in the northern hemisphere, I felt like I was losing my mind.

“Want some milk, cat?”

Mr. Friskers halted his attack on the intruder gourd and squinted at me. I went to the fridge, found the 2 percent, and poured some into his bowl. He waited until I backed away before stuffing his face.

I yawned, and gave my head a quick shake, trying to dispel the drowsies. I’d fallen into the habit of taking a sleeping pill every night, and the grogginess took time to wear off.

I yawned again, wondered if I was hungry, and when I’d last eaten. Dinner, last night. Two bites of pizza, with Latham. The leftovers were in the fridge, but cold pizza didn’t sound like a good breakfast. I thought about making myself eggs, dismissed it as too difficult, and plodded back into the bedroom and onto the bed.

Picked up the remote. Put it back down. Picked it up again.

Mistake. Channel 5 was on, covering the prelims for the Fuller trial. I switched it off and stared at the ceiling, trying to stop the thoughts from coming.

They came anyway.

“I know,” I said aloud. “I should have pulled the trigger sooner.”

I would have loved to say I was talking to Holly Fuller. A large part of me wished that I would see her every time I closed my eyes, or dream about her whenever I nabbed a few precious winks.

But the truth was, I had a hard time remembering what she looked like. Her face had been replaced with my own.

I didn’t need a shrink degree to know what that meant. When Holly died, I not only disappointed her, but myself as well.

It’s tough being your own worst critic.

Someone knocked on my door, shave-and-a-haircut.

“Can you get that?” I yelled at the cat.

The cat didn’t respond, so I tied my bathrobe closed, forced myself out of bed, and padded to the door.

My mother smiled at me through the peephole.

“Mom!”

I couldn’t open the door fast enough. When I hugged her, I felt like a little girl again, even though I was four inches taller than she was. I buried my nose in her shoulder, smelling the same detergent she’s been using for forty years. She wore a fuzzy white turtleneck and some baggy jeans, and her right hand clenched the hook of an aluminum cane.

“Jacqueline, honey, it’s great to see you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

“We wanted it to be a surprise.”

I blinked. “We?”

“Hello, Jack.”

The voice made me catch my breath. I stepped away from my mother, looking at the man next to her, holding a single red rose.

“Hello, Alan.”

My ex-husband smiled boyishly at me. The past ten years had been kind. He’d kept his hair, still thick and blond, and his waistline, still trim. There were more lines around his eyes and mouth than I remembered, but he looked almost exactly the same as he did the day he left me.

“Alan was kind enough to pick me up at the airport. We’ve been planning this for about two weeks.”

I cinched my robe tighter, and spoke to my mother while my eyes were on him.

“Mom, maybe you should have told me first.”

“Nonsense. You would have said no.”

“Mom . . .”

“You’re both adults, Jacqueline. I didn’t think it would be a problem. Now, are you going to invite us in, or are we going to have a reunion in your hallway?”

Alan raised his eyebrows at me, still smiling. I gave him my back and walked into my apartment.

“Do you have any coffee, Jacqueline?”

“I’ll make some.”

I entered the kitchen, lips pursed. Coffee used to be an important part of my day, but now that I lived without a schedule caffeine wasn’t necessary. I managed to remember how the machine worked, and got a pot going as Alan came in and leaned against the breakfast bar.

“Is this awkward?” he asked. He wore blue Dockers, a white button-down shirt, and a familiar faded brown bomber jacket.

“Don’t you think so?”

“No.”

I wanted to say something, to hurt him, but didn’t have the energy. Maybe after some coffee.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine. Okay. Good.”

“I heard you got shot again.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew about the first time.”

“Your mother keeps me informed.”

I folded my arms. “Since when?”

“Since always.”

“What does that mean?”

“Ever since our divorce, Mary and I have been in touch.”

I snorted. “Bullshit.”

“Why is it bullshit? I always loved your mother.”

I had him there. “Since when did love stop you from leaving?”

Alan nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Jacqueline!” my mother called from the living room. “You didn’t tell me you had a cat!”

“Mom, don’t!”

I rushed past Alan, hoping to prevent the maiming, and was shocked to see Mom cradling Mr. Friskers in her arms and stroking his head.

“He’s adorable. What’s his name?”

“Mr. Friskers.”

“Oh. Well, he’s adorable anyway.”

“You should put him down, Mom. He doesn’t like people very much.”

“Nonsense. He seems to like me just fine.”

“Then why is he growling at you?”

“That’s not growling, Jacqueline. That’s purring.”

Son of a gun. Damn cat never purred for me. Not once.

My mother made a show of looking around the apartment. She tapped her knuckles on a large cardboard box. “What’s with all the packing, dear? Putting some things into storage?”

“Yes.” I hadn’t yet told my mother about moving in with Latham.

“Good. I’ll need the room.”

She beamed at me, so full of strength and life, so unlike the woman I saw in the hospital bed months before.

I tried to sound upbeat. “You’ve decided to move in?”

“Yes, I have. I know I’ve threatened to disown you whenever you brought it up, but I came to a different conclusion. I don’t believe I need you to look after me, but I don’t have too many years left, and I’d like to spend them in the company of my daughter.”

I smiled, wondering how real it looked. I’d given up trying to bully my mother into living with me, which is why I finally relented with Latham.

He would be crushed.

And, truth be told, I was crushed too.

“I have a buyer for the condo in Florida. I brought some papers for you to sign.”

“Great.”

“I should be ready to move in next week.”

“Great.”

Mom set down the cat and hobbled up to me, putting a wrinkled hand on my cheek.

“We’ll talk more later, dear. We caught an early flight and I’m exhausted. Do you mind if I take a short nap here on the couch?”

“Use my bed, Mom.”

At least someone would be using it. For something.

“Go grab something to eat with Alan. I know you have a lot of catching up to do.”

She gave my face a tender pat and limped into the bedroom.

Alan stood by the window, hands in his pockets.

“Are you up for breakfast?” he asked.

“No.”

“Would you like me to go?”

“Yes.”

“Are you taking anything for depression?”

“Why would you think I was depressed?”

He shrugged, almost imperceptibly. Much of Alan’s emotional range was imperceptible.

“Your mother seems to think you need someone now.”

“So you came running to the rescue? Isn’t that odd, considering the last time I needed someone, you fled like a thief in the night.”

He smiled.

“I didn’t leave like a thief in the night.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I left in the mid-afternoon, and I didn’t take a single thing with me.”

“You took my jacket.”

“What jacket?”

“The one you’re wearing right now.”

“This is my jacket.”

“I’m the one who wore it all the time.”

“Why don’t we fight about it over breakfast?”

“I don’t want breakfast.”

“You need to eat.”

“How do you know what I need?”

Alan walked past me, and I wondered if I hit a nerve. I followed him into the kitchen.

“I said, how do you know what I need?”

“I heard you.”

He found a mug, poured some coffee, and handed it to me.

“I don’t want coffee.”

“Yes you do. You’re always pissy until you have your first cup of coffee.”

I whined, “I am not pissy.”

Alan started to laugh, and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from grinning.

“Fine. Gimmee the coffee.”

He gimmeed, and I took a sip, surprised at how good it tasted.

“If you don’t want to go out, I can cook.” Alan opened the fridge and pulled out a single egg. “It’s your last one. We can split it.”

“I’d like my half sunny-side up.”

I sat at my dinette set and watched Alan search for a frying pan. It brought back memories. Fond ones. Alan made breakfast almost every morning, during the years we’d been married.

Having found the pan, Alan searched the fridge again.

“No butter?”

“I haven’t been to the store in a while.”

“I can tell. What’s this, a lime or a potato?” He held out a greenish brown thing.

“I think it’s a tomato.”

“There’s something growing on it.”

“Save it. I may need it if I ever get a staph infection.”

He tossed the tomato in the garbage, and found two red potatoes, half a green onion, and half a bottle of chardonnay. From the freezer he took a bag of mixed vegetables and a pound of bacon. Then he went through my cabinets, liberating some olive oil, several spices, and a jar of salsa.

“This doesn’t seem like an appetizing combination of food items.”

He winked. “I’ve got to work with what I’ve got.”

I sipped my coffee and watched him for the twenty minutes it took to microwave, peel, and dice the potatoes, fry the bacon, and sauté the veggies, chopped onion, salsa, and assorted spices in olive oil and white wine. He added the potatoes and bacon, stirred like mad, and then dumped the contents onto two plates.

“Hash à la Daniels.” He set the plate in front of me.

“Smells good.”

“If it’s lousy, there’s always pizza. Hold on.”

The egg was still frying on the stove. He slid it out of the pan, sunny-side up, onto my pile of hash.

“Bon appétit.”

I took a bite, and that led to two and three, and pretty soon I was shoveling it down my throat conveyor-belt fashion.

We didn’t speak during breakfast, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

When I scooped the last bite into my mouth, Alan whisked away my plate and refilled my coffee.

“Still angry?” Alan asked.

“A little. I thought we had an unspoken understanding all these years.”

“Which was?”

“You don’t call me, I don’t call you.”

He nodded, putting his plate into the dishwasher.

“I never called you, Jack, because I knew it would hurt.”

“You didn’t seem to mind hurting me when you left.”

“I wasn’t referring to you in this case.”

“You’re saying it would have hurt you to call me?”

“Yes.”

What could I say to that? I chose, “Oh.”

Alan closed the dishwasher, then sat across from me, leaning in.

“So, how are you?” he asked.

“Fine.”

“I know you’re not fine, Jack.”

“How would you know that?”

“Still have the insomnia?”

I looked away. “Yeah.”

“You feel guilty about that cop’s wife.”

“Not really. IA cleared me on the shooting. It was completely by-the-book.”

“By-the-book isn’t enough for you. You have to be perfect, or you can’t live with yourself.”

I felt the armor I’d built up over the last decade begin to flake away. I needed to hate Alan. That’s how I got through it.

“You don’t know me like you think you do.”

He shifted back in his chair, giving me room to breathe.

“How’s the injury?”

“Almost healed, thank God. Latham has been more than patient.”

“Latham?”

“My boyfriend.”

I stared hard at Alan, but he didn’t react. I don’t know why that disappointed me.

“That’s probably why you think I’m not fine. I just need to get laid.”

“That did make you cranky. Remember that time I threw out my back?”

I grinned. “The three worst weeks of our marriage. Productive, though. I doubled my arrest record during that time.”

“Remember when I was finally healed?”

“Yeah. We made up for lost time, didn’t we?”

“Sure did. And I threw out my back again.”

We both laughed, and I wondered how he turned the conversation away from Latham so quickly.

“I love him. Latham, I mean.”

Alan stood up and walked over to me.

“That’s nice. You deserve it.”

“He’s wonderful. You’d like him.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“I hope I get a chance to meet him.”

He leaned down, getting in my personal space.

“What are you doing?”

“Do you think there could ever be an ‘us’ again?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Prove it to me.”

“How?”

“Kiss me.”

“No. You don’t have that right.”

“I made a mistake, leaving. I want to make it up to you. But I need to know if your feelings are still there.”

“Alan . . .”

“I still love you, Jack. I always have. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I couldn’t compete with your job. It took everything you had, and there was nothing left for me. Plus, the constant worrying you wouldn’t come home.”

“Nothing has changed, Alan.”

“I’ve changed. I can handle it now. And seeing you again . . .”

I said, “Don’t,” but his lips met mine, and I didn’t stop it, I didn’t pull away, and all of our history came rushing back, all of the good times, and I closed my eyes and let my tongue find his and spent a moment wondering what might have been.

Then I found my center and pushed him gently away.

“I’m in love with another man.”

“I know.”

I traced my fingers along his jaw.

“You hurt me, Alan.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

But when he kissed me again, I knew that I did.

CHAPTER 24

I didn’t sleep with him, but felt so damn guilty I might as well have.

After the kissing became light petting, I excused myself to check on Mom.

Mom was snoring peacefully, with a silly smile on her face. I wasn’t stupid. Bringing Alan here was part of some grand plan of hers, and for all she knew, it was working out fine.

For all I knew, she was right.

I dragged my tired bones into the shower, a cold one, and dressed in the most unattractive outfit I had: one of Latham’s ratty football jerseys and an old pair of size ten jeans (after Alan left I briefly went from an eight to a ten, having traded the comfort of a husband for the comfort of pie).

I was searching through my closet for my ugliest pair of shoes, when I heard the screaming.

Alan.

My gun was in the bedside nightstand, and I grabbed it and ran into the living room. Alan was writhing on the sofa, Mr. Friskers trying to gnaw off his ear.

I realized I was pointing my gun, relaxed my death grip and set it on the table, and then tried to goad the cat off my ex-husband.

“Bad kitty. Let go of his ear.”

I tugged. Alan screamed.

“Careful, Jack! He’s clamped down on cartilage!”

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry! He’s chewing!”

I found the catnip mouse under the sofa, and shoved it under Mr. Friskers’s nose.

“Easy, cat. Let him go. Let him go.”

The cat went limp, and I pulled him away from Alan and set him on the floor.

“I was just sitting there, and he attacked me. How bad am I bleeding?”

“Bad.”

“Stitches-bad?”

“You’re missing about half your ear.”

Alan spun around, alarmed.

“Really?”

“Maybe we can pump the cat’s stomach.” I kept my voice neutral. “We might be able to sew it back on.”

He figured out I was joshing him and threw a sofa cushion at me.

I went to the kitchen and pulled a bunch of paper towels off the roll. Since acquiring Mr. Friskers, I always made sure I had an ample supply.

“It hurts.” Alan had a hand clamped to his ear. He frowned, petulant.

“Oh, quit being a baby. It’s nothing.”

“Easy for you to say. For the rest of my life, my sunglasses will be crooked.”

“You’ll be fine. If you want, I’ll let you borrow some of my earrings.” I dabbed at the blood. “You have enough holes for six or seven.”

“Funny. What’s wrong with that cat, anyway?”

“I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. Hold this, here, while I get the rubbing alcohol.”

Alan moaned, and I went off in search of supplies.

A liberal splash of Bactine knocked the ardor out of Alan, and he didn’t make another pass at me during the time it took to bandage his ear. I silently thanked Mr. Friskers for the reprieve.

I suggested watching a movie until my mom woke up, and offered Alan a choice of Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Royal Wedding, the only two videos I owned. While we debated the various merits of each, the phone rang.

“Jack? Herb. How you feeling?”

“Better,” I said. And I was. “Calling to check on me?”

“No. We, uh, need you at the office.”

“I thought I was still on medical leave.”

“The leave has been canceled. Direct order from Captain Bains, we need you here yesterday.”

“What’s this about, Herb?”

“It’s Fuller.”

“Gimme twenty minutes.”

Alan stared at me. I realized this was a micro-encapsulation of our marriage—me getting a phone call and then running to work.

But we weren’t married anymore, so I had nothing to feel guilty about.

“There’s an extra set of keys in the little ceramic frog on top of the refrigerator,” I told him. “Tell Mom she can reach me on my cell.”

I tiptoed into the bedroom and changed into a pantsuit without waking my mother. Rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it back in a short ponytail. I spent all of two minutes on my face, not bothering with foundation or eyeliner.

Alan was sitting on the sofa, facing a TV that wasn’t on. I picked up my gun from the table and put it in my holster.

“Be careful.” He didn’t turn his head to look at me.

“Will you be here when I get back?”

He met my eyes and cocked his head slightly to the left, as if appraising me.

“I’ve got a room at the Raphael for a week. I figured I’d look up some friends, visit a few old haunts.”

I felt something that I realized was relief.

“I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“It might be late.”

“I’m used to waiting up for you.”

I nodded, grabbed my London Fog trench coat, and left the apartment.

Chicago smelled like fall, which is to say the garbage and exhaust fume stench carried a hint of dying leaves. The Windy City was suitably windy, temperature in the mid-fifties, the sidewalks damp from a recent rain.

There was a powwow waiting for me in my office when I got to the station. Benedict, who was wearing the new Brooks Brothers suit he bought himself as a reward for losing twenty pounds, our boss Captain Bains, and Assistant State’s Attorney Libby Fischer.

Stephen Bains had been captain of the 2-6 for as long as anyone could remember. He was short, portly, and balding. He combated the latter with a hair weave, which looked realistic except for the fact that it lacked gray, whereas his mustache was practically white.

Libby Fischer was around my age, and a clotheshorse. She wore a beige Gaultier top with a matching knee-length skirt that probably cost more than I made in a month. A white pearl choker, red Kenneth Cole pumps, and a small red Louis Vuitton bag rounded out her ensemble.

Libby smiled a lot. If I had her wardrobe, I would have too.

“How’s the stomach?”

That was as close to a pleasantry as Bains would get.

“Better,” I answered. “I think I’ll be—”

“We’re going to lose the Fuller case,” Libby interrupted. She smiled sweetly.

I didn’t try to hide my surprise.

“How the hell can that be? Is something inadmissible?”

“No. The case is solid. It’s that brain tumor, floating in a glass jar, labeled exhibit A.”

Bains frowned. “As you’re aware, Fuller has been claiming amnesia since recovering from surgery. He says he has no memory of any murders.”

Libby stood up and went to the window. “And so far, our shrinks haven’t been able to crack him.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fuller’s blaming the murders on his brain tumor?”

Libby continued to stare out the captain’s window. “He’s doing just that. It was on his frontal lobe, the brain’s behavior center. It controls emotion, personality, and understanding of right and wrong. Expert shrinks are falling all over themselves eager to explain to a jury how a tumor can radically alter someone’s personality. Fuller’s lawyers are going for the first ever insanity defense based on physical evidence.”

My anger level continued to build. “If he’s declared insane, he still gets locked up, right?”

“Wrong. If they prove he was insane at the time of his crimes, and the insanity was caused by the tumor, he’s a free man. No more tumor, no more insanity. The bastard walks.”

“Jesus.”

Bains stared at me, hard.

“Are you one hundred percent, Jack?”

I didn’t feel one hundred percent, but I sensed something coming. I nodded.

“Good,” Bains continued. “I want you to talk to him.”

“To Fuller? Why?”

“A confession would be nice. But I’ll settle for your impression of whether he’s bullshitting or not.”

“If he’s faking, we can plan a better attack,” Libby said.

“Do we suspect he’s faking?”

“It would be nice if he was,” Libby sat back down, “but we just don’t know. He’s been interviewed by over a dozen people: shrinks, lawyers, cops, doctors. So far he’s unimpeachable.”

“Has he taken a lie detector?”

“One. Theirs. And he passed with flying colors. He’s got another scheduled tomorrow, with one of our examiners.”

After a moment, I asked, “Why me?” My job was to arrest criminals. Other people were much more qualified to do follow-up interviews.

Bains scratched his weave. “You worked with him for several years. You know him. You’re biased to our side, so you’ll try to see through the lies. I don’t have to tell you what a media circus this case has become.”

“I’m not a professional interrogator, Captain. I don’t want to see him back on the streets, but I don’t think—”

“There’s something else, Jack.”

“What?”

Bains caught me in his iron gaze. “Fuller asked for you. Specifically.”

“For me? Why?”

Libby leaned in close, like we were best friends sharing a secret.

“We don’t know. He hasn’t given anyone a reason. But since his capture, he’s inquired about you many times. His counsel has advised him to not talk to us, and lately he’s been a clam. But Fuller agreed to an interview, and he’ll even do it without his attorneys present, but only with you. Of course, his statements won’t be admissible as evidence, so if he says anything we’ll have to introduce it through your testimony.”

I replayed the scene in my head again. Kicking in the door. Telling Fuller to let his wife go. The bullets erupting from Holly’s stomach, drilling into mine.

“I’d be happy to take a crack at him.”

“He’s at Cook County. You’ll meet with him in a private visiting booth. Alone. Plexiglas wall between you. You know the setup.”

“Will I be wired?”

Libby placed her palms on her thighs and smoothed out the Gaultier. “We all know that it’s illegal to record someone without their consent. It would be inadmissible as evidence. As an officer of the court, I can’t be privy to any knowledge of criminal activity, and if I heard of any I’d report it immediately. On a completely unrelated note, I was reviewing some old case histories and came across some interesting legal terms. One is called recollection refresh, and the other is transcript for impeachment.”

Libby then spent five minutes explaining how an illegal tape recording could be used in a trial.

When she finished, Bains said, “I’d like to go on record to say there will be no illegal taping of any suspects in my district. Especially with this voice-activated tape recorder.”

Bains placed a slim electronic unit on his desk. I put it in my pocket.

“When can I meet with him?”

“You’ve got a meeting scheduled in an hour. Good luck, Jack. I’ll expect a full report on my desk in the morning.”

Libby stood, shook my hand.

“You know, you could have saved us all this trouble if you’d just aimed one inch lower.”

I was beginning to think the same thing myself.

CHAPTER 25

We’d folded ourselves into the colorful plastic extrusion chairs of a nearby submarine sandwich chain, Herb eating and me staring out the storefront window. It was raining, and gray clouds smeared together with the muted brown and black tones of the city and its dying trees, the few that it had.

Maybe somewhere in the suburbs there were piles of colorful autumn leaves waiting to be jumped into, but here we only had torn brown dead things that turned into mud when wet.

“When I was a kid, every fall, my mom would take me up to Wisconsin to watch the leaves turn. I never appreciated it. Maybe beauty is wasted on the young.”

“Could be,” Herb said, mostly to the meatball sandwich opened up and splayed out before him. The low-carb diet he was following restricted bread, and he’d pushed it off to the side, giving the protein his full attention.

“What do you think of when you think of autumn?”

“Thanksgiving turkey.”

“How about winter?”

“Christmas turkey.”

“Spring?”

“Easter ham.”

“I sense a theme here.”

“You gonna finish that roast beef?”

I allowed Herb access to my half-eaten sub, and he used a fork to pull out the meat.

“I don’t understand how eating all of that fat is healthy.”

“Got me.” Herb opened up a packet of mayo, slathered it on the beef, and crammed it all in. “Works, though.”

“Yeah. You look great.”

He grunted, as if not believing it.

“Herb? Something on your mind?”

He grunted again.

“Got some cholesterol caught in your throat?”

“It’s Bernice.”

“Is she okay?”

He shrugged.

Usually, I got daily Bernice updates, but since I’d been out of work, I’d only seen Herb three times. Each time, I’d been unloading my problems, without bothering to ask if he had any.

Some partner.

“What’s wrong, Herb?”

“We’re at odds. She doesn’t like my new lifestyle.”

“What? Low carb?”

“The weight loss is only part of it. She doesn’t like my car. She told me she’s sick of all the constant sex. Vacation is coming up, and we always go to California, to visit her friends in wine country. Been doing that for twenty years. This year, I want to go to Vegas.”

“You can compromise. Spend a few days in Las Vegas, a few with her friends.”

“Screw her friends.”

Which was as spiteful a thing as I’d ever heard come out of Herb’s mouth.

I wanted to pursue the issue, but Benedict checked his watch, shoveled in the last meatball, and stood up.

“We’re going to be late.” Which is what I think he said, cheeks full.

He walked out of the restaurant, and I followed. I tried to bring up the topic in the car, but Herb insisted he didn’t want to talk about it.

Cook County Jail stretched from 26th and Cal to 31st and Sacramento, making it the largest single-site pre-detention center in the US. Eight thousand six hundred and fifty-eight men and women resided there, give or take, divvied up among eleven division buildings. Most of the inmates were awaiting their trials, after which they’d be freed or more likely sent someplace else. Others were just commuting their short sentences, ninety days and under.

I did a quick voice test of the tape recorder, and found it in working condition.

After being cleared through the perimeter fence, we located Division Eleven, where they held Fuller. From the outside, the clean, white building looked more like a government office than a maximum security prison.

Inside, however, was all business. We were met by the assistant division superintendent, Jake Carver, a beefy man with a moist handshake. We signed in, checked our weapons, and followed Carver into the bowels of the prison.

“Been a model prisoner.” Carver had a voice like a buzz saw. Smoking, drink, or both. “No problems at all.”

“What’s the security on him?” Herb asked.

“He’s in isolation. Can’t put a cop in with the general population.”

“Have you met him?” I asked.

“Sure. Chitchatted for a while.”

“What’s your impression?”

“Seems like a nice enough guy.”

“Is he lying about the amnesia?”

“If he is, he’s the best liar I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been with the DOC for almost thirty years. Here we are.” We stopped at a white steel door with a six-inch-square window at eye level. “Visiting room H. Got it to yourself for half an hour. Just bang on the door when you want to go, or if he starts getting rowdy. I’ll be right here.”

Carver unbolted the door and allowed me entrance. I hit the Record button on the tape player in my pocket, then went in.

The room was small, twelve by twelve, lit by overhead strips of fluorescence, one of them flickering. It smelled like body odor and desperation. In the center of the room stood a folding chair, facing an inch-thick, pitted and scratched Plexiglas barrier, reinforced with steel bars, that divided the space in half.

Barry Fuller sat on the other side, a pleasant look on his face. He wore prison clothes; a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit with his number stenciled on the breast. His hands were cuffed, and a chain trailed down, connecting to his leg irons. A large, puffy scar ran from his eyebrow to the top of his head, his crew cut unable to conceal it.

“Thanks for coming, Lieut. Please, have a seat.”

I nodded, sitting across from him. I kept my knees together, both feet flat on the ground, my back ramrod-straight.

“Hello, Barry. You look well.”

He smiled, lowering his head so his finger could trace the scar.

“Healing pretty good. How about you? They told me you took two in the stomach?”

“I’m managing.” I kept my tone even. “Much better than your wife.”

Fuller’s face seemed to deflate. His eyes got red and teared up.

“Holly. My love. I can’t believe I did that.”

“Well, you did. I was there. I watched her bleed to death, right in front of me.”

Fuller sniffled. He rubbed his eyes, which made them even redder.

“I know how it sounds, Lieutenant. Imagine if you woke up one day, and everyone started telling you about all of these horrible things you did. Things you have no memory of.”

“It was the brain tumor, huh?”

“I loved my wife!” Fuller’s voice cracked. “I never would have killed her if I knew what I was doing. Jesus, Holly.”

His shoulders sagged. A good actor? Or someone who really felt remorse?

“Why did you ask me here, Fuller? Without lawyers? What did you want to say to me?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

That threw me.

“What?”

“To thank you. For stopping me, before I hurt anyone else. Also, to apologize for shooting you.”

I gave him a once-over.

“Touching, Fuller. I’m deeply touched, really. Your tears make up for all of those women you butchered.”

“I don’t remember butchering any women. I’m thankful for that, actually. I don’t know if I could live with myself if I remembered.”

“You don’t remember Davi McCormick? Cutting off her arms? Putting my handcuffs on her wrists, so your sicko buddy Rushlo could leave them in the morgue?”

Fuller shook his head.

“How about Eileen Hutton? You bit her so hard she was missing chunks of her flesh.”

“Please stop.”

“What did she taste like, Barry? Can you remember that?”

“I can’t remember anything.”

Time to get serious.

“I bet you do remember it. I bet you remember what a rush it was, to cut off her head. I bet it gave you such a sense of power and control. You fucked her too, didn’t you? Do you remember if it was before or after you yanked out her heart?”

Barry was really putting on a show now, sobbing loudly. But I wasn’t buying.

“Drop the act, Barry. I know you’re lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit.”

When Fuller pulled his hands away from his face, he was grinning. I’d expected anger or outrage, but he looked outright amused.

“You’re wearing a wire, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

I didn’t reply.

“You want me to be honest, but you won’t be honest yourself? Let me see the wire.”

I considered my options. Knowing Barry was faking this seemed more important than proving it. I took out the recorder, then switched it off.

“Fine, Barry. Just you and me. You ready to drop this stupid amnesia ploy and come clean?”

Fuller closed his eyes and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer. Then he lifted his arm and rubbed his face on his sleeve, back and forth.

“Onions.” He blew his nose. “Under my fingernails. Instant tears, courtesy of the wonderful chicken soup served up nice and hot by the Department of Corrections. Pretty good performance, huh? Anything I need to improve before I give it in court?”

I felt myself get very cold.

“How much do you remember, Barry?”

“I remember everything, Jack.”

“The murders?”

“Every detail. And you were right. At night, when I’m all alone in my cell, I abuse myself thinking about them. Spit and a fist are a poor substitute for a bleeding, screaming whore. But I have to make do until they let me out.”

He made a kissy face and winked at me. My stomach rolled over, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

“So there was no reason for this? Just bloodlust?”

“Just bloodlust? You say that like you’re disappointed. What’s a better reason for murder than that? Money? Revenge? Lust is so much purer.”

“So you’re a sociopath.”

“Actually, no. I’ve had a lot of time in here to read, sort things out. According to the DSM IV, I suffer from disorganized episodic aggression. I feel empathy, I just choose to ignore it to get high.”

“High on killing?”

“Headaches, Jack. Terrible headaches. Caused by the tumor, probably, but I’ve had them my whole life, and they tell me the tumor can’t be more than a year old. Killing makes the pain go away. I figured out it has something to do with endorphin. Endogenous morphine. The body manufactures it to block pain, and it’s a hundred times more powerful than an equivalent dose of heroin. Killing gives me an endorphin rush. At least, that’s what I think. I’d like to ask all of these shrinks watching me 24-7, see what they think, but I’ve got to keep up appearances.”

“So now that the tumor is gone?”

“Tumor doesn’t matter, Jack. I’m addicted to killing.”

He grinned, his eyes as black and lifeless as a shark’s.

I stood up, not needing to hear any more. I got what I came for.

“Leaving so soon, Jack? But I haven’t told you my plans yet.”

“What plans?”

“For after they let me out. I’m going to be looking you up, Jack.” He waggled his tongue at me, and began to rub his crotch. “We’re going to have a real good time, Lieutenant. I got something special planned for you, and that fat partner of yours. I hated you before, because you wouldn’t take me in Detective Division. Since you put me in this hellhole, I’ve grown to hate you even more. I’ll show you, soon.”

I turned my back on him, and tried to walk to the door without shaking too badly.

“Don’t worry, Jack. It won’t be right away. First I’m going to kill everyone in your life. Everyone you know and care about.”

I pounded on the steel, harder than I intended.

“Give my best to your mom and boyfriend, Jack. Be seeing you soon.”

I pounded again, and Carver opened up.

“You okay, Lieutenant?”

I nodded. But I wasn’t okay. My hands were quaking, and I had an overwhelming urge to vomit.

“Jack?” Herb had concern in his eyes.

“He’s faking, Herb. Faking big time. We can’t let him get out.”

“What happened in there? Do you have the tape?”

I held Benedict’s eyes and grabbed his arms, squeezing hard.

“We can’t let him get out, Herb. We can’t. No matter what.”

CHAPTER 26

“Open cell eleven.”

“Opening cell eleven.”

The electronic lock disengages with a clang, and the cell door opens. Fuller eyes the prison guard escorting him; the man is eight inches shorter, with a neck so thin Fuller could strangle him with one hand.

The skinny guard unlocks Fuller’s ankle irons, while the second guard, a fat guy with a face like a bulldog, stands at the ready palming a can of pepper spray.

Keep looking tough, punk. If I wanted to, I could take away that mace and stick it so far up your ass your breath would smell like jalapeños.

“Thanks,” Fuller says instead. He smiles, playing his role. The thin guy takes off his handcuffs, and Fuller enters his cell. It’s tiny, cramped. A lidless steel shitter dominates one corner, next to a steel sink. In the other corner is a steel cot, a two-inch-thick cotton mattress resting on top.

There isn’t enough room in here to do a decent push-up, so Fuller compromises, putting his palms on the cool concrete floor and his feet on the sink.

“One, two, three, four . . .”

He touches his chin to the floor with each tip, feeling the burn build up in his shoulders and chest. His face begins to turn red, and he smiles.

Jack’s expression was priceless. I practically made her wet her panties.

“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty . . .”

Fuller looks at the cot. There’s a small slit in the mattress, along a seam, with more pieces of onion and some other things. Things that will produce dramatic court theatrics.

“Thirty-seven, thirty-eight—”

The lie detector tomorrow will be fun too. He still has the staple, secretly liberated from his attorney’s paperwork. A staple is all he needs to pass with flying colors.

“Sixty-five, sixty-six . . .”

Everything is going his way. His bitch of a wife is dead, finally. He got his lawyer to pass on word to Rushlo to keep quiet—and the little toady will no doubt follow orders. If all goes as planned, Fuller will be back out on the street soon—probably in a few weeks. Then he’ll pay Jack a visit, make good on his promise.

“Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one . . .”

Only one thing is bothering him. Though the doctors assure him his tumor is completely gone, he’s still getting headaches. They aren’t as sharp as before, but they’ve been increasing in intensity over the past few weeks.

“Hundred twenty, hundred twenty-one . . .”

So far, aspirin is helping. But he foresees a time when that won’t be enough. He’ll need to kill again. Soon.

“Hundred fifty.”

Fuller’s feet touch the floor and he stands and stretches, knuckles dragging across the ceiling. He’s breathing hard. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth—he’s bitten his tongue.

The taste is arousing.

After a minute’s rest, he puts his feet back on the sink and begins another set of push-ups. His teeth work on the cut in his tongue, making it larger.

“Twenty, twenty-one . . .”

He closes his eyes, pretending the blood he’s swallowing is Jack’s.

CHAPTER 27

I dialed Libby from Benedict’s car and gave her the short version. The excitement in her voice was obvious.

“I knew he was playing us!”

“We don’t have evidence.”

“But now that we know for sure, we’ll get some. The polygraph examiner we’ve got is the best. He pegged Ted Bundy. He’ll get Fuller too. You did good, Jack.”

“Thanks.”

Except I didn’t feel like I did good. I felt like I’d just gotten my ass kicked.

“You want to be there? Tomorrow?”

“For the lie detector?”

“Sure. It’ll keep him off guard.”

I wanted to say no. I didn’t want to be there. Fuller unearthed feelings I thought I’d buried.

Feelings of fear.

In crisis situations, cops need to have a certain amount of fear. It precedes adrenaline, which makes reactions faster. When I shot Fuller, months ago, I’d been afraid. But the fear worked for me then, heightening senses, forcing me to act automatically, as I’d been trained to do.

Now—the sick feeling in my stomach, the sweaty palms, the dry mouth, the runaway imagination—did me no good at all, other than add to my pile of neuroses.

“Jack? You still there?”

“I just came back to work, Libby. I’m not sure what’s going on tomorrow.”

“The polygraph is at nine A.M., back at Division Eleven. I’ll talk to Bains to clear some time for you.”

“Thanks,” I managed. “See you tomorrow, then.”

Herb stopped at a light, squinted at me.

“Jack? You look sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You let him get to you. Fuller.”

I tried to smile. “Not a chance. I’m just tired, Herb. Nothing more.”

The light turned green, but Benedict didn’t go.

“I know you, Jack. You’re not yourself.”

Rather than answer, I played the role-reversal card.

“Me? You seem to be having the granddaddy of midlife crises, and refuse to speak a peep.”

Someone behind us honked their horn.

“I’m not having a midlife crisis.”

“Male menopause, then.”

“That’s not the case. Bernice and I are just heading in different directions.”

“Different directions? Herb, you’ve been married for twenty years.”

Herb turned away, facing the road.

“Maybe twenty years is too long.”

Another honk. Herb hit the gas, squealing tires.

I closed my eyes and thought about yesterday, when my only concerns were what kind of pizza to order, when I’d be ready to make love again, and if I was becoming addicted to Ambien. My troubles seemed to have quadrupled overnight. And for the cherry on top, I got to deal with the very real possibility that a psycho would soon be out on the street, killing everyone I knew.

Herb and I didn’t talk the rest of the drive back to the station. I went to my office, stared at the huge mound of paperwork that had grown on my desk during my absence, and then moved it aside to fill out my report.

After an hour of hunt and peck, I dropped off the report, and the recording, with Bains. Then I thought about getting started on my backlog, couldn’t bring myself to do it, and called it a day.

Back at my apartment building, I was annoyed to hear piano music filling the hallway on my floor. Jazz, and someone playing it much too loudly. My mood was just foul enough to start banging on doors and flashing my badge, but when I discovered the source of the noise, I knew my badge wouldn’t do much good.

“Mom?”

When I opened my door, the music hit me like a wind. I never liked jazz—I preferred my music to have structure and balance. I also never liked piano, having been forced into two years of lessons by a mother who thought it built character.

The living room offered more unpleasant surprises. My couch faced a different direction than it had this morning. It now also had three pink throw pillows on it, which matched the new pink curtains on my windows.

I liked pink about as much as jazz piano.

I hit the Off button on the stereo.

“Mom?”

“In the bedroom, dear.”

I took a deep breath, blew it out, and walked into my bedroom. My mother was hanging a painting on my wall—one of those framed prints available at department stores for under twenty bucks. The subject was a tabby cat, with a pink bow on its collar, wrestling with a ball of yarn.

“Hello, Jacqueline. What happened to Midori?”

“Midori?”

“Midori Kawamura. The CD that was playing.”

“It was too loud. The neighbors were complaining.”

“Philistines. She’s one of the greatest jazz pianists on the planet.”

“I don’t like jazz pianists.”

“Perhaps you suffer from pianist envy.”

I was too annoyed to smile at that.

“Mom, why is my sofa turned around?”

“You had it facing the wall. Now it’s facing the windows. Do you like the pillows?”

“I don’t like pink.”

“You never liked anything girlish. When you were six, all of your friends played with dolls, and I had to buy you toy soldiers. What do you think of your new picture?”

She motioned, with both hands, at the cat with the yarn.

“Adorable,” I deadpanned.

“Reminded me so much of your cat, I had to buy it. Frisky? Where are you?”

Mr. Friskers bounded into the room, onto the bed, and into my mother’s arms.

“Frisky?” I asked.

“Look at him, isn’t he a ringer for the cat in the picture?”

She held Mr. Friskers up, and he did, indeed, resemble his framed counterpart—right down to the pink bow my mother had tied around his neck.

“A dead ringer, Mom. Can you take off the bow? You’re emasculating him.”

“Nonsense. Frisky loves pink, unlike some people. Right, Frisky?”

She stroked his chin, and the damn cat purred at her. I sat on the bed, which my mom had made—much better than I ever had. Not so much as a wrinkle anywhere.

“How’d you do all of this?”

“Alan took me out, the dear man. He’ll be back soon with the plant.”

“Plant?”

“I asked him to pick up a floor plant. This place is so sterile and lifeless. You need a plant.”

Resistance was futile, so I kicked off my shoes and shrugged out of my clothing.

“Jacqueline? You’re not mad, are you?”

“No, Mom. I just had a tough day.”

She set the cat down and put her hand on my head, stroking my hair.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

“Maybe later. I need a shower.”

My mom smiled, nodded. Then she limped out of the bedroom.

A minute later, the jazz came back on.

I slammed the door to the bathroom and set the shower dial to poach. Ten minutes under the needle spray went a long way toward washing the Fuller meeting off of me. I shaved, deep-conditioned my hair, and used the shower mirror to do some serious eyebrow plucking.

I was wrapped in a towel, moisturizing, when the bathroom door opened.

“Jacqueline? There’s a strange man at the door.”

A jolt of panic gripped me, then let go when I realized it couldn’t be Fuller.

“Does he have red hair?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Latham, Mom. My boyfriend. Didn’t he use his key?”

“He tried to. I had the chain on.”

“Can you let him in and tell him I’ll be right there?”

Mom gave me a small frown, but nodded. I slipped on my bathrobe and wound the towel around my wet hair, turban-style.

Latham and Mom stood in the kitchen, Latham in his work clothes—gray pants, red tie, gray jacket. Mom stared at him like he was something she’d stepped in.

“Hi, Jack. I thought I’d stop by, take you out for a bite.”

My mother smiled politely. “We have plans already.”

I shot my mom with laser eyes, but she pretended not to notice.

“We weren’t planning anything special, Latham.” I smiled smoothly. “We’d love to have you join us. Right, Mom?”

Mom managed to fake an enthusiastic smile. “Absolutely. It would be just lovely, Nathan.”

“Latham,” he and I said in unison.

“I’m sure Alan won’t mind either.”

Shit. How’d I forget about Alan?

“Your boyfriend?” Latham ventured, looking at Mom.

“Jacqueline’s husband,” she answered, primly.

“Ex-husband. He was good enough to accompany Mom into town.”

“He’s helping me with the transition. Wonderful man.”

“Transition?” Latham raised an eyebrow at me. I felt like going back to my bedroom and hiding under a pillow.

“Mom has decided to move in with me after all.”

Latham, to his credit, barely flinched. I held his hand, gave it a hard squeeze that I hope conveyed everything I was feeling.

He didn’t squeeze back.

“Well, that’s wonderful. Jack has wanted that for a long time. She speaks the world of you.”

“How sweet. It’s a shame she never mentioned you.”

I gave Latham another hard squeeze, and then released him to escort my mother before this got worse.

“Excuse us just a moment, Latham. Girl talk.”

I steered Mom into the bedroom and shut the door.

“What is it, Jacqueline?”

“Cut the BS, Mom. You’re acting horrible.”

“Horrible? How?”

I raised an index finger, in scolding mode.

“I’m serious. I happen to love this guy. If you keep—”

“You love him? You never told me you loved him.”

“I never had the chance, Mom. You only started taking my calls recently, and then the conversation has mostly been about you.”

I regretted it as soon as I said it, and my mother’s reaction held no surprises. She seemed to grow smaller before my very eyes.

“You don’t want me here, do you?”

“Mom . . .”

“I would have never chosen to come up here if I’d known you were in love with this man. Has he asked you to move in with him?”

“Mom, we can talk about all of this later.”

“If you love him, why did you kiss Alan this morning?”

It just kept getting better.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“I was faking.”

“That was a mistake. Mom, look, I’ve had a terrible day, I just want to get dressed and go out to eat. Can you please, please, go out there and make friends with Latham?”

“I’ll do my best, dear. I’m suddenly not up for conversation.”

I bit my lower lip, wondering how this could possibly get any worse.

Then I heard the front door open.

“Mary? I’ve got the plant.”

Alan. I hurried over, preparing myself for damage control. Latham eyed me as I walked up.

“I should have called.”

“I should have told you. We’ll get through this. Be brave.” I pecked him on the cheek, but he didn’t offer me anything in the way of nonverbal encouragement.

Alan had a large floor plant in his hands, something with long green pointy fronds. He set it down, smiled at me, then noticed Latham and the smile vanished.

“I didn’t mean to barge in.”

“Alan, this is Latham Conger, my boyfriend. Latham, this is Alan Daniels, my ex-husband.”

Neither moved to shake hands, and I watched them size each other up. If they’d been dogs, I would have expected each of them to lift a leg and start marking territory.

“Hello, Alan! What a lovely fern!” Mom made a show of limping up to him and kissing him.

I glanced at Latham. He was staring at his watch.

“So.” I clapped my hands together and put on a big fake smile. “Who’s up for pizza?”

CHAPTER 28

The two slices of pizza I managed to choke down sat like rocks in my stomach. Neither Latham nor Alan had said more than ten words during dinner, having expended most of their energy trying to ignore each other.

That left my mother to dominate the conversation, and she was on her third drink, inhibitions falling away by the sip. She hadn’t mentioned the kiss yet, but it was only a matter of time.

“Spicy.” Mom smacked her lips. “When you get older, your tastebuds—well—don’t taste. But a good bloody Mary with a healthy dose of hot sauce makes this tired old tongue dance a jitterbug. Plus it’s so much fun to order a drink with my name in it.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s a hoot.”

“Are you in town long, Alan?” Latham asked.

“I’m here until Mary settles in.”

“So that’s how long? A week? Two?”

“As long as it takes.”

Latham played with his drink straw, spearing at the ice.

“Don’t you have a job you need to get back to?”

Alan folded his arms—one of his defense postures.

“I’m a freelance writer. I’m not tied to an office job, stuck in that nine-to-five rut, making my employer rich from my efforts. But I’m sure it’s not like that at all in the accounting world.”

“I don’t mind nine-to-five. It pays the bills.”

“Boring, though, isn’t it? Jack usually falls for creative types.”

“Maybe she realized how badly that’s worked for her in the past, and decided she needed a change.”

I raised my hand. “Does anyone want to hear about my day? The crazy guy I put behind bars threatened to kill me.”

I’d intended to provoke sympathy, but Latham took that as a cue to assert dominance. He put his arm around me, like we were drinking buddies.

“Stay at my place tonight, Jack.”

“Jack doesn’t look too thrilled there, Latham. Maybe you’ve begun to bore her already.”

“Why don’t you go run home and write about it?”

“Okay, guys. Enough.” I pulled away from Latham and stood up. “You’re all acting like jerks.” I glanced at my mom, to let her know I included her in the statement.

“I’ll drive you home.” Latham stood up. So did Alan.

“I’ll drive myself home.” I dug into my pocket, threw some bills on the table. Both Alan and Latham fell all over themselves, trying to give me my money back. I left them there, heading for the front door, stepping out into the cold Chicago night air.

Home wasn’t an option. I needed time to think. A Checker cab was at the stoplight, and I yelled to it and climbed in.

“Where you headed?”

Good question. After tonight, I was willing to swear off men forever. Parents too. And police work. Where was I headed? Unemployed orphan spinsterhood.

I settled for Joe’s Pool Hall.

The cab spit me out in front, and I beelined to the bar, ordered a whiskey sour, and scoped the action.

As usual, Joe’s had enough secondhand smoke swirling around to cause cancer in laboratory animals. All twelve tables were in use, but I gave up being shy for my fortieth birthday, and got on the board for pickup games.

Four beers and two hours later, I’d done considerable damage to both my liver and the competition. Pool offered a refuge from my problems, and sinking ball after ball put me into an almost zenlike state. I’d forgotten all about Alan, Latham, Mom, Fuller, Herb, my job, my apartment, my insomnia, my life.

Then the balance shifted. The alcohol that had once calmed my nerves, now made me sloppy. I lost three games in a row, and decided to call it quits.

The night had gotten colder, and my jacket wasn’t enough to keep the chill out.

Mom snored on the couch. My machine had eight messages on it, but I didn’t feel up to dealing with them. I got undressed, curled up fetal on my bed, took my nightly sleeping pill, and cried softly to myself until it kicked in and ushered me into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER 29

They were torturing me with a horrible beeping sound, playing it over and over until it drove me to the brink of madness, and I couldn’t get away and I couldn’t make it stop, and finally something registered in my head and I opened my eyes and glanced groggily at my alarm clock.

Irritating little sound. But I suppose the pleasant melody of whales singing or frogs croaking wouldn’t wake someone up.

I turned it off, and sat up, dizzily, in bed. My head hurt. I yawned, my jaw clicking from overnight calcium deposits, and then spent a minute trying to get my bearings.

Sleeping pill hangover. I forced my feet out of bed, thought about doing some sit-ups, touched the scars on my belly and decided I wasn’t ready yet, and took a cool shower.

The soap, which promised to open my eyes, didn’t. Neither did the cold water. When I got out, I was just as sleepy, and shivering as well.

“No more,” I said to my face in the mirror. Along with making waking up one of the labors of Hercules, the pills also did wondrous things for my complexion. I hadn’t had a pimple since junior prom, but now, staring at me like a third eye on my forehead, was a blemish.

I played fast and loose with my concealer, slapped on the rest of my face, and went to the kitchen to dump yesterday’s coffee and make a fresh pot.

My mom, whom I knew to be an early bird, hadn’t gotten up yet. I went to check on her.

She lay on her back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. Absolutely still.

I moved closer, looking for the telltale rise and fall of her chest, but I couldn’t see under the blanket. Closer still, holding my breath so I could hear her breathing.

I didn’t hear a thing.

I considered panicking, realized I was being silly, and bent down over her, reaching for her neck.

Her skin was warm, and her carotid flittered with her heartbeat.

“Are you taking my pulse?”

I jumped back, almost screaming in fright.

“Mom! Jeez, you scared me.”

My mother pinned me with her mother-eyes.

“You thought I was dead, and were taking my pulse.”

I made a show of looking at my watch.

“I gotta run, Mom. I’ll call you later.”

“When did you get home last night?”

“Jesus, Mom. I’m forty-six years old. I don’t have a curfew.”

“No, but you have people who care about you, and it’s selfish to make them worry.”

Rather than argue, I went back into the kitchen for coffee. A quick caller ID check saw I had four calls from Latham, and four from the Raphael hotel—Alan. I didn’t bother playing the messages.

I’d purposely added less water, so the coffee had a bigger kick. I added an ice cube to my mug so I could gulp it down quicker.

“Are you okay, Jacqueline?”

Mom had the blanket around her shoulders. She looked like Yoda.

“No, Mom, I’m not. And you really didn’t help matters yesterday.”

“I’m sorry for that. You know I love Alan like a son. Call me a foolish old woman, but I thought, you know, if I made him bring me here—”

“That we’d realize we still loved each other? He left me, Mom. Don’t you remember how much he hurt me?”

“You hurt him too, honey.”

“He’s the one that left.”

“You didn’t give him much of a choice, working eighty-hour weeks, never taking a vacation.”

I poured more coffee.

“You were a cop, Mom. You know how it is.”

“And I regret it. All of those long hours. Working Christmas. I should have been spending more time with you. You practically raised yourself.”

My veneer cracked.

“Mom, you were my hero. I never resented your job. You were out there doing good.”

“I should have been at home doing good. Instead, I screwed you up, made you think nothing should stand in the way of your career.”

“I’m not screwed up. I’m one of the highest ranking female cops in Chicago.”

“And I’m the only woman in my bingo group that doesn’t have grandchildren.”

Mom saw my reaction, and immediately backpedaled.

“Jacqueline, I didn’t mean that. It just came out.”

“I’ll be home late.” I walked past her.

“Honey, I’m sorry.”

I ignored her, grabbed my coat, and closed the door a bit louder than necessary.

If the anger didn’t wake me up, the weather did. Cold, with stinging, freezing drizzle that attacked like biting flies.

I left the window cracked on the drive to Cook County Jail, letting the wind numb my face. The cell phone rang, but I ignored it.

Fuller’s polygraph test was set for twenty minutes from now, and I needed to mentally prepare for seeing him again.

CHAPTER 30

Fuller works the staple under the nail of his big toe, digging it in deep.

There’s very little blood, but the pain is electric.

With a quarter inch of metal left protruding, he puts on his sock and shoe.

It’s lying time.

The guards come to get him, go through the ritual of putting on the restraints. Fuller’s head hurts, but he doesn’t ask for aspirin. A pain reliever wouldn’t be in his best interests at this time.

They march him past other cells. Some cajole him, call out insults. He ignores them, staying focused on the task ahead.

The room is the same as before. Steel doors. Two chairs. A table, with the lie detector machine on it. Fuller is put in the chair, facing away from the machine.

Two of his doctors come into the room: shrinks, in suits. His lawyer, Eric Garcia, a Hollywood hotshot who seeks out high-profile cases so he can show off his five-thousand-dollar suits on television. The assistant DA, Libby something, who looks particularly tasty today in a pale pink jacket and matching skirt. The examiner, a different guy than before, round and soft and wearing a freaking white lab coat, for god’s sake.

There’s also a pleasant surprise: Jack Daniels and her fat partner, Herb Benedict, who doesn’t seem as fat as he had a few months ago.

“Looking good, Detective Benedict. Diet seems to be working well.”

“Please, Barry, no talking to them.” Garcia pats Fuller on the shoulder.

The polygraph examiner rolls up Fuller’s sleeve, attaches the blood pressure cuff. He puts sticky probes on Fuller’s fingers to measure changes in electrical resistance resulting from sweat, and three elastic bands around his chest to record breathing.

“Ready to begin when you are, Barry,” the examiner says, standing in front of him.

Barry smiles. “Let her rip.”

“We’re going to start by calibrating the machine. I’d like you to pick a card from this deck, and look at it, but don’t tell me what it is. Then I’m going to ask you questions about the card, and I want you to answer no to all of my questions, even if it is a lie.”

He holds out a deck. Barry picks a card, looks at it. A Queen of Diamonds. He smiles again, knowing that the deck is rigged; they’re all Queens of Diamonds. This is to make him believe the machine is infallible, to make him even more nervous.

“Is the card black?”

“No.”

“Is the card red?”

“No.”

“Is the card a face card?”

“No.”

“Is the card a ten?”

“No.”

And on it goes. Fuller acts normally, and doesn’t try to control his body’s responses in the least. When the examiner finally says, “The card is a Queen of Diamonds,” Fuller laughs, genuinely.

“That’s terrific! Better than a magic show.”

“As you can see, Barry, the machine can pick out lies rather easily. If you lie, we’ll catch it.”

“That’s why I’m here. To show I’m telling the truth.”

“We’ll proceed, then. Please answer yes or no to the following questions. Is your name Barry Fuller?”

“Yes.”

“Is the world flat?”

“No.”

“Have you ever stolen something?”

Fuller knows this is a control question, one that sets the bar. The polygraph records the body’s responses to the questions. The examiner understands that being accused about a crime will cause the breathing to increase, the palms to sweat, and the blood pressure to rise. The yes and no answers are irrelevant. The examiner is looking for the four markers on the scrolling piece of paper to jump when the subject is stressed.

So Fuller makes them jump. He curls his big toe, jabbing the staple deeper into the nail. His pain level spikes, his vital signs react, and the markers do their fast squiggle thing.

“No,” he answers.

“Is the White House in Washington, D.C.?”

Fuller eases up on the toe pressure.

“Yes.”

“Do you remember killing Eileen Hutton?”

“No.”

Fuller realizes that his lie causes some spikes, but the spikes won’t be as high as the spikes created by the stealing question, when he caused himself pain. The examiner will have to conclude he’s telling the truth.

Easy as pie. The trick to beating a polygraph isn’t staying calm. It’s knowing when to act stressed.

“Have you ever lied on a job application?”

Control question. Toe pressure.

“No.”

“Is a basketball square?”

Ease up.

“No.”

“Did you remember cutting off Davi McCormick’s arms?”

No toenail pressure.

“No.”

“Have you ever cheated on your income tax?”

Force that staple in.

“No.”

“Do you consider yourself an honest man?”

Another control. The staple feels like an electric wire, juicing him with pain.

“Yes.”

“Did you kill Colin Andrews?”

Release the pressure.

“I don’t remember. I’ve been told I did.”

And so it goes on, for another half an hour. He takes his time. Makes it look good. Lets his body tell the tale.

“Are you faking this amnesia?”

Fuller smiles at Jack. He winks at her.

“No, I’m not.”

“Thank you, Barry. We’re finished here today.”

Garcia walks over. “What were the results?”

“I’ll need time to examine them thoroughly before I can give you my opinion.”

“What’s your preliminary opinion?”

“I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving that. I’ll wait until trial.”

“Go ahead, Adam.” Libby walks up as well. “Tell us your initial impression. No matter what side it falls on, you’ll likely be subpoenaed anyway.”

The plump man takes off his glasses, polishes them on the end of his sweater.

“In twenty years of administering polygraphs, I’ve never seen such a clear-cut case of honesty.”

Fuller has to bite his lower lip to keep from giggling.

“This man is telling the truth. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

Fuller’s lawyer laughs, pats him on the shoulder.

Jack’s look is worth a million dollars. Fuller mouths the words “see you soon” at her, and blows her a kiss.

The examiner removes all of the probes and sensors, and everyone begins to file out. Fuller’s lawyer wants a moment with him, and makes the guards wait outside.

“This shouldn’t even go to trial, Barry. The judge should have thrown it out.”

“We’re doing good, right?”

“Good? We’re golden. After the experts testify, there won’t be a doubt in anyone’s mind. You’ll be back on the street in no time.”

“I want to testify.”

Garcia loses the smile.

“You don’t have to say a word, Barry. You can let the evidence speak for you.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t think it’s a wise . . .”

“I don’t care. I have to speak my piece. It’s important to me.”

Another pat on the shoulder. “I understand, big guy. They’ll be rough on you, but we can prepare you for that.”

“I’ll do fine.”

“I’m sure you will, Barry. I’m sure you will.”

CHAPTER 31

When I left the prison I was shaking, and couldn’t decide if it was from cold, anger, or fear.

Since Benedict and I arrived in separate cars, we didn’t have a chance to touch base after the polygraph. Herb seemed even more distant than yesterday, not carrying our exchange any further than “Good morning.” I back-burnered my problems and confronted Herb when we got back to the station.

“I left Bernice.”

“You left Bernice?”

“Last night. Not that big of an adjustment, really. I’ve been sleeping on the couch for the past month, anyway. At least the Motel 6 has a big bed I can stretch out in, and I’ve got a ‘no nagging’ sign on the door. It’s refreshing, waking up without having to hear all of my problems pointed out to me.”

“Herb, I’m sorry.”

“No need. This was a long time coming, believe me.”

“Are you okay?”

Stupid question. Of course he wasn’t okay.

“Fine. I missed breakfast, though.” He smiled, and it was an unpleasant thing. “First time in twenty-two years. Want to go grab a bite?”

I nodded. Herb drove, recklessly, to a diner on Clark, the kind of place that served pancakes twenty-four hours a day and boasted “fountain creations” on their storefront sign. Nothing on the menu was over six dollars, and our waitress moved so slowly I was tempted to take her pulse. I got two eggs, sunny-side up.

“Comes with toast,” our server yawned.

I shrugged.

Herb ordered a ham and cheddar cheese omelette, with a side of bacon and two sides of sausage, hold the toast.

“This diet is killing me.”

“I bet. I think I can actually hear your arteries harden.”

He leaned in close, conspiratorially.

“It’s the starch. I thought eating all the fatty foods I wanted would be great, but right now I would kill for a sandwich made out of french fries and macaroni.”

“They’ve got that on the menu. It comes with a free angiogram.”

Herb added a ninth packet of artificial sweetener to his coffee and stirred it with his fork.

“How are you doing, Jack?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do. Maybe it will help me take my mind off my problems.”

I gave it to him. He paused, between noshing on fatty meat, to impart this bit of wisdom: “Damn, Jack, you’re a mess.”

I didn’t feel like eating, but I forced the toast down because Herb’s constant staring at it made me edgy.

“Thanks, partner. Misery loves company, I guess.”

“Are you still in love with Alan?”

“I don’t think I ever stopped loving him.”

“Does he want you back?”

“I think so.”

“Do you love Latham?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going to have to choose.”

“I know.”

“Who are you going to choose?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who do you love more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you going to eat your eggs?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least that’s a decision I can help you with.”

Herb did a quick plate-to-plate egg transfer, his fork a stainless steel blur. Apparently, separation hadn’t hurt his appetite.

“What do we do about Fuller?” Yolk clung to his mustache.

I was happy to change the subject.

“I have a plan.”

“Tell.”

“Fuller mentioned to me that he kills to make the headaches go away.”

“I read the medical. The doctors don’t think the tumor is any older than a year or two.”

“Right. But Fuller said he’s always had headaches, his whole life.”

Herb nodded. “So maybe he’s killed before.”

“We dig into his past, try to link him to an old crime.”

“How do we do that?”

“Did you forget? We’re police officers. Skilled professionals who solve crimes for a living.”

“What if there’s no crime to solve?”

“Then we have to find one.”

I picked up the check, and when we got back to the station we went to work. We started with the department’s file on Fuller. On paper, he seemed to be a good cop. Above-average arrest record. Showed up for work. Did well at the police academy, scoring high on all of his tests.

Prior to his law enforcement career, Fuller had been an NFL player. Herb pulled at that thread, while I traced his life back even further. Fuller went to Southern Illinois University, on a football scholarship. Majored in criminology. Minored in psych. Heavy subjects, for a jock.

A look at his four-year curriculum uncovered another interesting tidbit: Fuller was a member of the Drama Club, and had actually played Biff in a campus production of Death of a Salesman.

In the file Libby had put together on Fuller, there were no noteworthy incidents in his college career. He stayed out of trouble. Kept a B average. Apparently, he met Holly in college, and married her a year after graduation.

I wasted fifty cents of the taxpayers’ money on a call to information, and was soon talking to the chief of police in Carbondale, a man named Shelby Duncan. He had a low voice and talked slowly, deliberately.

“During those years we had two unsolveds. One was a townie, sixty-two-year-old male, robbed and beaten to death outside of a 7-11. Another was a student, nineteen-year-old male, fell out a frat house window. BOC was triple the going rate, but the case has been kept open.”

“How about missing persons?”

I heard fingers on a keyboard.

“One hundred and thirty-eight.”

The high number surprised me.

“It that normal?”

“We’re a college town, Lieutenant. Twenty thousand students attend classes every day. Some of them drop out, and don’t tell anyone where they’re going.”

I asked if he could fax me the reports. He did me one better and offered the password to his database so I could peruse them on my own.

Herb leaned over. “What do you got?”

“He studied psychology and criminology in college, and also did some acting. Might come in handy, if you ever wanted to beat a lie detector. I’ve also got over a hundred MP files, which I’ll try to sync up with Fuller’s academic schedule. You?”

“Fuller’s NFL career was mostly spent warming the bench. Constant knee injuries—in fact, his left knee is completely artificial. I’m surprised he could pass the department physical.”

“No missing cheerleaders?”

“I talked to one of the assistant coaches. No problems at all. The guy was a team player, no obvious difficulties. Fuller was disappointed that he couldn’t contribute more. Coach said he was a good guy.”

“Fooled them just like he fooled us.”

Benedict delved into his pocket and came up with a small bag of fried pork rinds. The bag art proudly stated “No Carbs.” I wondered, yet again, what was wrong with the world when pigskin fried in lard was considered a health food.

“So, what now?” Herb asked, showing me what partially masticated hog strips looked like. It wasn’t pretty.

“We get started on this list. You want to take A through L?”

“I guess.”

I gave Benedict the password, and he nodded a good-bye and waddled off to his office.

I hit the computer.

Time passed slowly, as it always did with drudge work. Noon rolled around, and I declined Herb’s offer of a cheezy beef, sans bun. By four o’clock I found a tenuous connection between Fuller and a missing girl named Lucy Weintraub—she’d been a cheerleader while he was on the football team. But a DMV search found Lucy alive and well and living in Chicago. I got in touch, and she admitted to dropping out of school and going to Florida, which her parents eventually found out about, but didn’t bother informing the Carbondale PD.

Lucy didn’t remember Fuller at all.

I dialed Benedict, and he’d had no luck either. If Fuller had been responsible for any of these missing persons, he didn’t seem to have any clear connection to them.

It was creeping up on five in the evening, but home didn’t seem tempting at the moment. I knew I had to make peace with my mom, but before that I needed to get in touch with my feelings.

I was doing that, unsuccessfully, when the phone rang. The desk sergeant informed me that a man was downstairs, asking to see me.

“Says he’s your husband.”

I felt my pulse jump. Anger, or excitement?

“Can someone escort him up?”

My mirror compact called to me, begging to check my hair and makeup.

I resisted, and read the same line on an arrest report fifteen times until the knock at the door came.

“Hi, Jack.”

I didn’t look up at him, reading the line two more times before answering. Then I gave him my slightly annoyed look.

“What is it, Alan? I’m busy.”

“I wanted to apologize. For last night. I shouldn’t have acted like that.”

“I accept your apology. Now if you don’t mind . . .”

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

The words hurt. I stayed silent.

“I shouldn’t have come to Chicago. I didn’t mean to intrude on your life. I guess . . . I don’t know . . . I always questioned my decision. Leaving you. I wanted to see you again, to see if I was wrong.”

“Were you wrong?”

His eyes softened. “Yes.”

What do you say to a man whom you cursed ten thousand times, begged the universe to make him understand what a jerk he was, and then he finally agrees with you?

“Have a safe trip back, Alan.”

His eyes got teary. Maybe mine did too.

“Can we be friends, Jack? Stay in touch?”

Don’t play with fire, Jack. You got burned the last time.

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

He chewed his lower lip.

“You know, I never visited you at work, when we were married. Not once.”

“I know.”

“I can finally cross that off my list of should-haves.” He tried to smile. “Have a nice life, Jack.”

“You too, Alan.”

He walked out.

The first time he left me, I didn’t try to stop him. I always wondered what would have happened if I’d tried. Would we have lasted? Would we have worked out our problems? Would love have conquered all?

Was I destined to keep making the same mistakes, over and over again?

“Alan . . . wait.”

He turned, eyes hopeful.

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, I knew.

“You’re wearing my jacket.”

Alan took off the bomber jacket, held it out.

I went to him.

Our hands met.

“Jack, I love this jacket too much to give it up.”

“So do I.”

“Maybe we can work out some kind of joint custody.”

“Maybe.”

“Can we discuss it over dinner?”

“That might be best.”

I touched his face, wiped off a tear with my thumb.

“Can I call you? After work?”

“No. The work can wait.”

“Excuse me?”

“The work can wait, Alan. Let’s go.”

We didn’t go out to dinner. We went to his hotel room at the Raphael, where I played with fire.

Twice.

CHAPTER 32

I stared at the ceiling, naked and tangled in a sheet, sleep a faraway concept.

Alan slept curled up next to me. Looking at him, I felt an odd mixture of love and remorse. The sex had been good, like putting on an old pair of blue jeans you haven’t worn in ages. Alan and I knew each other’s buttons.

I’d called Mom earlier, explaining I wouldn’t be home, without giving her details.

She figured them out anyway.

“I’ll let Nathan know where you are if he calls.”

“His name is Latham, Mom. And no, you won’t. If he calls or drops by, have him call my cell.”

Latham never did call, and I felt another odd mixture, of guilt and relief. I fleetingly wished I could feel just one emotion at a time, but that added confusion to my melting pot of conflicting feelings.

The ceiling had no answers for me.

I didn’t have any sleeping pills, and my insomnia knew it; shifting, restless leg syndrome, unable to get comfortable in any position.

At two in the morning, heart palpitations and shallow breathing hopped on the symptom train, and I knew enough modern psychology to recognize I was having a panic attack.

It was horrible.

I’d had a physical, four months back, and been given a clean bill of health, so I knew this wasn’t a heart attack. But still, I was enveloped by an overwhelming sense that I was going to die.

I got out of bed, paced, did some push-ups, tried yoga, drank two glasses of water, flipped through fifteen channels with the mute button on, and finally just sat in a corner, clutching my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth.

At five in the morning, in a near hysterical effort to simplify my life, I went into the bathroom and called Latham.

“Jack? That you?”

“I need to take a break, Latham. From us. Too much is happening too fast.”

“You sound terrible. Are you okay?”

“No. I think I’m having a nervous breakdown. It’s probably just a panic attack. I don’t have my damn sleeping pills and I’m bouncing off the walls.”

“Why don’t you have your pills?”

Moment of truth time.

“I’m in Alan’s hotel room.”

I waited for Latham to scream at me, call me names. Hell, I wanted him to.

“You still love him.”

“Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

I heard him take a quick breath. A sob?

“You need some time apart, to figure things out?”

“Yes.” I was crying now.

“A week? A month?”

“I don’t know, Latham.”

“I understand.”

Dammit, why did he have to be so freaking nice?

“I might never come back, Latham.”

“You have to choose what’s right for you, Jack.”

“Aren’t you mad at me?”

“I love you. I want you to be happy.”

I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles lost color.

“There’s no goddamn way you can be that mature about this! Call me a cheating bitch! Tell me I ruined your life!”

“Call me when you’ve made a decision, Jack.”

He hung up.

I raised the cell over my head, wanting to smash it against the tiled floor.

I settled for placing it on the sink and blubbering like a baby.

Alan knocked on the door.

“Jack? Are you okay?”

He let himself in, sat down next to me.

“Dammit,” I cursed, rubbing my eyes. “Dammit, dammit, dammit. I’m not this weak.”

Alan laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

He put his arms around me.

“You’re not weak, Jack. You’re human.”

“And that’s funny to you?”

“I always suspected it. I just never thought I’d see it.”

He held me until the tears stopped and embarrassment set in. I finally pushed him away and jumped in the shower.

If I hoped to get my life in order, I needed to start compartmentalizing. If I dealt with one thing at a time, I wouldn’t get overwhelmed.

Number one on the hierarchy of importance was Fuller. He couldn’t be allowed out.

After the shower, I got dressed, kissed my sleeping ex-husband on the top of his head, and went to the office.

One thing at a time.

CHAPTER 33

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

I squinted, trying to see through the darkness of my bedroom. My digital clock displayed 3:35 in bright red; the only light in the room.

I sat up and reached for the lamp by my bedside. Clicked it on.

Nothing happened.

I reached higher and felt that the lightbulb was missing.

Carefully, slowly, I eased open my nightstand drawer, seeking out the .38 I put in there every night.

The gun was gone.

Something in the darkness moved.

“Mom? Alan?”

No answer.

I breathed in deep, held it, straining to hear any sound.

A faint chuckle came from nearby.

My digital clock went out.

The hair rose on the back of my neck. The darkness was complete, a thick inky cloth. Sweat trickled down my spine.

The closet.

“I’ve got a gun!” I yelled to the darkness.

Another chuckle. Low and soft.

Fuller.

Another movement. Closer this time.

My heart pumped ice through my veins. Where were Mom and Alan? What had he done to them?

How do I make it out of here alive?

My only chance was to get to the door, to get out of the apartment. Run hard and fast and don’t look back.

I slowly drew back the covers, and eased one foot over the edge of the bed, resting it on the warm chest of the man with the knife who was lying on the floor beside me.

I screamed, and woke myself up.

Reflexively, I had the bedroom light on and the .38 in my hand in a nanosecond. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my heart felt like I’d just completed the last leg of a triathlon.

“Jack?”

Alan opened his eyes. They widened when he saw the gun.

“What’s happening?”

“Just a bad dream.”

“You’re going to shoot a bad dream?”

I looked at my gun, quivering in my hand, and tried to put it back in the drawer. My fingers wouldn’t let go. I had to pry them off with my free hand.

I sat awake, thinking about fear, until my alarm went off and I had to go to court.

I dressed in my best suit, a blue Armani blazer and light gray slacks, spent ten minutes dabbing concealer under my eyes, and met my mom in the kitchen, where she already had a pot of coffee going.

“Morning, Mom.”

Mom wore a pink flannel nightgown with a cat stitched on the front. She sat at the breakfast bar, sipping out of a mug, you guessed it, with a cat on it.

“Good morning, Jacqueline. You look very pretty.”

“Court.” I poured coffee into one of the last drinking vessels without a feline picture gracing it. “You okay?”

“This cold weather is affecting my hip.”

“It’s got to be eighty degrees in here, Mom. You set the thermostat on ‘broil.’”

“My hip is synced to the outside temperature, and it’s freezing out there. I forgot how cold this city gets.”

I wondered how cold Mom really was, and how much of this was her pining for Florida.

“Do you keep in touch with any of your friends back in Dade City?”

“Just Mr. Griffin. He keeps pestering me to visit. But I’d hate to travel in this weather. The cold, you know.”

“Why not invite him here?”

“He’s retired, dear. On a fixed income. I couldn’t ask him to fly out here, and then pay those ridiculous hotel rates.”

“He can stay with us.”

Mom smiled so brightly she lost twenty years.

“Really?”

“Sure. If he doesn’t mind sharing the sofa bed.” I winked at her.

“Well, I think I’ll give him a call, then. I could use the company. You work all day, and Alan spends all of his time locked in the bedroom, writing.”

I searched the fridge for a bagel, finding nothing but Alan’s health food. Soy and sprouts did not a good breakfast make. I chose some dark bread, and a non-dairy, low-fat, butter-flavored spread, which had such a long list of chemical ingredients on the package it should have been called “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Cancer.”

“Thanksgiving is next week.” I slathered the imitation stuff on the bread. “Invite him over for that.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll call him now.”

I took a bite, then spit the mouthful into my hand.

“What the hell is this?”

“Alan’s soy bread. He has that gluten allergy.”

I tossed it in the garbage. “It tastes like a sour sponge.”

“Steer clear of his breakfast cereal. Tofutos, they’re called. Beans and milk aren’t a tasty combo. And whatever you do, don’t let him make you anything in that juicer. He actually forced me to drink a celery sprout smoothie.”

Mom got on the phone, and I finished my coffee and headed to the criminal courthouse at 26th and California.

Someone had forgotten to tell Chicago it was still fall, because a light snow dusted everything and I almost broke my neck on a patch of sidewalk ice.

My car started on the second try, and I played how-slow-can-we-drive-and-still-move-forward with my fellow Chicagoans. The first snowfall of the season and everyone seems to forget, en masse, how to drive.

I was late getting to the trial. The courthouse, a squat square building, had free underground parking for city employees. Heated. I took an escalator up to the main floor, bypassed the line at the metal detector with a flash of my star, and took the second group of elevators to the twenty-seventh floor.

Court had already begun, and the tiny room was crammed full to bursting. I shouldered my way through the crowd and sat next to Libby, who wore a lavender Vanderbilt jacket and skirt like it had been designed for her.

Her cocounsel, a brown-haired, twenty-something prosecutor named Noel Penaflor, had Phil Blasky on the stand. Phil had on an ill-fitting suit and tried his best to explain, in layman’s terms, the results of Eileen Hutton’s autopsy.

“. . . thoracic cavity eviscerated and . . .”

I tuned him out, trying to organize my thoughts.

I didn’t look at Fuller.

As the litany of atrocities ensued, Noel introduced pictures of Eileen as evidence. First came pictures of her with family and friends. Then came the autopsy photos.

As expected, this caused a general uproar in the courtroom. But no reaction was more impressive than Fuller’s.

He vomited all over the defense team’s table.

CHAPTER 34

A twenty-minute recess ensued, and the courtroom cleared.

Libby seethed.

“That son of a bitch. He did it on purpose, didn’t he? How the hell did he do it?”

I shrugged. “Maybe he swallowed some ipecac, or something else to make him sick. Or maybe he can vomit on cue.”

“Have you ever seen that done before?”

I knew what Libby was asking; could I somehow discredit the vomit episode through testimony?

“Sorry. I’ve never seen it.”

She and Noel spent some time bantering back and forth. I went back into court and watched a janitor spritz the table with a disinfectant that smelled like oranges.

The trial progressed. Noel finished up with Blasky, which was followed by a brief cross-examination by Garcia. No redirect, and Blasky was excused and my name got called.

I took the stand and tried to keep the trembling under control.

Noel walked me through my testimony, and I gave a recount of the case, trying to remain professional and in control. The prosecution established me as not only a credit to my profession, but a hero as well.

I kept the dry spots to a minimum, elicited a few chuckles from the jury, and at the end of my statement repeated my encounter with Fuller at the jailhouse.

“So the defendant admitted that he was lying about the amnesia?”

“He did. And he said when he got out, he was going to kill again.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Me.” My voice cracked when I said it. “He said he was going to kill me, and my partner, Herb.”

Noel nodded at me, and I got a look of approval from Libby.

“Your witness.” Noel took his seat.

Garcia, plump and confident, approached me smiling.

“Lt. Daniels, you mentioned you’ve been on the police force for twenty years, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How many of those years have you been seeing a psychiatrist?”

“Objection. Relevance.”

Garcia smiled at the judge. “I’m simply bringing into question the lieutenant’s reliability as a witness.”

Libby stood up. “Your honor, the very fact that Lt. Daniels has been a member of the CPD for twenty years is enough to establish reliability. It is also mandatory policy after a shooting for a police officer to receive counseling.”

“Withdrawn.” Eric smiled. “And I’d like to thank the assistant state’s attorney for establishing that, as a member of the Chicago Police Department, an officer must surely have his mental faculties in order. Lt. Daniels, how long did you work with Barry Fuller?”

“Two years.”

“And during those two years, what kind of impression had you formed of him?”

“I didn’t know him personally.”

“Professionally, then?”

“He did his job, as far as I knew. I never had any problems with him . . . until I had to shoot him.”

That got a chuckle from the peanut gallery.

“Tell me, Lieutenant, how a twenty-year veteran, a hero who was responsible for bringing a heinous serial killer to justice last year, failed to realize the suspect she was chasing was working side by side with her all along?”

“Officer Fuller knows police procedure. Because he knows our methods, he knew how to avoid detection.”

“And did that bother you, him avoiding capture?”

“Of course it bothered me. It’s my job to catch murderers, and he was out on the streets, murdering people.”

“Did it bother you beyond a professional capacity? Didn’t it, in fact, get personal?”

“I keep my personal and professional opinions separate.”

“Even though Barry is one of your own? You don’t hold him in particular disdain, on a personal level?”

“No, I don’t. My disdain is purely professional.”

Another chuckle.

“Lieutenant, you testified earlier that, during your visit to Barry Fuller at Cook County jail, Mr. Fuller threatened you.”

“Yes.”

“During your conversation with him on that date, do you believe that you remained calm and professional?”

“Yes.”

“Not personal?”

“No.”

“Tell me, Lieutenant, is this your voice?”

He pulled a cassette recorder out of his pocket and hit the Play button. The female voice that emanated was both high-pitched and vicious.

“Drop the act, Barry. I know you’re lying. You remember every sick little detail. I bet you jerk off to those memories every night in your lonely little cell. You make me sick. I hope they fry your ass in the chair, tumor or no tumor, you piece of shit.”

Both Noel and Libby screamed out objections, but my recorded voice could be heard above them, the murmur of the jury, and the sound of Judge Taylor banging her gavel.

“Objection, Your Honor! There’s no foundation for this tape. This wasn’t previously disclosed at the pre-trial hearing.”

“Your Honor, the State had prior knowledge of this tape, and they failed to give this to us in discovery. Full disclosure goes both ways.”

Libby made a face. “Foundation, Your Honor.”

Garcia smiled. “Witness credibility, Judge. Lt. Daniels has previously stated she clearly separates personal and professional opinion. The tape is a gentle reminder of her true opinion.”

“Privacy law, Your Honor. Lt. Daniels had no prior knowledge this tape would be used in evidence.”

“But she did have prior knowledge of the tape’s existence, Your Honor. In fact, she’s the one who created it.”

Judge Taylor turned to me. “Is that true, Lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll allow it.”

Garcia held up the recorder.

“Tape A for identification. Authentication by Lt. Jacqueline Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Lt. Daniels, was that indeed your voice on that tape recording, made during your visit to the Cook County jail on October twentieth of this year, while interviewing the defendant, Barry Fuller?”

I felt ready to throw up myself.

“Yes. But that was taken out of context. There’s more.”

“I’d be happy to play the tape in its entirety. Let the record show that Tape A was identified and has been entered into evidence. Proceed.”

After a brief moment of rewinding, the courtroom filled with my recorded voice.

In context, I came off even worse. Fuller’s sobbing denial, and my escalating anger and accusations, destroyed my credibility.

The tape ended with Fuller asking me if I was wearing a wire.

“What happened after the tape was turned off, Lieutenant?”

“That’s when Fuller said he really remembered everything, and would kill me when he was released.”

“Why is it I expected you to say that? Even in view of your unmitigated, and very personal, hatred of my client, a wretched victim of a personality-altering brain tumor. I’m sure when he takes the stand he’ll have a different account of what happened after the recorder was turned off. No further questions.”

“Redirect?” Judge Taylor asked.

Libby stood.

“Lt. Daniels, why were you so hostile to the defendant in that tape?”

“It’s standard police technique. I was trying to get him angry at me, so he would talk.”

“And he did talk, after the tape was turned off?”

“Yes. Why else would he have asked me to turn off the tape?”

Libby turned to the jury. “Indeed. Why would he have wanted that tape shut off, if only to say something he didn’t want recorded? No more questions.”

“You may step down, Lieutenant.”

Good recovery, Libby. But as I left the stand I noticed disgust on more than a few faces in the jury box. I was no longer the hero.

When I sat down, I glanced over at Fuller for the first time all day.

He was staring at me, and our eyes locked. His face was a study in sadness. He let out a big dramatic sigh, for the jury’s benefit. Playing it to the hilt.

The judge broke for lunch, and I kept my composure long enough to get to the bathroom and splash some water on my face.

Libby walked in, and stood next to me by the sink. The bathroom was full, so I kept my voice down.

“How’d they get the tape? You’ve got the only copy.”

“And it’s in my office safe. They didn’t get my copy.”

She gave me an accusatory stare.

I sighed, too tired to get angry. “Give me a break. They crucified me up there. I want Fuller put away more than anyone.”

“All I know is, no one has touched that tape since you gave it to me. That means it must have been copied prior to my receiving it.”

I digested this.

“Unless we weren’t the only ones taping the conversation. What if someone put a wire on Fuller?”

Libby’s eyes got Betty Boop big.

“If there’s another tape, that means there might be a record of Fuller admitting to the lies.”

“Right. But who did the taping? His legal team? The prison? And even if we do find out who did it, how do we get a copy of the uncut version?”

“I know an audio guy. I’ll get a copy of Garcia’s tape, and compare it to yours. He should be able to tell if they’re from different sources. That’ll give me enough to be able to force Garcia into telling how he got the evidence.”

A woman came over to use the sink, and Libby buttoned her lip. We left the washroom.

“How about Fuller’s past?” Libby asked. “Any luck?”

“None. Maybe we could try Rushlo again.”

“I’ve tried four times. The guy won’t budge. His attorney keeps asking for extensions.”

“Why?”

“Rushlo wants to stay in jail. He’s afraid Fuller is going to get out and come after him. Jail is the only place he feels safe. He didn’t even try to make bail.”

“What’s he being charged with?”

“Two counts of accessory. We’ve got him dead to rights. He’s going away for a long time. But I’d trade that for Fuller in a heartbeat. The problem is, we can’t find any connection. We don’t even know how they met.”

I rubbed my eyes, yawned.

“How long has he owned the funeral home?”

“Six years. Worked there eight years before buying it from the original owner.”

“Before then?”

“His apprenticeship, Champaign-Urbana.”

That was south, but still two hundred miles away from Carbondale, where Fuller went to school.

“Before then?”

“Worsham College of Mortuary Science in Wheeling.”

Wheeling was even farther north.

“I’ll keep digging. Maybe something will turn up.”

“I hope so, Jack. You were my star witness, and the jury hates you. I’ve only got two more wits to call, and then it’s the defense’s ballgame. They’re bringing in some big guns.”

“How bad is it?”

Libby frowned. “If we don’t get something fast, we’re going to lose.”

CHAPTER 35

Benedict was waiting for me in my office. “How’d it go?”

“The only reason I wasn’t lynched is because no one in the courtroom had a rope.”

He laughed, though it sounded forced.

“Why are you in such a chipper mood?”

“Freedom, Jack. Freedom at last.”

“Freedom from what?”

“I saw a divorce lawyer this morning.”

Herb smiled when he said it. I wasn’t sure how to react.

“This is what you really want?”

“I’ve been living alone for almost a month, Jack. I love it. But I haven’t really hit the scene yet.”

“The scene?”

“The dating scene. Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t want to start seeing other women while I’m still married. But that is gonna change real soon.”

“How does Bernice feel about this?”

“She cried, but I know she realizes it’s for the best. I’m getting close, Jack. I’m almost free.”

Free from what, I thought? Free from a woman who loves you and devoted half of her life to you? Free from a home and a family? That’s freedom?

“Congrats. I hope it works out for you.”

“Up for a celebratory lunch? My treat. There’s a new gyro place that lets you order without the pita.”

“I’ll pass. I’ve got some calls to make.”

I was hungry, but didn’t feel comfortable around Herb at that moment. Maybe because I thought he was making a colossal mistake.

Or maybe because I realized he and I were more alike than I cared to admit. Latham sprang to mind.

“Your loss,” Benedict said. “I’ll catch you later.”

Herb left. The helpful drone at directory assistance gave me Worsham College of Mortuary Science, and connected me for an additional ten cents.

“I’m looking to speak with someone who might remember a student from fifteen years ago.”

“Let me connect you with Professor Keevers. He’s been here since the days before electricity. Hold a second.”

I spent a minute listening to Muzak, then a smooth baritone picked up.

“This is Tom Keevers. Who am I speaking with?”

“I’m Lieutenant Daniels, from the Chicago Police Department. Do you remember a student from fifteen years ago named Derrick Rushlo?”

There was a pause.

“Derrick is in some kind of trouble, I take it?”

“Do you remember him?”

“Yes. Yes I do. We get people like Derrick every once in a while.”

“What do you mean, people like Derrick?”

“I’m sure you know what I mean, hence your call.”

“Necrophiles?”

“A distasteful minority in this profession. Has Derrick been caught with his pants down, so to speak? There are strict regulations against such activity, of course, but I wasn’t aware of it being illegal.”

“This is a homicide investigation, Professor. I take it you knew about Derrick’s, uh, appetites?”

“I suspected. Never had proof. My best students remain aloof, detached, when embalming. Derrick was always a little too intimate with the bodies. Plus, there was that incident at SIU . . .”

“Excuse me? Do you mean Southern Illinois University?”

“Yes. They have an excellent mortuary school there. Derrick transferred from there to here.”

And Bingo was his name-o.

“Was he expelled?”

“Not that I recall. Rather, he was encouraged to leave. If memory serves, one of their cadavers went missing, and suspicion fell on Derrick. There was never any evidence, though. It caused quite a stir in the academic community.”

“Did he have any problems while at Worsham?”

“No. Excellent student. Did good work. I always had my suspicions about him, though. He murdered somebody, you say?”

“Accessory.”

“That makes sense. I’ve always wanted to write a novel, with a mortician as the villain. It would be ridiculously easy, in our profession, to dispose of a murder victim.”

“Cremation.”

“There’s that. But are you aware of how many closed casket funerals go on in this business? Some folks die beyond our ability to reconstruct them. Some families simply don’t want to view the departed.”

“So you’re saying . . . ?”

“A mortician could easily place more than one body in a casket, and no one would ever know.”

“Thank you for your time, Professor.”

I hung up, excited. I not only had a connection between Fuller and Rushlo, but it gave me an idea on how we could get Rushlo to fess up.

I left Libby a message on her cell, and then occupied a few hours reviewing backlog cases. During my absence, Chicago lived up to its reputation of being the murder capital of the U.S. We averaged about 600 a year, but we were already at over 585 and the busy holiday season wasn’t even upon us yet.

Immersing myself in paperwork turned out to be good therapy, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I’d only thought about Fuller intermittently, rather than constantly.

I called home, got no answer, called Alan’s cell, and got his voice mail. I told him I’d be home early, and left the office.

The snow had turned into freezing drizzle, and the ride took twenty minutes longer than normal, because every driver on the road collectively forgot how to drive in freezing drizzle.

After retrieving my mail, I went up to my apartment, walked into the living room, and caught sight of a very old and very naked man having sex with my mother on the Hide-A-Bed.

I immediately turned around and went into the kitchen. They hadn’t seen me, having been too involved in the act. Perhaps their mutual moaning had masked the sound of my footfalls.

I considered my next move. Make a lot of noise, so they knew I was home? Sneak out? Ask them to quit it, because I was now scarred for the rest of my life?

I chose sneaking out. A twenty-four-hour coffee shop/diner was a few blocks away, but the freezing rain wasn’t enough to erase the image branded on my brain, of Mr. Griffin’s naked bottom rising and falling. I also found myself thinking, quite surprisingly, that it wasn’t a bad butt for a guy his age. Firmer than I might have guessed.

I had coffee, and a Monte Cristo sandwich—hot turkey, ham, Swiss cheese, and bacon, on two pieces of French toast. The sandwich came dusted in powdered sugar, with a side ramekin of raspberry jelly. It didn’t make sense that jelly went so well with turkey and ham, but for some reason it worked. I suppose some things that worked didn’t need to make sense.

After killing an hour in the diner, which seemed to be more than enough time for my mom to finish, I called the apartment.

No answer. Perhaps they were napping in the post-glow.

Wanting badly to shower and change clothes, I again braved the inclement weather and made my way back home.

They were still going at it.

I didn’t get an eyeful this time—the groaning was enough to keep me at bay. I turned and walked right back out.

My opinion of Mr. Griffin went up a notch. I’d always dated younger men. Perhaps I’d been missing out.

The local googleplex had a new Brad Pitt movie playing, and I plunked down ten bucks to spend ninety minutes with Brad.

Afterward, I called home. Thankfully, Mom picked up.

“Hi, Mom. Just calling to tell you I’ll be home in about twenty minutes.”

“Hello, dear. Um, can I ask a tiny favor of you?”

“Sure, Mom.”

“My gentlemen friend from Florida, Mr. Griffin, is visiting. Would you mind giving us an hour or two to catch up?”

“An hour or two?”

“Yes. We haven’t seen each other in a while and we’ve got some things to work out.”

My mother made a frank, gasping sound. I rubbed my eyes.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll catch a movie. I’ll be home around ten?”

“Ten is fine,” Mom said, an octave higher than normal.

I hung up.

Unbelievable.

I killed another two hours with Julia Roberts, and by then I was so tired I went straight home, my mother’s sexual needs be damned. She just broke her hip, for heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t she be minding the injury?

Thankfully, Mom and Mr. Griffin were fully dressed when I returned. They were in the kitchen, sipping coffee. Mom’s hair was a mess, and her cheeks were flushed.

“Nice to see you again, Jacqueline.” Mr. Griffin was a student of the old school, meaning he stood up when I came into the room and offered his hand.

I shook it, and he winced.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. My back is acting up a little.”

I wonder why.

“We’ve got a pizza coming, if you’re hungry.”

“No, I ate. I’m going to turn in. Did Alan call?”

“He told me earlier he was going out with some old buddies, wouldn’t be back until late.”

I said my good nights, slipped in and out of a hot shower, and climbed into bed, determined not to take a sleeping pill.

After forty minutes of staring at the ceiling, I heard a deep moan come from the living room.

I took two pills, and fell asleep with the pillow over my head.

CHAPTER 36

Fuller lies awake in his cell. It’s past midnight, and he needs to sleep. He has to look good for court. Appearance is everything.

He knows the jury watches him constantly. Looking for some trace of guilt or deceit. He’ll only show them what he wants them to see.

The vomiting was a masterstroke. The piece of beef had been rotting in his mattress for days. Less than the size of a grape, the smell alone was enough to make him gag. Popping it in his mouth produced instant nausea. Disgusting, but effective.

The real show will begin when he takes the stand. He’s hidden some red peppercorn flakes in his mattress—much more effective for bringing on tears than onions.

He knows the case will wrap up soon. Garcia wants to finish it before Thanksgiving, betting on the fact that the jurors will want to get the verdict in before the holiday. That leaves two days for testimony, and one for closing statements.

So far, everything is progressing smoothly.

There had been a bad moment, when Garcia told him about the tape. Some guard at Cook County jail had contacted Fuller’s attorneys, willing to sell them a recording of his conversation with Jack at the prison. Blackmail, is what it boiled down to. Pay me, or I’ll give this to the prosecution.

Fuller paid. He had to give power of attorney to Garcia, and authorized him to liquidate several things around the house—Holly’s jewelry, a signed Dali litho she’d bought with her modeling money, the Lexus.

Fuller had been worried that Garcia might turn on him, once he found out about Fuller’s deception. But the smarmy little bastard didn’t bat an eyelash. In fact, he ingeniously used the tape to discredit Daniels.

Who says money can’t buy a verdict?

The only problem at the moment is these damn headaches. They’re getting worse. He hasn’t explained to his doctors about how bad they’ve gotten, because he needs to give the impression that he’s cured. If headaches made him kill, and he’s still got headaches, they won’t let him out.

So he makes do with Tylenol and sheer will.

But he can’t hold out much longer.

There’s only one thing that helps him when the pain gets this bad.

“Just a few more days,” he whispers to himself. “Then I’ll be free.”

Fuller has Thanksgiving plans. He’s going to drop by the Daniels household. Get a little pain relief. He’s heard that Jack is living with her mom and ex-husband. What fun it will be to kill them both, in front of Jack, before ripping off her arms.

“Murder. The headache medicine.”

When he finally falls asleep, it’s with a smile on his face.

CHAPTER 37

“Dr. Jurczyk, in your eighteen years’ experience as a brain surgeon, how many operations have you performed?”

Dr. Robert Jurczyk answered in a deep, resounding tone that radiated authority. “I’ve performed several hundred.”

“Was one of them on the defendant, Barry Fuller?”

“Yes. I was in attendance at Northwestern when they brought him in.”

“In technical terms, what was the defendant’s condition?”

“He was brought in with a extradural hemorrhage caused by a bullet wound to the top right quadrant of the frontal bone, and after a CT scan it was determined the subject also had a neoplasm on the frontal lobe.”

“Now in layman’s terms.”

“The bullet wound caused the outermost meninges to rupture. Meninges are the membranous layers that cover the brain. When this ruptured, it began to bleed, and the blood leaked into the space between the brain and the skull. Since the skull is a closed structure, this blood was pushing against the brain and would have resulted in death if a craniotomy wasn’t performed.”

“So you opened up the patient’s skull to release the pressure?”

“Yes.”

“Then you also removed the tumor on Barry Fuller’s frontal lobe?”

“Yes.”

“How big was that tumor, Doctor?”

“Approximately forty grams, about two centimeters in width.”

“Your honor, and members of the jury, I’d like to present defense exhibit F, the tumor removed from Barry Fuller’s head.”

From the defense table came a glass jar containing a small gray thing floating in formaldehyde. The courtroom did its customary rumbling and the bailiff began to pass the jar around.

“Is that the tumor you removed from the defendant’s brain, Doctor?”

“It appears to be. Yes.”

“And how many of that type of operation have you done? Craniotomies, I believe you called them.”

“Hundreds.”

“Have there been any cases where a patient has had a craniotomy to relieve the pressure from an extradural hemorrhage, and later the patient experienced amnesia?”

“Yes. Almost eighty percent of patients with extradural hemorrhages experience some amnesia. In fact, after operations of this type, it’s necessary to keep a constant watch on a patient in recovery because they usually wake up not knowing where they are or what happened to them.”

“Have there been instances where the amnesia went back a few days, or even a week?”

“Yes. And further than that. I had one patient, brought in with a severe extradural hemorrhage caused by a car accident, and he completely forgot the last five years of his life. He didn’t remember that he was married, and didn’t know he had kids.”

“Did those memories ever return to him?”

“Bits and pieces returned, but he never regained a significant amount of his memory back.”

Things weren’t looking good for the home team.

“How about personality changes? In your esteemed opinion, Dr. Jurczyk, could an intracranial neoplasm of the frontal lobe be sufficient enough to cause such a massive personality change that even murder could result?”

“Yes, it could.”

Murmurs from the courtroom. Garcia faced the jury, smug. Libby gave me the briefest of sideways glances.

“Please elaborate, Doctor.”

“The frontal lobe is the personality center of the brain. I’ve reviewed dozens of cases where damage to a patient’s frontal lobe, either by an accident or by neoplasms, altered a person’s personality to such a degree that even their own family members no longer recognized them.”

“Are there any cases where a head trauma was associated with a personality change so dramatic that murder resulted?”

“There are many. Henry Lee Lucas, the notorious serial murderer who claimed responsibility for over one hundred victims, sustained several severe head injuries as a youth. John Wayne Gacy, Richard Speck, Charles Manson—all had records of serious head injuries.”

“So it is possible that a normal, upstanding member of society like you or me, if afflicted with a meningioma of the frontal lobe, could undergo such a dramatic personality change that murder may be committed?”

“Assuming that the part of the brain dealing with morals and values was affected, which is also part of the frontal lobe, yes, it is possible.”

“And if this person, before the tumor, was a nonviolent and caring individual, is it possible that the tumor could be the sole cause of such a dramatic personality change and the violent episodes that ensued?”

“Yes.”

“And if that tumor—the sole cause of this violent behavior—were removed, would the person’s personality then revert back to normal?”

“In my opinion, yes.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Your witness.”

Libby stood up but didn’t even bother to move from behind the table.

“Have you ever, in your professional capacity, Doctor, treated an individual with an intracranial tumor who murdered anyone?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“And as one of the premier brain specialists in the world, have you ever encountered a case in your research where a person with an intracranial tumor murdered anybody?”

“No.”

“How many cases have you reviewed, either in person or through research, throughout your career, Doctor?”

“Several thousand.”

“Can you speak up, sir?”

“Several thousand cases.”

“Several thousand cases, and not one case of murder. No more questions.”

Garcia passed on the redirect.

I studied the jurors, and they seemed unconvinced by the cross-examination. Hell, if I didn’t know Fuller was faking it, I would have been unconvinced too. When the world’s leading brain specialist says it’s possible that a tumor could cause someone to kill, you believe it.

“You may step down, Doctor. And we’ll have an hour break for lunch.” Taylor banged the gavel. “Adjourned.”

Libby wasn’t happy.

“Losing this case won’t bode well for my career.” She took my arm as we exited the courtroom. “I got a copy of the tape from Garcia yesterday. He claims it came in the mail, in a plain brown envelope, no return address, no note. Even gave me the envelope. I had it checked. Clean.”

“I take it the tape didn’t have Fuller’s confession on it?”

“No. He says what he played in court was all that was on it, but Garcia is a sneaky little bastard, and he didn’t get a name for himself by playing fair and nice with the other children.”

“Did you get the tape checked?”

“It’s being checked, but it’s obvious the tapes come from different sources. I played it against the one you made, and the sound quality is completely different. It’s better, and Fuller is louder than you. The mike must have been on his side of the room.”

“Maybe it was someone from the prison. You know the warden better than I do. Ask him if he’s had any no-shows lately. Guards calling in sick, quitting suddenly, that kind of thing.”

“I’ll do it today.”

I switched gears. “I think I’ve got a way to get Rushlo to talk.”

I gave her the short version. Libby frowned.

“Not my preferred course of action, but I’ll swing it. Anything to save this sinking ship. I can have the paperwork ready by tomorrow. Cook County jail is right down the street, so we can do this on our lunch break.”

I smiled, but it didn’t quell the butterflies in my stomach.

CHAPTER 38

Herb and I were going through a list of every student who attended classes with Fuller at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale, and trying to make connections between them and any of the 137 missing persons from that time. We allocated my floor for the purpose, spreading out files in a big, uneven grid sorted semi-alphabetically. Benedict was on his knees, crossing off possibles, when Libby called.

“I’ve got a name. Marvin Rohmer. He’s a guard at Division Eleven, been missing for the past week. A look into his personal finances revealed Rohmer has recently opened up eight checking accounts, each with cash amounts ranging from two to six grand. Probably got a large payment from that weasel Garcia.”

“Spreading it out because banks have to report big cash deposits. Smart.”

“Yeah, but he called attention to himself anyway by skipping work.”

“We’re on our way.”

“Too late. Rohmer’s a West Side boy, and I got a team to his place before the ink on the warrant dried. He skipped. Didn’t find the tape, but we found a voice-activated recorder with some duct tape still on it. He probably taped it to the ceiling, or under a chair.”

“Have you checked—”

“We’re on it, Jack. We’ve frozen his assets, tracked his credit cards, and will soon release his name and description to every cop in the United States and Canada. If we find him, we don’t even need the tape. I’ll cut him a deal, force him to testify.”

“Fax me Rohmer’s file.”

“It’s already on its way.”

I shared the info with Herb, and then we spent a few hours on the student records, ordering in a pizza with extra meat. Benedict ate most of it, but avoided the crust, leaving a cardboard box full of saucy white triangles.

I buried myself in the work. We were creating a big cross-reference grid; we listed all the students Fuller might have known from classes, sports, activities, and fraternities, and then tried to link them to any of the missing persons by doing the same thing. Tedium, and exactly what I needed.

“Got a possible.” Benedict held up a paper. Not unusual, we’d had a few possibles so far.

“Name?”

“Missing person is Melody Stephanopoulos. Student. She had three classes with a kid named Michael Horton, who was on the football team with Fuller.”

“Horton’s girlfriend?”

“Could be. She was a science major, Horton was liberal arts, and she took two writing classes and a classics literature class with him, sophomore and junior year. Disappeared during the spring term, as a junior.”

I looked up Horton in the Carbondale police files, got zilch. Then I called the SIU alumni organization, and spoke with a peppy lady named Missy who was hesitant to help until I gave her my badge number.

“I found him. Michael Horton is living in Seattle. Says he’s married, a stockbroker, two kids.”

I wrote down his number and dialed it.

“This is Michael.”

“Mr. Horton, this is Lt. Daniels from the Chicago Police Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions—”

“About Barry, right? I’ve been following it on the news.”

“Well, sort of. First we wanted to ask you about Melody Stephanopoulos.”

“Have you found her?” The sentence came out so fast all the words ran together.

“I’m sorry, no. She was your girlfriend?”

“Fiancée. She disappeared.”

“Did Barry know Melody?”

“Yeah. She didn’t like him. Oh, Jesus, you don’t think . . .”

“We don’t know, Mr. Horton. We’re trying to establish a connection. Were you and Barry friends?”

“Sure. We partied a lot together. Coach liked the team to hang out in our free time.”

“Did Barry ever hang around with Melody, without you there?”

“Not that I remember. Melody was pretty much glued to my side all the time.”

“When did she go missing?”

He paused.

“We had a fight, at a party. She didn’t like me drinking so much. I told her to lighten up and quit being a nag. She left. That’s the last time I saw her.”

“Was Barry at the party?”

“Yeah. It was after the Florida game. Big celebration.”

“Do you remember if Barry left after Melody?”

“I wish I could remember, Lieutenant. But I got pretty trashed that night. When I went to Melody’s dorm the next day to apologize, her roommate told me she never came home.”

Horton spent ten minutes filling me in on his relationship with Melody. He’d loved her deeply, and her loss devastated him. He spent another five giving me personal insights into Fuller, whom he called “a team player, a regular guy.”

Which is how I would have described Fuller, before I found out about his extracurricular activities.

When the conversation wound down, he promised to call if he remembered anything else.

Herb, who’d been on the extension, hung up.

“Could be a lead. Maybe you can hit Rushlo with it.”

I looked at my watch. Almost seven in the evening. I yawned. Herb gave me a look of disapproval.

“Jack, you need to get some rest.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like a shit sandwich, with extra corn.”

“That’s sweet. You read that in a Hallmark card?”

“Go home.”

“I’m afraid to go home. It’s like walking into a geriatric version of Last Tango in Paris.”

He frowned.

“What’s wrong with you lately, Jack?”

Herb’s voice took on a harsh tone, something that happened once in a leap year.

“What do you mean, Herb?”

“You’re not yourself. You’re edgy, short-tempered, and unhappy.”

“If you’re questioning my competency, Detective, then you’re free to seek other employment opportunities.”

Herb stood up.

“Maybe I should put in for reassignment.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, considering you just did the same thing with your marriage.”

Benedict shot me a very un-Benedict-like stare, and walked out.

I sat there for a few minutes, trying to get my breathing under control.

I couldn’t.

CHAPTER 39

“Do you know why you are here, Barry?”

Fuller nodded, doing a damn good impression of a scolded puppy. He wore a dark blue suit with a light blue shirt, which was wrinkled by his slouching.

“Because I killed some people.” His voice was soft, meek.

“Do you know why you killed these people, Barry?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember killing anyone.”

“But you’ve watched the proceedings. You know that without a doubt you are the one who murdered these people.”

“Yes. I know.”

“But you can’t tell us why you did?”

“I don’t remember why. I don’t remember anything for almost a month before the first murder. It’s like all that time never happened. My God, I’d never . . . I’d never kill anybody. I can’t believe . . .”

Fuller’s voice cracked. Fountains of tears streamed down his face. His crying became sobbing and he wailed and moaned and Garcia held out a box of tissues and Fuller went through one after another, for almost two minutes.

“It wasn’t me. I know it wasn’t me. I couldn’t have done that.”

“Why not, Barry?”

“Because I’m not a killer. I’m not even violent.”

“But weren’t you a pro football player? And a police officer? Most people consider those violent professions.”

“I mostly sat on the bench. Coach didn’t think I had that ‘killer instinct,’ he called it. And I became a cop so I could uphold the law and help people. I had a terrific record, until, oh God . . .”

More sobbing and more Kleenex. It made my stomach turn.

“Take your time, Barry. You say you can’t remember any of the murders. What is your last memory, prior to your brain operation?”

“The last thing I can really remember clearly was getting drunk on my couch after work, trying to make it go away.”

“Trying to make what go away, Barry?”

“The pain. In my head.”

“Your last memory is of a headache?”

“A terrible headache. I thought my head would explode. Aspirin didn’t help, so I drank a bottle of rum to make the pain stop.”

“When was this?”

“Sometime in late spring. May, maybe.”

“Why didn’t you go to a doctor?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything after that. Maybe I did go to a doctor.”

“When you woke up in the hospital, after your operation, what was your first thought?”

“I thought I was in the hospital because I drank too much and fell down some stairs or something.”

“And how did you react when you were told you’d been shot after murdering your wife?”

More sobbing. Garcia made a show of getting a second box of tissues from the defense table.

“I thought it was some sick joke. I still can’t believe it. Everyone is telling me I’ve done horrible things, things I would never do. And all the evidence says I did them. But I can’t remember them. How would you feel if someone said you murdered your wife? Oh my God . . .”

More crying.

“Settle down, Barry. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. It will never be okay. Do you know I haven’t slept for more than two hours a night since this began? I should have gone to a doctor, or a shrink, or . . .”

“Or what, Barry?”

“Or killed myself. If I had killed myself, all of those people would still be alive.”

Amen to that, I thought. But a glance at the jury told me they didn’t share my sentiments.

“Is there anything you’d like to say to the families of those people?” Garcia asked.

“Yes. Yes there is.”

Fuller stood up and removed a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He held it tenderly in his hands, as if it were a kitten, but as he spoke he didn’t have to look at it once.

“I can’t say anything that would justify my taking six lives. I can’t say anything that would make you forgive me. I can only say that I’m, I’m . . .” He began to cry again. “I’m so, so, so sorry. I wish I could remember their deaths, because that would give me something I could use to hate myself even more. I don’t know how any of this happened. My doctors and my attorneys say it was a brain tumor. Maybe that’s the case, because I really don’t know how I could have done all of this, hurt so many people. If I could return any of those lives I took with my own death, I would. Oh God, I would in a second.”

Fuller stood there, blubbering like a baby, for several minutes. Every time he began to speak the sobbing would take over again. And in a moment that would forever be embedded in my brain, I turned to look at the courtroom, and saw at least eight people dabbing their eyes.

Two were on the jury.

“What’s your plan of action?” I whispered to Libby. She had on a double-breasted gray pantsuit with champagne stripes. Emanuel Ungaro, she’d told me earlier. I also wore a gray pantsuit, which I picked up at JCPenney’s for $89.99. I felt like a hobo about to spit-roast a hot dog over some Sterno.

“No plan.”

“You’re going to wing it?”

“I’m not going to cross-examine.”

“Why not?”

“So Fuller can spout more lies and gain more audience sympathy? Noel and I can’t look like bullies—you already did more than enough of that. I don’t want to give Fuller’s testimony credence by acknowledging it.”

The Garcia and Fuller Show went on for another hour, Garcia gently asking questions, Fuller striving for a Tony Award. He managed to produce more tears than an entire season of All My Children.

When the judge broke for lunch, Libby and I hauled tail across the street to Cook County jail.

Rushlo was being held in Division 2, a medium security facility. Dorm living, fifty cots to a room, no barred cells. For a man as private as Derrick, I could guess the effect this had on him.

Rushlo’s lawyer, Gary Pludenza, met us at the first security checkpoint. He apparently hadn’t been able to slough off Rushlo on other counsel.

Libby shook his hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pludenza. We’ve got a new deal for your cousin.”

“What’s the deal?”

“We have suspicions he’s been covering up for Fuller longer than we thought. We want names.”

“He won’t turn on Fuller. He’s made that clear to me several times. He’s terrified of him.”

“We realize that. We think he will.”

“I don’t see how. I’ve begged him, and I can’t get through to the guy. He won’t even acknowledge me.”

“Maybe if you closed your eyes and played dead?” Libby suggested.

Pludenza frowned. “Can we get this over with, please? I have to be at the Daley Center in two hours for a bankruptcy hearing.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah, well, we all can’t be characters in a Grisham novel.”

Through the metal detector, through the security doors, and into the heart of Division 2. Two guards accompanied us, regulation rather than protection. This section of the prison was for nonviolent offenders. Still, Libby and I got a few obscene catcalls from the male population.

Well, Libby did. I convinced myself it was her suit. Even criminals appreciated fashion sense.

We located Rushlo in the rec room, sitting at a steel table, reading a dog-eared People magazine. When he saw us, he freaked out.

“I’m not saying anything.” He jumped to his feet, head jerking this way and that, searching for an escape route. His cousin put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed.

“It’s okay, Derrick. They’re coming here with an offer. Hear them out.”

“I don’t want their offer. They tricked me before.”

I sat down, smiled easily. “You don’t have a choice, Derrick.”

Rushlo stared at me. Well, one eye did.

“I’m not talking.”

“You don’t have to.” Libby handed him some papers.

“What are these?”

Pludenza looked them over, then broke into a big grin.

“They’re dropping the charges, Derrick. You’re free.”

Rushlo turned a pasty shade of white.

“No . . .”

“I’ll have you out of here by this evening.”

“No . . . you can’t let me out.”

Libby winked at him. “We can, and we just did. Good timing too. Your buddy’s trial is almost over. You guys can have a nice little reunion.”

Rushlo began to whimper. I put my hand on his forearm, hiding my revulsion.

“I’d watch your step, Derrick. Fuller is kind of annoyed you didn’t cremate the body of Eileen Hutton. I think he’ll want to speak to you about that.”

Rushlo went from pale white to bright pink. I thought he was going to pop.

“You have to protect me!”

“We’d like to help you, Derrick, but you haven’t helped us at all.”

I nodded to Libby, and we stood up.

“Please, help me!”

“We can put you into the witness protection program, Derrick. Change your name, hide you someplace. Or, if Fuller stays in jail, you’ll never have him to worry about again. Either way, you have to help us before we help you.”

His whole body began to shake.

“I . . . I can’t!”

“Have a nice life, Derrick. For as long as it lasts.”

We walked away.

“Please! PLEASE!”

Libby and I made it back to the courthouse with enough time to indulge in a vending machine lunch.

“Think he’ll crack?” she asked, her mouth around a triangularly cut cheese sandwich.

“I was going to ask you the same thing. I think so. The question is: Will he crack in time?”

“Closing arguments should only take a day. But even if the jury is deliberating, I can motion Judge Taylor to allow a surprise witness, and she can call them back into court. Rushlo’s got to come clean before they reach a verdict. If Fuller gets off, we can’t retry him. Double jeopardy.”

I had a bite of tuna on wheat. Soggy.

“Can you filibuster?”

“This isn’t Congress, Jack. If I try stalling, Taylor will jump all over me.”

“How about trying for some kind of extension or continuance?”

“I’ve tried, several times. Taylor kept reminding me we had three months to prepare. She’ll allow last-minute evidence, but won’t postpone the trial so we can get it.”

Libby ate more of her sandwich, and then glanced at her watch. A Movado, with diamonds around the bezel.

“Gotta get back to court. You didn’t like your sandwich?”

“It tastes like wet paper towels.”

Libby raised an eyebrow.

“You okay? Seem kind of off today.”

“Got a lot on my mind.”

“No kidding. Hey, all’s not lost yet. Rushlo might still spill.”

Everyone filed back into the courtroom, but didn’t stay long. Libby’s cross-examination of Fuller was a study in brevity.

“Mr. Fuller, I understand you were in the drama club at Southern Illinois University. What plays did you perform there?”

“I did Death of a Salesman, Merchant of Venice, and Waiting for Godot.”

“I bet you were excellent.” Libby sat down. “No further questions.”

Judge Taylor adjourned for the day, with closings to begin tomorrow.

When I got back to my office, Benedict was nowhere to be found. We hadn’t spoken since yesterday, and I didn’t like any bad blood between us. I called his cell.

“Where are you?”

“I’m meeting with my lawyer.”

“Can it wait? The trial is going to end any day now, and we have to finish cross-reffing these missing persons.”

“No, it can’t wait. Some of us haven’t gotten a day off in the past three months.”

I bit back my response, and hung up. I’d told him to file for reassignment out of anger, but now I was thinking it might be a good idea. I didn’t like the person Herb had become.

I tackled the project solo. Ruled out some names. Followed a few leads to nowhere. Cleared a small section of paperwork off of my floor.

By dinnertime I had a headache. I called home and spoke to Alan, who was getting together with some old friends over at Mirabell’s, a German place on Addison. Did I want to come?

I didn’t feel very social, but I agreed because I’d blown off Alan for the past few nights. Maybe being around company would help get me out of my funk.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

CHAPTER 40

“Hi, Jack.” Alan had been waiting in the bar, and gave me a hug when I entered the German place. He looked good, in black slacks and a gray cardigan. When I pecked him on the cheek I could tell he’d just shaved.

“I’m not in the best of moods,” I said.

“It’ll be fun.” He took my coat and led me through the restaurant. “This is an old friend of yours.”

“What old friend?” Then I saw.

Harry McGlade winked at me from his seat. He wore the standard Harry outfit: a wrinkled brown suit and a stained tie.

“Hiya, Jackie. This is my new squeeze, Nora.”

“It’s Dora.” Dora was half McGlade’s age, blonde with a streak of pink in her bangs, and the blouse she wore would have been tight on a Barbie doll.

“Yeah, Dora. Sorry, honey.”

“Harry called earlier.” Alan beamed like a schoolboy after his first kiss. “He wanted to thank you for something. Since you’ve been in a funk lately, I thought it would be nice if he thanked you in person. He’s the guy who was in that made-for-TV movie with you, right? I mean, his character and your character?”

“Yeah.” I tried to sound upbeat and enthusiastic. I failed.

Harry didn’t have to fake it. “I just got my PI license in the mail this morning. The Illinois Department of Regulations takes their time, but you made good on your word, Jackie. Dinner is on me.”

“Great.” That sounded even worse.

The waitress came by, a woman in her sixties dressed in a dirndl. Her English was heavily accented with German. She made the mistake of starting with Harry.

“Something to drink, sir?”

“Got any German beer?”

“We’ve got the largest selection of imported beer in Chicagoland.”

“How about Schlitzkreig?” asked Harry.

“We don’t have that.”

“Krautweiser?”

She shook her head.

“He’ll have a Beck’s,” I told the waitress. “And so will I.”

“Make it three.” Alan held up three fingers.

“Diet cola with an orange slice, a lemon slice, a lime slice, and a cherry,” Dora said.

“Why not just order a fruit salad?” asked Harry.

Dora giggled. I shot Alan a pained look, but his nose was buried in the menu and he didn’t see it. I suppose I couldn’t blame the guy. Alan didn’t know Harry, and I’d never had any reason to mention him.

“Would you like an appetizer?”

“Swastikabobs.” This from McGlade, naturally.

“We do not have shish kebab.”

Harry shook his head. “No, I said—”

“We’ll think it over,” I interrupted. The poor waitress loped off.

Alan set the menu down. “I’m going with the wiener schnitzel.”

“What’s that?” Dora asked in a forced-cutesy way.

“It’s veal.”

“What’s that? Like pork?”

“It’s a baby cow.” Harry pinched her cheek. “You’re so adorable.”

Dora’s face bunched up. “You’re ordering a baby cow wiener?”

“Wiener is German for veal,” Alan explained.

“Wanna see my veal?” Harry winked.

Where was that beer?

It came, eventually, and I ordered a second one before taking a sip. If you’re stuck in hell, you might as well roast some marshmallows.

Conversation, if it could be called that, centered around McGlade and the various cases he’d been involved in. Dora remained glued to every word. Alan laughed politely when it was called for. I drank.

The food was wonderful, and I had to give Alan credit; he did manage to make me forget about Fuller for a few hours.

“What’s the deal with the Fuller trial, Jackie?”

So much for that.

“The deal is, he’s going to get off, unless his partner confesses or we locate a runaway prison guard.”

“You gotta find someone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We’ve got every cop in Illinois, plus Feds, looking for him. What could you do, McGlade?”

“I happen to be a world-famous private investigator, Jackie. And what do I do, Dora?”

She giggled. “You investigate privates.”

“Indeed. And I also find people. Gimme the rundown.”

The beer had loosened my tongue a tad, so I gave Harry the scoop.

“You got the file?”

“In the car.”

“I’d be happy to assist you in this instance. And in return, I only ask a small favor.”

“I don’t think I can handle any more favors, McGlade.”

“This one is easy.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you when I catch the guard.” McGlade winked at me.

Dessert was black forest cake and incredibly strong coffee. Harry made good on his word and picked up the check. Alan tried to reach for it, but I gave him a vicious pinch underneath the table to squelch that idea.

Afterward, McGlade invited us back to his place for a nightcap. Alan got another pinch as a warning, and he made up a nice excuse about having to get home early.

McGlade got the file, Dora gave me a hug good night, and we went our separate ways.

“I’m getting the impression that Harry isn’t your favorite person.” Alan grinned at me when we got into the car.

“You picked up on the subtle nonverbal clues?”

“That, and all night you kept muttering ‘idiot’ under your breath.”

“Was I right?”

Alan laughed. “You were right. He’s a character, though. Think he’ll find that guard guy?”

“He couldn’t find snow in Alaska.”

Alan put his hand on the back of my neck. Rubbed.

“You haven’t been yourself lately. You okay?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that. I’m a little tense, that’s all.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I’m fighting with Herb. We’re losing this case. I walked in on Mom and Mr. Griffin.”

Alan laughed. “You did too? He’s spunky, for an old guy.”

“Spunky? The man’s a jackrabbit. He’s going to break Mom’s other hip.”

“Anything else bugging you?”

There was an implied, anything with us?

I told him no, but that wasn’t true. There was a problem with us. Every time I got home from work, I half-wondered if Alan would still be there. He left me once. He could do it again. So to protect myself, I was holding back.

I had to. Until I was sure.

“I’m glad.” Alan moved his hand from my neck to my leg.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Oh, I may not be Jackrabbit Griffin, but I think I can finish okay.”

And when we got back to my place, he proved that he could.

CHAPTER 41

The call came at four in the morning.

“I got him.”

I tried to open my eyes, but the Ambien wouldn’t let me.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Harry. Duh.”

“What do you want, McGlade?”

“The bull. The guard. I got him.”

That got my eyes open.

“You’re kidding.”

“Why would I kid?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the lobby of the Four Seasons. He’s in room 3604, under the name John Smith. Real creative, huh?”

I shook my head, tried to get my thoughts clear.

“How’d you find him?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Bring a warrant.”

Judge Taylor wasn’t happy about being woken up in the middle of the night, but because she knew the immediacy of the situation, she understood. I stopped by her place on Cumberland, and then went to the hotel.

McGlade greeted me at the entrance with a canary-eating grin.

“How the hell did you manage this?”

“I told you. I’m a world-famous private investigator.”

“Spill.”

“Well, I knew you guys would have checked the airports, bus terminals, and train stations, and since the guy didn’t have a car, I figured he’d still be in the city. You froze his accounts, so he couldn’t use his credit cards. That meant he had to pay with cash. So I touched base with some of my friends at a few dozen local hotels, asking if anyone checked in lately paying in cash. Got a hit here, and confirmed it when the doorman saw the picture.”

“Harry, I gotta admit it, I’m amazed.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I amaze myself. You ready to crack some skulls, partner?”

I nodded. We entered the building, all crystal chandeliers and polished marble, and I hit the button for the lobby.

“So, you owe me a favor, right?”

“Anything you want, Harry, as long as it doesn’t involve either of us getting naked.”

“You wish. You remember my movie? Fatal Autonomy?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, I’m talking with the producer, and he’s considering turning it into a series.”

“That blows my mind.”

“Mine too. One of the Baldwin brothers is going to play me this time. They want to get that fat actress who played you to reprise her role. There’s a little matter of permission, though.”

My good mood lost a smidgen of goodness.

“Please, Jack? I found this guy for you, right? You owe me one. They love your character, and don’t want to do a series without her.”

I sighed. “Fine.”

McGlade opened his arms to hug me, but I advised him against it.

The elevator spit us out on the seventh floor. We passed a table stacked high with cut flowers, and made our way to the second set of elevators. McGlade pressed the number 36.

“Nice hotel.” He tapped the marble-inlaid floor with his shoe. “Reminds me of a HoJo I stayed at in Jersey.”

When the elevator stopped, we found the room without difficulty.

“Mr. Rohmer! Chicago Police Department. Open up. We have a warrant.”

No answer.

“Mr. Rohmer! Open the door, sir!”

Nothing.

“I’ll get a manager.” Harry trotted off. I continued knocking for another five minutes, before a desk clerk came over, smiling nervously.

“We’d like to keep this as quiet as possible, so as not to disturb the other guests.”

“Sure. Just open up.”

He opened it. I went in first, gun in hand. The room was dark, but I noticed two things immediately.

First, the television was on, playing the kind of movie that men watch when they’re alone.

Second, Mr. Rohmer was on top of the bed, naked and grasping his veal. He was also quite dead.

“You could try mouth-to-mouth,” Harry suggested. “He’d probably like that.”

I might have tried, too, but I’d been around enough corpses to know he’d been dead for at least an hour.

Harry shook his head. “And they say pornography is harmless.”

I turned off the TV, cursing bad luck, fate, and timing in the same breath.

“Oh, dear.” The manager made worried mother-hen noises. “We can’t let this get out.”

“It’ll make a good headline.” Harry put his arm around the clerk’s shoulders. “Crooked Department of Corrections Employee Wanks Himself to Death at Four Seasons.”

“Oh, dear.”

“At least he died happy.”

I called it in, then flipped on the lights and spent ten minutes tearing the room apart. I found a few grand in cash, and nothing else.

“Get anything?” I asked McGlade.

“Just an almost new bottle of baby oil.”

“No tape?”

“No tape. It’s not here, unless he’s hiding it in a body cavity. I’ll roll him over if you wanna check.”

I rubbed my eyes. Cops came, and paramedics.

“Probably a heart attack or a stroke,” said a uniform.

“More like a lot of strokes,” Harry said.

My cell rang. I went into the hallway to answer.

“Daniels.”

“Lieutenant? This is Gary Pludenza, Derrick Rushlo’s lawyer. Derrick would like to talk.”

“I won’t testify!” Rushlo screamed in the background.

“We need him to testify, Mr. Pludenza.”

“He won’t do it, but I think he might be able to help you anyway. Can you come here?”

“Where are you?”

He gave me his address, a house in the suburb of Naperville.

“How soon can you get here?”

“Gimme an hour.”

I hung up, heading for the elevator. McGlade nipped at my heels.

“You’re still going to sign the permission form, right? Jackie? I’ll be by in a couple of days, okay? Sorry this didn’t work out for you—”

The elevator doors closed, saving me from further pestering.

I took Delaware to Congress, and hopped on 290 heading west. Rush hour was in full effect, and the stop-and-go traffic was a perfect setting for inducing a panic attack. My heart rate doubled, my palms became slick, and I chewed on the inside of my cheek while my brain kept sending me still pictures, like a slide show, of every mistake I’d ever made over my whole life.

By the time I made it to Naperville, I was a wreck.

Pludenza’s house reeked of money. It sat in a cul-de-sac in a ritzy development, two stories high with four alabaster Doric columns supporting the roof overhang. The doorbell was hooked up to real bells.

“Thanks for coming, Lieutenant.” Pludenza looked about as agitated as I felt. He led me through a grand foyer, my short heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.

“Bankruptcies seem to be on the rise.”

“Hmm? Oh. My wife comes from money. It’s like living in the Taj Mahal. Derrick is in the den.”

The den was an expansive room with vaulted ceilings, black leather furniture, and a beautiful Prairie Wind pool table in colonial maple.

Derrick sat in an armchair, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Is he out yet?” he asked.

“Soon. Closing arguments are today. If you want to keep him locked up, you have to testify.”

His head shook violently.

“No. No testifying.”

“Then he’s going to get out, Derrick. And then he’ll come for you. He was a cop. He knows how to find people.”

Derrick began to hum, off-tune.

“Did you want something to drink, Lieutenant?”

I asked Pludenza for some coffee, and sat across from Rushlo.

“Derrick, we need to keep him in jail. Do you understand that?”

He nodded.

“I know that you’re scared. We can keep you safe. I promise. But you need to help us make sure he doesn’t get out.”

He nodded again.

“Tell me about Southern Illinois.”

His good eye locked on me.

“You know about Southern?”

“I know about you getting kicked out. I know that’s where you met Fuller. I know about the body you stole.”

“I took her out into the woods, where no one would see. He followed me and watched.”

I ventured a guess. “Fuller turned you in.”

Rushlo looked at me like I’d just grown donkey ears.

“Barry didn’t turn me in. He was the one that told me to do it. He understood.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He came up to me, after class. Wanted me to get him and some of his fraternity buddies into the morgue. For hazing week.”

“Did you let them?”

“No. I would have gotten kicked out of school. But for fun, I let them see my embalming book. The guys were making jokes, acting tough, because they didn’t want to admit being grossed out. But Barry was different. He seemed . . .”

“Interested?”

“More like aroused. Not by the embalming pages. By the reconstruction pages. He liked the trauma pictures. Extreme disfigurement. Stuff like that. So a week later, he came by again, alone. We got to talking. We have a lot in common, you know.”

Yeah, I thought. You’re both psychotic perverts.

“Were you helping Barry with disposals while in college?”

“No. That didn’t happen until I had to leave. During my internship, at the funeral home in Champaign-Urbana. We stayed in touch, and one day he calls me up and says, ‘Do you want a fresh one?’”

“A fresh corpse?”

“Yeah. He was still down at Southern. He told me she was untraceable, and he needed my help to get rid of her.”

“This was someone he’d killed?”

“Yeah. So I drove down to Southern to pick her up. He’d bloodied her up pretty good, but she was still warm.”

Derrick got a faraway look in his one eye; the other one always had a faraway look.

“You buried her in a closed casket with another body.”

He fixed both eyes on me, a first for him. “How did you know that?”

“Do you remember the names, Derrick?”

“The girl’s name was Melody. Such a pretty girl.”

“Melody Stephanopoulos?”

He nodded.

“How about the name of the person you buried her with?”

“Last name was Hernandez, I remember that. Skinny guy. Tongue cancer. Most of his jaw was gone. I put them both in the same coffin, planted them in Greenview Cemetery. It was a beautiful ceremony. Lots of flowers.”

I took out a pad and scribbled all of this down.

“How many others were there?”

“Kantner’s Funeral Home in Urbana didn’t have a crematorium. When I got a job in Chicago, it was much safer. I would still do an occasional two-for-one special, though, if I could get away with it. Cremation is such a waste. You might not believe this, but I think death is sacred. A funeral is a sacred ritual. I think everyone should have a wake, even if it isn’t your family kneeling at the casket.”

“How many, Derrick?”

“There were about eighteen women, total, over the last fifteen years. I buried nine of them.”

“You have names?”

He smiled shyly.

“Of course. I remember them all. Each and every one of them.”

“What if you didn’t have to testify? What if you just made a statement?”

That flipped the switch in Rushlo. “I won’t testify! You can’t make me testify!”

“Easy, Derrick. Calm down.”

“I won’t do it!”

“But you wouldn’t have to go to court. You could just . . .”

“I love him.”

Pludenza chose that moment to return with the coffee. He handed me a cup and saucer, a wince etched into his face.

“Derrick”—I tried to sound soothing—“Barry wants to kill you.”

“I can’t betray him like that. He understands me. He’s the only one that understands me. But I don’t need to make a statement. You can prove Barry killed those women.”

“How?”

“He likes to bite. All of the girls I buried had bite marks on them.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

That would be enough. If we exhumed Hernandez and found Stephanopoulos in the casket, with Fuller’s teeth marks on the corpse, he’d have to stand trial in Carbondale. And since this was years ago, he wouldn’t be able to use the tumor insanity defense.

I set down the coffee without taking a sip, and dug out my cell. Derrick grabbed my pants leg.

“You have to help me.”

“I’ll send some guards over to watch the house.”

“How about the witness program? Where they give people new names?”

I punched in Libby’s number. “If Fuller gets out, that’s a possibility.”

“Can they set me up at another funeral home?”

“We dropped charges against you, Derrick, but I really don’t think the FTC, IDPR, or OSHA is going to let you practice again.”

He began to cry. I thanked Pludenza and left Libby a voice mail on the way to my car. Then I called Herb.

“What?”

“Look, Herb, we can deal with our squabble later. I’m driving down to Carbondale and I need you to run interference for me.”

“Tell me.”

I filled him in, and he agreed to set the wheels in motion.

Southern Illinois University was a five-hour drive.

I hopped back on the expressway, my car pointed south.

CHAPTER 42

I was sixty miles away from Carbondale when Libby called.

“The jury’s out.”

“How was your closing?”

“Not as good as Garcia’s.” I could picture Libby frowning. “If I were on that jury, I’d vote not guilty.”

“If that happens, we need to keep tabs on Fuller until we can get an arrest warrant from Carbondale.”

“What’re the chances of that?”

“If Rushlo wasn’t lying, chances are good.”

“Keep me posted.”

“You too.”

I met the Carbondale chief of police, Shelby Duncan, at Greenville Cemetery forty minutes later. With him were a woman from the Health Department, the county coroner, the assistant director of the cemetery, and several workers.

Herb had made good on his word; the permits were in order, and everyone who needed to be there was there.

The day was cold and miserable, befitting a disinterment. We huddled together, hands in pockets and shoulders scrunched, while the guy operating the backhoe repeatedly dipped the big yellow shovel into the Hernandez plot.

After an hour, he struck concrete. The vault. Illinois cemeteries required all coffins to be placed in a burial vault or grave box. That prevented the earth from collapsing the casket, which would leave the cemetery pockmarked with hundreds of obvious indentations.

Two men in overalls went down the hole to widen the edges, and large spikes with eyeholes were driven into the vault cover. They secured ropes, and the backhoe lifted the section of concrete out of the grave. Straps were then attached to the coffin, and it was brought to the surface and gently placed next to the vault top.

The coroner, a thin reed of a man named Russell Thompkins, brushed off some dirt at the foot of the casket, then fit a special hex key into a small opening. He cranked it, counterclockwise, and the rubber seal broke, releasing a powerful hiss of putrid air that I could smell from ten feet away.

The casket unlocked, Thompkins lifted open the head and squinted inside.

“Two bodies.” He pinched the nostrils of his pointy nose with long, slender fingers. “A man and a woman.”

“Is that enough?” I asked Chief Duncan. Duncan looked like a stouter version of John Wayne, and must have known it, hence the plaid flannel shirt and cowboy boots.

“It’s a damn good start. We need to establish that it’s Melody Stephanopoulos, and that your Barry Fuller was involved in her death.”

“Did you bring her dental records?”

“Yeah.”

“How about the faxes of the bite marks?”

“I’ve got it all in the car.”

I accompanied him to his vehicle, and took what I needed up to the casket.

“We need to find bite marks, ones that match these.” I showed Thompkins the papers. He nodded, slipped on some latex gloves, and got to work.

I took out a pair of my own, from the deep pockets of my blazer, and looked into the casket for the first time.

Julio Hernandez occupied the left-hand side. He was skeletal-thin, swimming in the oversized brown suit he wore. His facial features were sunken, recessed, and he had no lower jaw—cancer, Rushlo had mentioned. His mouth and throat were packed with rotten cotton batting.

The smell was so bad I had to take breaths from over my shoulder. Even the best embalming job couldn’t prevent decay, and the bacteria had eaten well for years before they too ran out of nourishment and rotted away.

Melody proved to be in much worse shape than Hernandez. She wore no clothing, and her flesh had a light gray cast. The atrocities committed upon her stood out in bas-relief black: a jagged tear across her throat, slits forming X-marks over each breast, a deep gash running from her pubis to her belly button. And dozens of dark, round sores, covering her head to toe like polka dots.

Bites.

The major wounds had been sewn up, the stitches expertly done, though hardly cosmetic. Rushlo’s postmortem work.

The coroner snapped pictures, and I borrowed his scalpel and forced it between Melody’s cold, dry lips, cutting the mortician’s glue that sealed them shut. The blade clicked against teeth. I pried her lips apart and found the suture, looping under her lower gums and up through her septum. I severed the ligature, and attempted to open the mouth.

The mouth didn’t comply.

Using the scalpel’s handle as a lever, I pried open her mouth until I could get two fingers inside. It took considerable force, and felt like I was being bitten, but I managed to stretch her jaws wide enough to get a penlight inside.

There was a gold crown on her back molar, on the upper left side.

The crown matched the one on Melody’s dental records.

The records also showed a filling on the upper right canine, and I easily found that with the light.

“It’s Melody.”

“Russell?” the chief asked the coroner.

“Too hard to tell. There’s a lot of decay.”

“I’ll settle for your best guess.”

“It’s possible they’re from the same man. I’d need more time, proper equipment, to know for sure.”

My cell rang. Libby. I picked up.

“Verdict came in. They didn’t take long to free the bastard.”

“Hold on a second, Libby.” I turned to the coroner. “Is there anything you notice that can prove our guy did this?”

Russell took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.

“Actually, there is something pretty incriminating. See these two bites here, on her inner thighs? There are bite marks in the pictures you gave me, in the exact same places.”

Chief Shelby unhooked the radio from his belt. “That’s enough for me. I’m calling Judge Dorchester.”

“You’re getting an arrest warrant?”

“Yes, ma’am, we are.”

“Libby,” I said into the phone, “don’t let Fuller leave the building. Find a cop and arrest him.”

“You’ve got a warrant?”

“Yes. He’s being charged with the murder of Melody Stephanopoulos.”

“Gladly. Nice work, Jack.”

Chief Shelby walked away, barking into his radio, and I stripped off my gloves and headed back to my car.

I wanted to be relieved, but I only felt empty. Empty and tired. The cop part of me would have liked to be there, to see Fuller’s face when he got arrested. But mostly I just wanted to put all of this death, this ugliness, behind me.

“Nice work, Lieutenant.” Shelby came over, offered his hand. “We’ll get started on these other names right away. Looks like you’ve closed a lot of cases for us today.”

“I don’t envy you the media circus you’ll soon have.”

“We’ll manage. We’re a tough little town. Anyway, thanks for your help. You interested in some supper? Wife’s a helluva cook.”

“Thanks, Chief, but I have to head home.”

The ride back to Chicago was the loneliest five hours of my life.

CHAPTER 43

Melody Stephanopoulos. Barry hasn’t heard that name in a long time, but he remembers her.

You never forget your first.

He wonders how they found her. Rushlo, probably. It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.

Barry tries to scratch his chin, but the chain isn’t long enough; his handcuffs are attached to his ankle restraints.

“I’ve got an itch on my chin. Can you help out?”

The uniform seated to his right, a cop named Stephen Robertson whom he’d worked with out of the 2-6, scratches his chin for him. Fuller sighs.

“Thanks, man.”

The squad car is making good time down Route 57. No lights or sirens, but speeding nonetheless. Fuller can guess how anxious they are to get rid of him. Cops don’t like it when one of their own goes bad. It hits a little too close to home.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Fuller says to the driver, a Statie named Corlis. He has on a snap brim hat and reflector shades, even though dusk has come and gone.

“Hold it in.”

“C’mon, gimme a break. I was in court all morning, got declared not guilty, and I’m free for two minutes and the cuffs get slapped on me again. It’s been a real bad day, and I really need to take a shit.”

“I’m sure Carbondale has johns. You can go there.”

“I won’t make it. There’s a rest area coming up in a few miles. Please.”

Corlis doesn’t answer. Fuller clenches his sphincter, audibly passes gas.

“Jesus, Barry.” Robertson fans the air in front of his nose. “That’s disgusting.”

Fuller shrugs, trying to look innocent. “Prison food. Not my fault.”

“Stop at the rest area,” Robertson says to Corlis.

“No stops.”

“You can either stop, or trade places with me back here.”

“I really have to go.” Fuller puts on a million-dollar grin. “I’ll be quick.”

Corlis glances at his partner in the passenger seat, another state trooper named Hearns. Hearns shrugs.

Corlis flips on his signal, and turns into the rest area.

Route 57 is a divided highway, the lanes separated by thirty yards in stretches. This oasis sits between the north and south lanes, serving travelers going in either direction.

Perfect, Fuller thinks.

“Does anyone have change for the vending machine? I haven’t had any junk food in three months.”

No one answers. Fuller nudges Robertson.

“You got a buck? I’m good for it.”

Robertson rolls his eyes, fishes a dollar out of his pants.

“Thanks, man.”

The car stops, and Fuller’s door is opened. He steps out, tries to stretch, but the shackles prevent it.

Hearns takes off his ankle irons. Fuller thrusts his wrists forward, but Hearns shakes his head.

“How am I supposed to wipe my ass with cuffs on?”

“You know procedure. I should cuff you from behind. That would make it even harder.”

“Maybe Robertson will help you,” Hearns says.

Snickering from Hearns and Corlis. Fuller chuckles too, and takes a quick look around. They’ve parked away from the other vehicles: four cars, plus two semis. On the other side of the rest area, the side servicing cars going north, there are three more cars and another truck.

Fuller guesses there are between ten and twenty people here, all taking potty breaks.

Corlis stays with the car, and Robertson and Hearns escort Fuller up the sidewalk to the building. It’s typical of rest areas in Illinois—a Prairie-style ranch, brown with oversized glare-reducing windows, surrounded by a copse of firs. This one has a large roof, giving it the appearance of a toadstool.

In the lobby sits a large, illuminated map of Illinois, a brochure rack filled with tourist attractions, and the requisite vending equipment. Fuller pauses in front of a soda machine, feeds in his dollar, and selects an Orange Crush.

Robertson and Hearns herd him into the men’s room. Fuller notes two little boys at the urinals, a black guy washing his hands, and a bald man adjusting his comb-over in the stained mirror. It smells of urine and pine disinfectant. The tile floor is wet from people tracking in rainwater.

Fuller goes into the nearest stall and closes the door, latching it behind him. He sits on the toilet seat with his pants still on, and removes his leather loafer and his white athletic sock. His shoe goes back on, sockless. He places the can of Crush into the sock and pushes it down to the toe. Holding the sock firmly by the open end, he stands and takes a deep breath.

Time slows. Fuller can feel his vision sharpen. Whole encyclopedias of sensory input bombard him; the sound of a toilet flushing, Hearns talking to Robertson about football, the two boys giggling, his bare toes rubbing against the inside of his shoe, the weight of the sock in his hand, the throbbing in his temples . . .

Throbbing that is about to stop.

He opens the door and sights Hearns, swinging the can at the trooper’s right temple, putting his weight into it.

The Crush can explodes on impact, and there’s a burst of orange soda and red blood that hangs in the air a millisecond after Hearns hits the floor.

Robertson reaches for his gun, but Fuller brings his large fists together and clubs him across the jaw, bouncing him off of the sink counter.

He kneels next to Hearns, and pushes the button on his safety holster to release the Colt Series 70, a .45 with seven in the clip and one in the chamber.

The first one goes into the back of Hearns’s head.

A scream; the two little boys. Fuller winks at them. The comb-over guy scrambles for the door, and gets one in the back. The black guy is backing up into the corner, his hands over his head.

“I’m cool, man. I’m cool.”

“Not anymore.” Fuller shoots him twice in the face.

Robertson is on the ground, moaning, slapping at his holster in a most comical way.

“Thanks for the dollar,” Fuller tells him, arm extending. “I guess I won’t have to pay you back after all.”

He ends Robertson with a cap to the dome, and it’s the messiest one yet. He takes Robertson’s gun, a Sig Sauer 9mm, and his wallet and badge. Then he goes back to Hearns and locates the handcuff keys in the trooper’s breast pocket. He removes the cuffs, and also takes the trooper’s badge and wallet; it will take longer to ID the body and sort out what happened.

Crying, to the left. Fuller swings the gun around.

The two little boys are hugging each other, hysterical.

Fuller smiles at them. “You kids stay out of trouble, you hear?”

They both nod so eagerly Fuller laughs. The pain in his head is a memory, the adrenaline pounding through his veins makes him feel like he’s woken up after a very long slumber.

He steps out into the lobby. Two people stare at him, a man and a woman. As expected, people don’t tend to believe violence when it happens around them. They had probably been asking each other, “Were those gunshots?” “No, they couldn’t be.”

Wrong.

He squeezes off three rounds. One catches the man in the chest, one hits the woman in the neck, and the last flies between them and finds the tinted glass window, punching through with a spiderweb of cracks.

Fuller drops the Colt, checks the Sig. It’s a P229, chambered for 9mm. Thirteen-round clip, plus one in the throat. He thumbs off the safety and walks into the women’s bathroom.

Empty, except for a stall. An elderly woman opens the door.

“You’re in the wrong bathroom.”

“Nope.” Fuller grins. “You are.”

The Sig has a lighter recoil than the Colt, and the results aren’t as messy.

Fuller turns back to the door and eases it open a crack. Corlis bursts into the lobby, his .45 clutched in a two-handed grip.

Unfortunately for him, he’s looking in the direction of the men’s room, rather than behind him.

Fuller gives him four in the back. Corlis sprawls onto his face, arms and legs splayed out like a dog on ice. He’s still clutching the gun in his right hand, but Fuller is on him in four steps and he stomps hard on Corlis’s wrist. The hand opens, and Fuller shoves the Colt into the front of his pants.

He kneels next to Corlis and speaks above the man’s whimpering.

“Thanks for stopping, buddy. I appreciate it.”

At this close range, the Sig does quite a job on the trooper’s crew cut.

Minding the blood, Fuller takes the wallet and badge, and exits through the opposite doors, the side where the cars are going north. The semi is still there, parked off to the side. Fuller walks over, then uses the side bar to hoist himself onto the running board. He peers into the cab.

The driver is at the wheel, eyes closed and snoring pleasantly. The guy is white, mid-forties, and his brown hair is cut into a mullet.

Haven’t seen one of those in a while, Fuller thinks.

He holds up Robertson’s badge and taps on the window. The guy wakes up, startled.

“What’s going on, Officer?”

“Please step out of the vehicle, sir.”

“What’s going on?”

“I need you to step out of the vehicle, please.”

The man complies. He’s awake now, and copping an attitude. “What’s the problem?”

“No problem. I didn’t want to get your blood in my new truck.”

Two in the chest, and Fuller takes the man’s keys and wallet, hops into the driver’s seat, and starts the engine.

He figures he has a twenty-minute lead. That will be enough to get him to Interstate 80, and from there, he can take back roads and side streets.

Fuller flips on the CB, and switches it to the police frequency. Standard chatter, no mention yet of his little dalliance.

He yanks the Colt out of his pants and sets it on the passenger seat. The Sig he keeps on the dashboard. Fuller pulls out onto the highway.

He’s two miles away from I-80 when the news breaks. Fuller picks up the mike.

“This is car 6620. Suspect is an African American male, five feet ten inches tall, in his mid-thirties, driving a brown sedan. He was last seen heading south on Route 57. Over.”

“Car 6620, what’s your position?”

Fuller smiles, doesn’t answer. That will keep them confused for a few more minutes. He merges onto I-80, squad cars screaming past him. A large green sign reads: CHICAGO 40 MILES.

“Ready or not, Jack. Here I come.”

CHAPTER 44

“You’ve always been like this, since you were a little girl.”

Mom sat on the sofa with Mr. Griffin, who had fallen asleep sitting up, his head tilted back and his mouth open wide enough to drive a car into. She removed the half-finished drink from his hand—I guessed it to be a bloody Mary from the red color and the celery stick—and raised it to her own lips.

“Been like what?” I asked.

“Been moody, when you should be happy. Remember when you won your first medal in tae kwon do?”

“No.”

“You won it for sparring. You must have been eleven or twelve. I think you were eleven, because you were wearing pigtails and on your twelfth birthday you declared yourself a grown-up and that you’d never wear pigtails again.”

“Do all old people ramble on like you?”

Mom smiled at me. “We do. When you turn sixty, you get a license to ramble from the federal government.”

“Mine may come in the mail, in the time it takes you to finish this story.”

Mom sipped the drink and shuddered. “No wonder he’s asleep—he managed to fit a whole bottle of vodka into a ten-ounce glass. Now, what was I saying?”

“You were rambling about my tae kwon do competition.”

“You’ll miss my rambling someday. So anyway, there you were, with all the winners, and the grand master put the gold medal around your neck, just like he did with the others in the row. Every one of them was smiling. Every one of them, except for you.”

“I remember now.”

“You always tried too hard to win, but when you did, you never seemed happy.”

“That’s because I was thinking of the next match, and wondering if I’d win that.”

Mr. Friskers hopped onto the sofa and bumped his head into my mother’s thigh, demanding to be petted. She complied, eliciting a deep, throaty purr from the cat.

“You can’t let the uncertainty of tomorrow interfere with the joy of today, Jacqueline. May I offer a little bit of wisdom?”

“I thought that’s what you were doing.”

“You should be taking notes. This is the meaning of life I’m talking about.”

“I’m all ears, Mom.”

My mother took a deep breath, sat up straighter. “Life,” she said, “isn’t a race that can be won. The end of the race is the same for all of us—we die.”

She smiled at me.

“It’s not about winning the race, Jacqueline. It’s about how well you run.”

That sounded vaguely familiar.

“In other words, it’s not if you win or lose, but how you play the game?” I said.

“I prefer my analogy.”

“How about something simpler? Like, ‘Try to have fun’?”

“That works too.”

I pulled myself out of the rocking chair, destination: kitchen. Alan had his head in the fridge.

“My mom says I need to have fun.”

Alan looked at me. “I’ll agree with that.”

“So maybe we can go do something fun.”

“A movie?”

“I just saw two of them.”

“A few drinks?”

“That’s a possibility. What else?”

“Dancing?”

“Dancing? I haven’t been out dancing since kids were spinning on their heads on sheets of cardboard.”

Alan held my arms, drew me close.

“I was thinking something more adult. Something that involved moving slowly to old Motown classics.”

“I’ll get my shoes.”

I kissed Alan on the cheek and went back to the living room. Mom was trying, unsuccessfully, to get Mr. Griffin’s mouth to stay shut. Every time she eased it closed, it yawned back open.

“Alan and I are going out dancing.” I plopped on the sofa and slid on my flats.

“Good. Take your time. I may wake Sal up and do a little dancing of our own.”

I leaned over, reaching for my cell phone on the table.

“Leave it, Jacqueline.”

“My phone?”

“It’s a phone? I’m sorry—I thought it was a leash.”

I left the phone where it sat.

“Fine. See you in about two hours.”

“No sooner. You’re putting a cramp in my love life.”

I pecked her on the forehead. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you, Jacqueline. And I’m proud of you. I raised a pretty good daughter.”

“The apple never falls far from the tree. See you later.”

From the sofa, Mom waved me and Alan good-bye.

CHAPTER 45

Fuller ditches the truck on the West Side and takes a cab to Jack’s apartment. He pays with Robertson’s cash, and quickly cases the building.

No doorman. The security door is a joke for a guy his size—one solid kick from a size thirteen and the door opens with a bang.

He knows Jack’s apartment number. While in prison, he would recite her address over and over and over again. A mantra.

His patience is about to be rewarded.

Another kick. The apartment door buckles in.

Fuller, gun in hand, strolls into the living room and finds two old people on the couch, holding each other. He laughs.

“Were you just necking?”

The old man, eighty if he was a day, stands up with his fists bunched. Fuller ignores him, walking through the kitchen, finding the bedroom and bathroom empty.

“Get out of here, right now.”

The old man points a finger at him.

Fuller asks, once, “Where’s Jack?”

The man reaches for the phone.

Fuller hits him with the butt of the Sig, busting open the old guy’s head like a pin~ata. The fossil falls to the ground, twitching and bleeding out.

The old woman is still on the sofa, gnarled hands trying to work a cell phone. Fuller slaps it out of her hands.

“You must be Mom. Jack’s told me so much about you.”

The woman stares at him. Fuller sees fear. But he sees anger too. And a hardness that he’s never seen in prey before.

“You must be Barry. Jack has mentioned you as well. Still humping dead hookers?”

Fuller laughs, despite himself. Gutsy old bitch. He sits next to her. The sofa creaks with his weight.

“Where’s Jack?”

“You’re not only a disgrace to police officers everywhere, you’re a disgrace to the human race.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m a big disappointment to everybody. Now, where’s Jack?”

The mother sits up straighter.

“I spent half my life putting scum like you behind bars. I’m not telling you anything.”

“Tough talk. But you’ll tell me, sooner or later. I can be very convincing.”

“I doubt that, Barry. I’ve seen you play football. You’re a real candy-ass.”

He doesn’t use the gun—doesn’t need to. Her bones are old and brittle.

Snap! There goes an arm.

Snap! There goes a leg.

Fuller laughs. “Didn’t anyone tell you to take calcium supplements?”

He cuffs her across the face, feeling the cheek shatter.

The old woman’s face is wet with tears and blood, but she doesn’t make a sound. Not even when he grabs her broken arm and twists.

“Where’s Jack?”

The attack catches him off-guard. Something hits him in the face. Something soft, yet sharp.

Fuller cries out in surprise. There’s a yowling sound, and the thing attached to his face is digging at his left eye, scratching with needle-sharp claws.

A cat. Stuck tight.

Fuller grabs. Pulls.

Mistake. The cat holds on, and Fuller almost tears out his own eye.

He punches the cat. Once. Twice.

It drops off and limps away.

Fuller is in agony. The eyelid is rapidly swelling shut, his eye a hot coal burning in the socket.

Both hands pressed to his face, he stumbles through the apartment, finds the bathroom.

The Elephant Man stares back at him in the mirror. His left eye has puffed out to the size of a baseball.

Fuller lashes out, smashing his reflection with a meaty fist. He finds some gauze pads in the medicine cabinet, presses one to his face, and howls.

He needs a doctor. Without medical attention, he’ll lose the eye. And the pain—Jesus—the pain! He searches the bathroom and finds a bottle of ibuprofen. He takes ten.

What next? What to do next? A hospital? No. Can’t risk it. He needs a safe place. To heal. To plan.

Fuller hurries back through the kitchen, stepping over the mess left by the dead guy, and pauses briefly in the living room. Jack’s mother is lying facedown on the carpet. Dead? Possibly. No time to check. He speeds out the door, down the stairs, and onto the cold, wet streets of Chicago. After a frantic moment of wondering what to do, Fuller hails a taxi and knocks on the driver-side window. The driver rolls it down.

“You need a cab?”

The guy has an accent. Indian, maybe, or somewhere in the Middle East.

Fuller says nothing.

“You okay? You are bleeding.”

“You are too.”

He places the Sig against the man’s head and fires, causing quite a mess on the passenger side. Then Fuller opens the door, shoves the guy over, and hits the gas.

He stops the taxi under a bridge, searches the driver’s pockets. A cell phone. A wallet, with a few hundred bucks. A set of house keys.

Fuller checks the driver’s license. Chaten Patel, of 2160 N. Clybourn.

“Thanks for inviting me over, Mr. Patel. Do you live alone?”

Fuller pulls back into traffic.

“I suppose we’ll find out.”

CHAPTER 46

When I pulled onto my street and saw the flashing lights in front of my apartment, I knew. I threw the car into park, got out, and ran.

“Jack!” I faintly heard Alan call after me.

Herb was standing in the lobby. He saw me, and rushed over to hug.

“Jack, we thought he got you.”

“Fuller?” I managed.

“Killed three cops and a bunch of others, escaping.”

My eyes welled up.

“M-Mom?”

“They’re about to bring her down.”

“Dead?”

“No, but she’s in bad shape.”

I pulled out of Herb’s grasp, raced up the stairs.

Cops, paramedics, a crime scene unit. Pained looks from people I knew. A black body bag, on the floor of my kitchen.

My breath caught. I unzipped the bag.

Mr. Griffin, half of his head missing.

I pushed into the living room, saw the stretcher, watched some horribly beaten body being intubated.

“. . . oh no . . .”

I rushed to her side, unable to reconcile it in my head, unable to believe that this broken, bleeding thing was my mother.

Her hand was cool and limp. The paramedics pushed me away. I wanted to follow, wanted to go with her, but my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the floor.

Something brushed against my leg.

Mr. Friskers.

I grabbed the cat and held him tight and cried and cried and cried until nothing more came out.

CHAPTER 47

Doctors came and went, talking about Glasgow Scales and Rancho Los Amigos levels of cognitive functioning. I was too numb to pay attention. I only knew that Mom wouldn’t wake up.

Two days passed, or maybe it was three. People visited and stayed for a while and left. Alan. Herb. Libby. Captain Bains. Harry. Specialists and nurses and cops.

Guards were posted outside my door. I found this amusing. As if Fuller could possibly hurt me more than he already had.

Benedict kept me updated on the manhunt, but the news was always the same: no sign of Fuller.

“She’s probably going to die,” I said to Herb.

“We’ll get him.”

“Getting him won’t make her better.”

“I know. But what else can we do?”

“I should have been there.”

“Don’t play that game, Jack.”

“I should have killed Fuller when I had the chance.”

“This isn’t helping the situation.”

I got in Benedict’s face. “Nothing will help this situation! This is my mom, lying here. And she’s lying here because of me. Because of my job.”

“Jack . . .”

“To hell with it, Herb. To hell with all of it.”

My star was in my pocket. I held it out, made Benedict take it.

“Give this to Bains. I don’t want it anymore.”

“He won’t accept it, Jack.”

“He’ll have to.”

Benedict clutched my badge and got all teary-eyed on me.

“Dammit, Jack. You’re a good cop.”

“I wasn’t good enough.”

“Jack . . .”

“I’d like you to leave, Herb.” I watched my words register on his face. “And please don’t come back.”

CHAPTER 48

He watches Detective First Class Herb Benedict leave the hospital. Unlike Jack, Herb doesn’t have an armed escort.

Big mistake.

Herb climbs into his late model Camaro Z28, starts it up. Fuller starts the cab and follows Herb out of the parking lot, turning left onto Damen.

It’s nighttime, cold enough to need the defrosters. The cab smells like blood; Fuller never bothered to clean up after dispatching the hack. Normally it’s a smell he enjoys, but pain is playing tug of war in Fuller’s head, his injured eye and his unrelenting headache each vying for top honors.

The eye has gotten worse. It’s infected, there’s no doubt. Fuller can’t open the lid, and it’s leaking a milky, foul-smelling fluid.

Goddamn cat.

The throbbing in his head has returned with a vengeance too. It’s even worse than before the operation. Fuller wonders if the doctors really got all of the tumor out. Perhaps they’d left a teeny-tiny piece in his brain, and it keeps getting bigger and bigger every day, growing like a seed.

Benedict parks alongside the street, in front of a health food store. Fuller waits until he leaves the vehicle and enters the shop. Then he pulls into an alley.

Fuller doesn’t think Herb will be tough to handle, but he’s no geriatric, either. He has a plan to keep the cop under control.

Two days ago, Fuller shot a street corner dealer and relieved him of his stash. He scored a lot of reefer (which Fuller thought might help his eye but didn’t do a damn thing), a few grams of coke, and three balloons of black tar heroin, complete with works.

The heroin went down smooth. Fuller boiled the needle first and had no problem tapping a vein—it reminded him of his steroid days.

Blessed pain relief.

The last hit he took, a few hours ago, is wearing off. He has one syringe left, resting safely in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, a piece of cork on the tip.

He prefers to use it on himself, but if Benedict gets rowdy . . .

Speaking of, the portly detective comes out of the health food store with a protein bar. His attention occupied with unwrapping the snack, Fuller sidles up behind him.

Benedict spins around, reaching for his gun, but Fuller anticipates the move and grabs Herb’s wrist. His grip tight, he gets behind Benedict and applies a hammerlock, one arm around his neck, another pinning Herb’s wrist behind his back.

“Hello, Detective. Glad to see you’re watching your health.”

Benedict reaches for his shoulder holster with his free hand and Fuller tightens the submission hold. Benedict is strong, but not strong enough. With a quick jerk, Fuller yanks upward on the older man’s arm. Benedict’s elbow hyperextends, and then blows out.

Herb is yelling now, fighting like crazy, but Fuller has a firm grip on his bad arm and levers him into the alley. He forces Benedict to his knees, pulls the cork from the needle with his lips, and jabs the fat man in the neck.

Benedict continues to resist, but slowly, sweetly, the energy goes out of him.

Fuller replaces the cork, tucks away the syringe, takes Herb’s gun, and muscles him into the back of the cab.

Then he goes prowling for more smack.

The taxi makes him invisible—urban camouflage—so he’s free to cruise parts of the city where a Caucasian might ordinarily stand out. He drives to 26th and Kedzie, an area known as Little Mexico. It doesn’t take long to find a young Hispanic male hanging out on a corner. Cold night to be just hanging out, alone.

He circles the block twice, and then stops. The youth walks over in the wide, unhurried gait of a young man whose pants are too baggy.

“Tienes cocofan?”

The Latino has a little peach-fuzz goatee, and a gold crucifix hanging from his ear. “Que?”

“Cocofan, puto. Zoquete. Calbo. Perlas?”

“Calbo?”

“Yes, jackass. Heroin.”

“No tengo calbo. Tengo Hydro, vato.”

Fuller sighs, and shoots the kid in his sideways-tilted baseball cap.

Rico Suave takes the big dirt nap, and Fuller steps out and gives him a quick pat-down. He finds three loose joints, and six vials of brown granules.

“No calbo my ass.”

Fuller squeals tires, heading back to his hidey-hole on Clybourn.

Twice, people try to hail him. Fuller slows down, lets them get close, and then pulls away before they can get in the cab.

Good, clean, American fun.

Benedict moans in the backseat.

“We’ll be home soon, Detective.”

Chaten Patel shared a residence with his girlfriend. Fuller never got her name. They lived on the ground floor of a two-flat. A modest place, old but clean, with a large basement they used for storage.

The basement currently stores Chaten, and what’s left of his woman.

Fuller parks the taxi in the alley behind the house, and half-carries/half-walks Benedict through the backyard and down the steps to the basement entrance. Herb obligingly has a pair of handcuffs in his pocket, and Fuller locks the detective’s bad arm to a pipe under the concrete shop sink, and takes his keys.

The corpses have begun to smell, but Fuller won’t be here for long. Once Daniels is dead, he’s going to make good on his original intent and flee to Mexico.

But first things first.

Upstairs, Fuller fills up a pot with some water, puts it on the stove, and drops in the syringe.

As it boils, Fuller removes a heroin vial from his pocket and shakes out four big chunks. It doesn’t look like the black tar he’s been using—it’s lighter in color, and crumbles easier. He sniffs it. There’s no odor of vinegar, a telltale trait of smack.

What did that kid call it? Hydro? Maybe it’s a hybrid—heroin and coke, or heroin and XTC.

Fuller doesn’t care. It could be heroin and rat poison, and he’ll inject it just the same. He needs a break from the pain.

There’s a fat candle on the kitchen counter that smells like vanilla. Fuller lights it, dumps the boiling water into the sink, and puts the syringe back together.

Placing the granules in a metal tablespoon, he adds a squirt of water and holds the spoon over the candle flame.

With his free hand he removes a cotton ball from the open bag on the table and rolls it between his fingers until it’s the size of a pea. When the drugs are fully dissolved, he puts the cotton on the spoon and watches it expand.

The needle goes into the center of the ball, the plunger is slowly pulled back, and all Fuller has to do is pick a vein and the good times will roll.

Not yet, though. First, he has a phone call to make.

Fuller takes out his cell phone and punches in Jack’s number. Then he heads down the basement stairs, to wake up Herb.

CHAPTER 49

My cell phone rang. I ignored it.

Though Mom was nonresponsive to sound and touch, she still had brain activity, so I talked to her.

I talked about a lot of things.

Sometimes I talked about silly stuff, like the weather, or people we used to know. Other times I spilled my guts, apologizing for what happened, begging forgiveness she couldn’t give.

Tonight I was in begging mode.

My cell rang, again. I couldn’t handle any more condolences. Even from friends. Especially from friends. I finally had to tell Alan to back off, give me room to breathe, or I’d go crazy.

On the positive side, I hadn’t taken any sleeping pills in days. I embraced my insomnia.

The phone rang once more. I finally picked it up and shut the damn thing off. I was crying, again, and I didn’t want to talk to anybody.

Before I could begin another apology to Mom, the room phone rang.

I let it ring. And ring. And ring. It eventually stopped. Then it started again. Couldn’t whoever it was take a hint?

“What?” I answered.

“Hi, Jack.”

I almost dropped the phone in surprise. Fuller.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t going to pick up. That wouldn’t have been good for your friend here. Say hello, Herb.”

A male voice screamed.

“Herb’s not doing so well. And if you don’t follow my directions, he’s going to be doing even worse. Here’s what I want you to do.”

In the background Herb yelled, “It’s a trap, Jack! Don’t—”

Followed by another scream, even louder than before.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.

“What do you want, Fuller?”

“Turn your cell phone back on and call me on my cell. When you’re ready, I’ll give you the number.”

I powered up my cell phone and punched in what he told me. It rang once, and he picked up.

“Good. Now hang up the hospital phone. Here’s the deal. I want you to come over and join our party. We’re having fun, right, Herb?”

Another scream.

“I’ll be right over.” I clenched the phone so tightly it shook. “Want me to stop for beer and pretzels?”

“Funny. What I want you to do is lose the police escort.”

“How?”

“Tell them you got a call from me, and I’m in the parking lot. Be convincing. If you try to give them any signals . . .”

Benedict screamed again.

“Stop hurting him.”

“Hurting him? You mean like this?”

I shut my eyes while poor Herb wailed in agony.

“I’ll do what you say, Barry.”

“Good girl. Remember—I’m listening. Ready . . . go!”

I went into the hallway and yelled at the two cops on duty.

“Fuller just called me! He’s in the parking garage!”

They drew weapons and took off down the hall.

“Are they gone?”

“Yes.”

“Who’s nearby?”

“No one. A nurse.”

“Give the nurse the phone.”

“Why?”

Mistake. A part of me died inside when I heard Herb’s scream.

“Nurse!” I hurried to her. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

She gave me a quizzical look. “Who?”

“Just tell him whatever he wants to know.”

The nurse took the phone. “No. . . . Nope. . . . Nobody.” Then she handed it back. “He wanted to know if there were any men outside the door to room 514.”

I growled into the cell. “Satisfied?”

“Not yet. But I will be. Get in your car and go north on Lasalle. I want to hear your voice the whole time.”

“What if the cell signal goes out?”

Herb screamed again.

“You’d better make sure it doesn’t, Jack. Now keep talking. Start with the ABC’s.”

I recited the alphabet while I hurried through the corridor. Elevator or stairs? Which was better for cell transmission? I picked the stairs, moving as fast as I could. When I made it down to the parking garage, I saw one of the cops ordered to guard me, his gun drawn, creeping around a corner. I threw my back against a wall so he didn’t see me.

“Jack? You there?”

“. . . Q . . . R . . . S . . . T . . . U . . .”

I paused for a moment, and then made a beeline for my car, stepping lightly so my footsteps didn’t echo on the asphalt.

My cell reception became staticky.

“It sounds like I’m losing you, Jack. I hope not, for Herb’s sake. Frankly, I don’t know how much more he can take.”

I made it to my car and fumbled with the keys, beginning the alphabet for the third time. When I opened the door, one of my cops saw me.

“Lieutenant! We can’t find him!”

“Uh-oh, Jack,” Fuller purred into the phone. “You’d better hurry.”

I hopped in the driver’s seat, my cell signal getting even weaker. I was yelling the alphabet now, hoping my louder voice got through. Both cops converged on my car. I jammed it into gear and hit the gas.

The exit was up a concrete ramp.

“Jack?” Barry was yelling. “I can’t hear you, Jack. Jack—”

The phone went dead.

CHAPTER 50

Fuller scowls at the dial tone. He hits Redial. Daniels picks up immediately.

“I lost the signal on the exit ramp. I didn’t do anything stupid.” She sounds anxious, breathless.

“How can I believe you, Jack?”

“Don’t hurt him again.”

Fuller lifts his foot, ready to stomp on Benedict’s dislocated elbow. Herb stares up at him, hate in his eyes.

“We had a deal, Jack.”

“If I hear him scream once more, I swear to God, I’m hanging up and throwing my phone out the window.”

“How do I know the cops aren’t with you?”

“I’m alone. I ditched them in the parking garage.”

“Maybe you called for backup, on your radio.”

“I didn’t have time. If my radio was on, you’d hear it.”

Fuller walks away from Herb, takes the Sig out of his belt. He fires a round, up the stairs.

“What did you just do, Barry? Let me talk to Herb.”

“That was a warning. If I think you’re lying to me, if I think you’re bringing more cops, I end Herb Benedict’s life. Understand?”

“Let me talk to Herb.”

Fuller rolls his eyes. He holds out the phone. “Herb, say something.”

Benedict looks away, lips pressed shut.

“Hold on a second, Jack. He’s being stoic.”

Fuller plays pull’n’ bend with Herb’s swollen arm until the guy sings like a choir boy.

“Tell her you’re okay.”

“Jack!” Benedict screams. “Don’t come!”

“There, Jack? Satisfied he’s still with us?”

“When I get there, Barry . . .”

“Stop it, Jack. You’re scaring me. Where are you?”

“Going north on Lasalle.”

“When you get to Division Street, take a left. And let’s hear that alphabet.”

Jack begins the ABC’s again, and Fuller goes back upstairs. His head thumps like someone’s bouncing a bat off of it, and his eye does its best to compete for the gold medal in the Pain Olympics.

The syringe calls to him from the kitchen table.

One little shot, and the pain will go away.

But Daniels will be here soon. That will also make the pain go away.

The head pain. Not the eye pain. Take the shot.

She’s coming armed. It’s important to stay alert.

You can handle her. Take the shot.

Fuller lifts the needle. His arms are weight-lifter arms, the veins pushed to the surface by all the muscle. He doesn’t need to tie off.

Good.

Fuller shoots up, waiting for the warm rush of heroin to flood through him.

The rush doesn’t come.

“What the hell?”

“Barry? Did you say something?”

Fuller grits his teeth, staring at the empty syringe. That little Mexican bastard. What the hell did I just shoot up? Baking soda?

“Barry, I’m going west on Division. Barry?”

“Go right on Clybourn,” Barry growls. He raises the syringe to throw it across the room. But then . . .

Something happens.

It’s a subtle change at first. The kitchen seems to come into sharper focus. Barry stares at his hand, and his stare magnifies his fist until it’s the size of a baked ham.

Barry looks at his feet, and they also seem to grow. He’s ten, fifteen, twenty feet tall. How can he fit in this tiny room? A-ha! The kitchen is growing with him, walls getting longer, wider, stretching out and out.

And as he’s growing, the pain in his head is shrinking. Until it’s a tiny spot—a speck of minor irritation—in the middle of his swollen eye.

Fuller giggles, and the sound echoes through his head deep and slow. He hears someone talking, and notices he’s holding a phone.

“Barry? Are you there, Barry? What’s the address?”

Address? Oh, it’s Jack. She’s coming to the party.

“Twenty-one sixty,” someone says. It’s him. The words feel solid in his mouth, like they’re made of clay and he’s spitting them out rather than saying them.

This is fun.

He spins in a slow circle. The room moves with him, shifting and bending. When he stops, the room keeps moving, because he wills it to. He can control it. He can control everything.

“I’m a god.”

Fuller touches his face, feels the bandage. Gods don’t need bandages. He rips it off, and that causes a spark of pain in his eye.

“No more pain.” His voice is thunder.

He glides over to the drawer, dumps the contents on the table.

A corkscrew.

It only hurts for a moment, and he cries a lot.

No, he’s not crying.

It’s blood.

He hears a car outside. A visitor.

All pain is gone now, replaced with something else.

Anger.

Jack Daniels is here. She’s the one who put him in jail. She’s the one who gave him these headaches.

She’s trying to stop him from being a god.

He wipes some blood off of his cheek and balls his hands into fists.

“I’m in here, Jack.”

CHAPTER 51

“Fuller? Fuller, dammit, are you there?”

There’s no answer. Where was he? Was Benedict still alive? What happened?

I disconnected and dialed 911, giving them the Clybourn address. Then I spun the cylinder on my .38, counted six bullets, and set my jaw.

Fear, anxiety, and all of my other neuroses be damned; I was going to go save my best friend.

I was three steps up the porch stairs when the door swung open.

Fuller filled the doorway, arms stretching out as if offering me a hug. His face was awash with blood, a gaping hole where his left eye used to be.

Training took over. I brought up my gun and grouped three shots in the midsection.

Rather than fall back, Fuller did something unexpected.

He lunged.

I caught him in the shoulder with the fourth shot, and then he was on me, knocking me backward, onto the sidewalk, him on top.

I felt a rib or two crack under his weight, motes of light exploding in front of my eyes. My gun arm was over my head. I tried to bring it around, but Fuller grabbed it, his enormous hand swallowing mine and my weapon. I fired, and the bullet ripped through his palm, forcing out a collection of small bones. But he didn’t let go.

Fuller’s other hand moved up my body, and closed around my neck.

It rained blood, dripping from his face onto mine. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought up my free hand, digging at his empty socket.

Fuller howled, rolled off me.

I aimed my last bullet at his head, but he shifted and I missed.

Breathing hurt. I pressed my hand to my ribs, and it helped a little. I managed to get to my knees, then my feet.

So did Fuller. He faced me, gushing blood from too many places to count. But he didn’t seem bothered by that fact, as evidenced by the wide grin on his face.

I found my center, reared back, and aimed a reverse kick at the holes in his chest.

It was like kicking a tree. He didn’t budge an inch.

I spun around, using the gun as a bludgeon, and cracked him across the cheek.

The blow snapped his head back, but he didn’t stagger.

He swung at me, slow, and I got under it and drove a fist into his ribs, pulling away before he could grab me.

Another swing, and he didn’t come close to connecting. I kicked upward, between his legs, and missed, bouncing harmlessly off his massive thigh.

Fuller lashed out again, faster this time. I pulled back, but his knuckles caught my cheek. I rolled with the blow, hitting the frozen grass, yelping when my ribs bumped the ground.

A gunshot. Then another.

Herb.

He was at the top of the porch, his right arm hanging at his side, twisted in a funny way, handcuffs on his wrist attached to a piece of metal pipe.

In his left hand he held a semiautomatic.

Benedict couldn’t hit an elephant from five paces with his left hand.

Luckily, Fuller was damn near as big as an elephant.

Herb’s third shot connected with Fuller’s chest. The fourth went wide, but the fifth buried itself into his right leg.

I heard sirens in the distance. Just a little longer.

Fuller rushed at Herb, incredibly fast. Benedict’s next shot missed, and then he got buried under three hundred and fifty pounds of snarling, screaming, bleeding muscle.

I staggered to my feet, forced myself up the stairs. Out of bullets, I began to hammer at Fuller’s skull with my .38, putting my whole body into it, trying to get him off Herb. Herb’s face went from red to blue.

On the fourth hit, Fuller backhanded me, then climbed off of Herb and went stumbling into the house.

Benedict choked for breath. I felt his throat; there didn’t seem to be anything broken.

Herb mumbled something.

“What, Herb?”

“Get out of here. He’s got a . . .”

The slug flew over my head close enough that I felt the wind. I dropped down on the porch, on top of Herb, and peered into the house.

Fuller, impossibly, stood in the hallway in a quickly spreading puddle of his own blood. The Colt in his hand was pointing at me.

Herb raised up his left hand. He still gripped the Sig, but wasn’t pointing it anywhere near Fuller.

I grabbed Benedict’s wrist, lifted it up, trying to aim.

“I’m a god,” Barry Fuller said.

Herb answered, “Bullshit,” and he squeezed the trigger and the gun fired, catching Fuller right in the middle of his face and blowing his brains out the back of his diseased head.

CHAPTER 52

Alan located me in the ER, while they were taping my ribs. His face glistened with tears.

He didn’t rush to embrace me.

“I can’t take this, Jack. I can’t live like this. First your mother, and now you.”

I thought about telling him that I quit, that I was no longer a cop.

But love doesn’t have conditions.

“Good-bye, Alan.”

He left his brown bomber jacket on the cot.

A nurse came in, tried to give me a shot of Demerol for the pain.

I declined.

“Is Detective Benedict out of surgery yet?”

“Not yet.”

I lay back on my cot and stared at the ceiling.

Cops came, wanting to debrief me. I told them all to go to hell. Captain Bains stopped by. He told me there would always be a spot on the force for me, if I decided to come back.

I laughed in his face.

Five hours later, Benedict was wheeled into recovery. I sat in his room with him until he woke up.

“Hi, Jack.” His voice was hoarse, a symptom of a bruised larynx.

“Hi, Herb. They told me your surgery went well. You’ll get full use of your arm back.”

“Are we okay?”

My eyes teared up.

“We’re okay, buddy.”

“You’re my partner, Jack. You’re supposed to tell me when I’m acting like an idiot.”

“Maybe we were both acting like idiots.”

He nodded. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Herb.”

“Can you call my wife, tell her I’m done being an idiot?”

I smiled through the tears. “I think I can do that.”

“Tell her to bring doughnuts.”

“I will.”

“Two boxes.”

“I will.”

CHAPTER 53

I spent my days in the hospital, keeping vigil over Mom. Nights I spent at home, alone, staring at the ceiling.

Christmas came. New Year’s Eve. Valentine’s Day.

Bains refused to accept my resignation, and I got a modest biweekly pension check. I had very few needs. I made do.

Herb was promoted to sergeant, and when he visited, he made me call him Sarge. He traded the Camaro for a Chrysler, and he and Bernice took a two-week vacation in Napa Valley, visiting old friends.

My mother’s condition showed some signs of improving. She wasn’t coming out of the coma yet, but her Glasgow Scales were getting better, if only slightly. I talked to her, every day. Even when I didn’t feel like talking.

“You remember what you told me, Mom? That there are no medals for the completion of a good life? I’ve been thinking about that. About how no one wins. Like you said, it’s impossible to win, because the finish line is death.”

I stroked my mother’s hand.

“So what’s the point? What’s the meaning? Why do we all struggle if we’re in a race we can never, ever win? You said we should still run the best that we can. The answer isn’t in the winning. The answer is in the running. And you know something, Mom? I think you may be right.”

The next day, I got off early retirement and went back to work for the Chicago Police Department.

And I ran on.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

So many people to thank . . .

To fellow writers Raymond Benson, Jay Bonansinga, Doug Borton, David Ellis, Eric Garcia, Rick Hautala, Libby Fischer Hellmann, Warren B. Murphy, Ridley Pearson, James Rollins, Steven Spruill, Andrew Vachss, F. Paul Wilson, David Wiltse, and especially Robert W. Walker, for their words, encouragement, and inspiration.

To my advance readers: Marc Buhmann, Jim Coursey, Laura Konrath, and authors Barry Eisler and Rob Kantner, for their comments, opinions, and assistance in making this book better.

To my family, friends, and those who went the extra mile: Robin Agnew, Lorri Amsden, Chris Bowman, Bonnie Claeson, Latham Conger III, Tom & Melanie Meyers Cushman, George Dailey, Moni Draper, Judy Duhl, Mariel Evens, Dick File, Holly Frakes, Maggie Griffin, Joe Guglielmelli, Maryelizabeth Hart, Jim Huang, Steve Jensen, Jen Johnson, Steve Jurczyk, Edmund and Jeannie Kaufman, Chris Konrath, John Konrath, Talon Konrath, Steve Lukac, Sheldon MacArthur, Otto Penzler, Barbara Peters, Sue Petersen, Terri Smith, Dave Strang, Jim & Gloria Tillez, Chris Wolak, and the many others who have helped out on this journey.

To Officer Jim Doherty for police questions, Jeffrey Evens for law questions, and Mike Konrath, whom I hope one day will embalm me, but not in the manner described in this book. Any technical mistakes in this book are mine, not theirs.

To the publishing folks: Michael Bourrett, Jane Comins, Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, Jessica Goldman, Eileen Hutton, Navorn Johnson, Elisa Lee, David Lott, Karin Maake, Joni Rendon, and Leslie Wells, who continues to be the world’s best editor.

And of course, to my rock, Maria. Every day with you is a day worth living.

ALSO BY J. A. KONRATH:

Whiskey Sour

Copyright

The Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels mystery series is not sponsored by, endorsed by, or related to Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc., makers of Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey.

Copyright © 2005 by Joe Konrath.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the Publisher. For information address Hyperion, 77 West 66th Street, New York, New York 10023-6298.

ISBN: 9781401382711

First eBook Edition: JULY 2005

Rusty Nail

A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Thriller

Rusty Nail

J. A. Konrath

This book is for Mike Konrath, one of the coolest guys on the planet. I love you like a brother.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Box Book

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Also By

Copyright

RUSTY NAIL

1 oz. Scotch

1 oz. Drambuie

Pour ingredients over ice in an old-fashioned glass.

Stir.

Prologue

Indiana 1976

THE SOUND BEGINS. Again.

Alex, eyes clenched shut, pillow pressed to face, can’t escape the repetitive slap-slap-slap; it penetrates the thin apartment walls and saturates the cotton batting.

The wailing starts, the cry of a sick dog, increasing as the slaps come louder and faster.

Father will call soon.

Alex rolls out of bed and tiptoes through the door, every painful squeak of the floorboards hitting like a blow. Slowly, so very slowly, Alex creeps down the hall.

Beyond Father’s room is the back door. If Alex can make it outside, there’s a chance. Perhaps spending the night in the barn, or at a friend’s house to escape the . . .

“ALEX!”

Alex jumps at the sound, Father’s voice drilling in and pinning feet to floor.

“Alex, get in here!”

No choice now. Run, and Father will hear and get angry. Alex doesn’t want to be the recipient of God’s penance.

The child heads back to Father’s room.

As always, the sight is ghastly. Father is kneeling on the floor, clad in dirty jeans and bare from the waist up. His back is glistening with sweat and something else; streaks of blood leaking from angry red welts.

“I’m a sinner, Alex. A terrible sinner.”

Alex stares at Father’s hand, sees he’s using the scourge—a multi-tailed whip with tiny metal barbs on the ends. That one isn’t so bad. Father has implements that are worse. The one Alex fears the most is the old brush handle, the bristles replaced with thin nails, rusty from years of use.

“Take the whip, Alex. Show me God’s wrath.”

Alex hesitates.

“Now!” Father’s eyes burn, promising the threat of Redemption.

The eight-year-old holds out a hand and takes the scourge.

“You are the instrument of God’s vengeance, my child. Give me His penance.” Father’s voice trembles, cracks. “Punish me for my terrible sins.”

Alex swings the whip.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Father’s keening grows in volume, and Alex beats him faster and harder, wanting to get it over with, wanting it to end.

Finally, Father cries out for mercy, and then he pulls Alex next to him, both on their knees, and they both pray and pray and pray to the Lord for forgiveness and salvation and deliverance from evil.

Father’s sobbing eventually softens, then stops.

“Ointment.”

Alex fetches the salve and rubs it into Father’s wounds, coaxing whimpers.

“Reject sin, Alex. Reject Satan’s ways. Don’t end up like me.”

“I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Good. Now get the hell out of my room. I don’t want to see your ugly face for the rest of the night.”

Alex runs outside, hands pink with blood, brain awash with terrible feelings of guilt . . . and disgust . . .

. . . and something else.

The night is hot, the sticky summer air smelling like garbage, the field behind their house dark and quiet. The tears erupt, and Alex wails, head in hands.

A cat, a stray tabby that hangs around the farm, bumps Alex’s leg and purrs. Alex holds the cat close, wiping tears onto its fur.

Next to the barn is a rain barrel, half filled with foul-smelling water. Four rats, a squirrel, and a possum have all drowned in that barrel.

But never a cat.

A feeling of warmth grows within Alex, extinguishing the fear.

“Let’s go for a swim, kitty.”

Stroking its yellow and orange fur, Alex carries the cat over to the barrel.

Chapter 1

BUSINESS WAS SLOW, which made me extremely happy.

I sat in my office, the omnipresent paperwork mountain on my desk down to a few small mounds. I could actually see the wood through the files in some places. It was brown, as I’d always guessed it to be.

There hadn’t been a homicide in Chicago for four days, which had to be some kind of record. We consistently ranked as one of the top murder cities in America, often hitting the number one spot. Whenever that happened, cops from my district would get We’re #1 T-shirts printed up. I had seven, from previous years.

I whittled away the free time with busywork: filing, reviewing cold cases, cleaning out my desk drawers. I even entertained the notion of painting my nails—something I hadn’t done since joining the force over twenty years ago.

All play and no work makes Jack a bit flighty.

My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had been using the free time to catch up on his eating. He wandered into my office, lugging a gallon of chocolate milk. He set the jug on my desk.

“I didn’t have anything to do, so I brought your mail.” “Someone mailed me dairy products?”

Herb scowled, his walrus mustache drooping. He had a few years on me, which put him past the fifty mark, but his face was plump enough to retard wrinkles.

“This isn’t dairy. It’s GoLYTELY. I’ve got to drink this entire bottle to clear out my digestive tract for my colonoscopy tomorrow.”

“Sounds like fun. Shall I come by, take some pictures?” “Funny, Jack. Be happy you’re not a man and don’t have to deal with this stuff.”

“I’m thankful for that every day.”

Herb removed the bundle of mail he’d tucked under his armpit and dropped it on my desk.

Among the bills and junk was a small padded envelope. It had Lt. Jacqueline Daniels, Chicago Police Department, Violent Crimes Division typed on the label. No postmark, no return address.

“This was in the mail?” “No. Someone dropped it off downstairs for you.”

I frowned. Times being as they were, unknown packages were scary things. But hand delivery meant it must have gone through the metal detector and X-ray machine downstairs; standard delivery procedure. I teased open the flap and peeked inside.

Something thin and black.

I threw caution to the wind and shook it out onto my desk. A VHS videotape. No labels or markings.

My apprehension went up a notch. “Did the desk sergeant get a look at the person who left this?” “I didn’t ask. You weren’t expecting anything?”

I shook my head.

The VCR sat in the corner of my office, on a cart with a TV. I hit a few buttons and put the tape in.

Herb rested his butt against my desk and patted his expansive belly. He’d lost a lot of weight, but had found it again. His stomach growled, perhaps in response to his patting.

“You know what the worst part of a colonoscopy is?” “You’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not.” “I can’t eat anything for twenty-four hours.”

I considered it. “That’s worse than having a long probe stuck up your unhappy place?”

“I’m under anesthetic for that.” He took a swig of GoLYTELY and made a Mr. Yuck face.

“I’m guessing GoLYTELY isn’t a taste sensation.” “They claim it’s chocolate-flavored. More like chalk-flavored. I’d rather drink a gallon of paint.”

I pressed Play. After some snow, the TV screen went black. In the upper right-hand corner the date flashed. Eight days ago.

The scene abruptly changed to a wide shot of a two-story house. Midday, the sun casting shadows straight down. The house was nondescript, a Realtor’s sign stuck in the lawn. It could have been any house in Chicago. But it wasn’t.

I knew this house. “Is that—?”

I shushed Herb, nodding. The cameraperson approached the front door at a brisk pace. A hand, wearing a large black leather glove, came into frame from the left of the screen and turned the doorknob.

The camera sailed through the foyer, the living room, and over to the basement door. The hand flipped on the light switch by the staircase and the descent began.

My heart accelerated, the scene before me playing out just as it had so many times in my memories. I held my breath, hoping this was just a prank, hoping the basement wouldn’t contain what I feared.

The cameraperson reached the lower level and panned to the right. The auto-focus blurred, then sharpened, revealing a naked white female tied to a chair with twine, a burlap bag over her head. Her whimpering hit me like a blow.

“Jesus.” Herb folded his arms across his chest.

I had to fight to keep my eyes open, watching as the camera approached her, watching as the gloved hand picked up a hunting knife from the floor, watching as the knife rose up to her throat . . .

Herb gagged. I turned away.

When I looked back, she was still alive, arterial blood squirting and splashing down her bare chest. There was a wet coughing sound, and it took me a moment to understand what I was hearing; the woman was struggling to scream through the large slash in her neck.

She didn’t die right away. The writhing and twisting and coughing went on for almost a minute. When her body finally stopped moving, the camera faded to black.

I spent a few seconds trying to rally my thoughts. “I need a Crime Scene Unit ready to go in three minutes, photos, vids, ALS, the works. I’ll contact the EPD and clear it with them.”

Herb headed for the door, his GoLYTELY forgotten. I hit Eject on the VCR and grabbed a latex glove from my desk. The tape went into one evidence bag, its envelope into another.

Then I called the Evanston Police Department and asked them to meet us at the address. It was one they knew well.

The morning was beautiful for April, sixty degrees, crisp and sunny. I wore a beige Anne Klein pantsuit that I paid too much money for because it slimmed my hips, and a new pair of black low-heeled Jimmy Choo boots. Herb had on an ancient gray suit, designed by Montgomery Ward, and a blue tie already stained with GoLYTELY.

As befitting the weather, the streets and sidewalks were packed with people of all races, ages, and socioeconomic backgrounds. Panhandlers and executives, students and sightseers, all commingling in a giant diverse human stew. We worked out of the 26th District, in the heart of downtown, our building a speck among the skyscrapers. Parked on the sidewalk was a churros cart, which Benedict eyed. After viewing the video, the cinnamon smell repulsed me. We walked around back to the parking lot and climbed into his new Chrysler Sebring— both of us hated my 1986 Nova. Herb rolled down the windows and slowed as he passed the churros, sniffing the air.

“Why can’t they make GoLYTELY in a churros flavor?” “I’ll make a few calls.” “Bacon flavor would be good too. Tell your people.” “I’ll do that.” “And chili-cheese dog. I’d drink a gallon of chili-cheese dog in a heartbeat.” “I’m sure you would.” Evanston bordered Chicago on the west side, blending into it seamlessly. It was a fifteen-minute drive that we made in ten.

“Maybe the tape was one of Kork’s old collection.”

Herb referred to the homemade snuff films discovered in Charles Kork’s house after his killing spree ended. A task force had been formed to match victims with missing persons, and they’d done a remarkable job, gaining enough accolades to get featured on a Law and Justice cable TV special. Having been the ones who tracked down the Gingerbread Man, which is what Kork called himself, Benedict and I were asked to head the task force.

After viewing one of Kork’s videos, we declined. “The date could have been faked.” But I didn’t buy it. “Did you notice the front door? It had a security plate on it. That’s new.”

I called Information and got the number of the Realtor whose sign sat in front of the house. After being put on hold for a few minutes, I talked to an agent who confirmed that the house was for sale.

“Can you meet us there?” “I’m sorry, Officer. I’m in the middle of something.” “I understand. And I hope you understand that we’ll have to break the door down.”

“I’ll see you in five.”

I hung up and tried to prepare myself. Several deep breaths couldn’t help me control my racing heart, my sweating palms.

The house looked exactly as it had in the video. We pulled alongside the driveway. The CSU had already arrived. I played conductor and set my people into motion.

One officer took samples of motor oil on the driveway near the garage. Another dusted the front door for prints. Two more walked the perimeter, going over every inch of property like a giant grid, bagging cigarette butts and old soda cans.

I cordoned off the route the cameraperson had taken over the lawn to the front door, but the grass didn’t hold any footprints. There were several friction ridges lifted from the knob and steel security plate, but I didn’t have much hope for them. The person with the camera wore gloves.

The real estate agent showed up, a plump woman with a hairspray helmet that looked like it could withstand a three-story fall. She was clearly flustered, and it took her three different keys before she could open the door.

I went in first, my .38 an extension of my hand. The shades were drawn and the house was dark, save for streaks of sunlight peeking through cracks.

All of the previous furniture had been removed, and our footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. A pleasant lemon scent hung in the air, even more revolting than the churros smell. We had the Realtor wait outside, and Herb trailed me through the foyer, the hallway, and over to the basement door.

I experienced a serious feeling of déjà vu, except that it wasn’t déjà vu; I actually had been here a few years prior, doing this exact same thing.

It was just as scary the second time.

The basement light had been left on. We took the stairs slowly, stopping every few steps to listen. When I finally reached the bottom I steeled myself, turned the corner, and stared over at the place where the woman’s throat had been cut.

The basement was empty. No body, no chair, not a drop of blood on the floor. I gave the all-clear and the team came in, lugging gear.

I holstered my gun under my jacket and frowned, looking around the basement. It had been finished since my last visit, the bare concrete floor replaced with linoleum tile, the walls paneled in faux wood.

“I got blood.”

Officer Scott Hajek, a short, stout guy with large glasses and a spray bottle of luminol on his belt, pointed a UV light at the ceiling, revealing several glowing droplets. Before I had a chance to postulate if it was left over from Kork’s activities, more droplets were found on the newly tiled floor.

“Lieutenant! We got something upstairs!”

I followed the voice, relieved to be out of the claustrophobic confines of the basement. Benedict kept on my heels, huffing as I took the stairs two at a time.

“In the kitchen!”

Sitting on the kitchen counter, next to a mason jar full of peanuts, was a gingerbread man cookie.

I got a closer look. It was different from the ones Kork had left with his victims, taunting the CPD in notes that he’d never be caught. This one was larger, with eyes made out of raisins and peppermint candy buttons.

Under the cookie was a handwritten note.

The crime scene photographer snapped some shots. “Why a jar of peanuts?” I asked Herb.

Benedict squinted at the jar. “Those aren’t peanuts, Jack.” My breath caught in my throat when I realized what the mason jar contained.

It was filled, to the brim, with dozens of severed human toes.

Chapter 2

TECHNICALLY, NO CRIME has been committed in our district.” Herb and I exchanged a glance.

“We realize that, Captain.”

Captain Bains sat behind his desk, rubbing his thumb and index finger over his gray mustache—a mustache that didn’t match the deep black of his hairpiece.

“There’s not even a body.”

“The Kork case is ours,” I said.

“This isn’t the Kork case. Charles Kork isn’t going to commit any more crimes. This could all be a prank or a hoax.”

I folded my arms, then unfolded them so I didn’t look defensive. “The jar of toes isn’t a hoax.”

Bains leaned forward. “That’s for the Evanston PD to pursue, not us.”

“They asked us to come in on this. And we’ve got nothing else going on.”

The captain indicated some paper on his desk. “There was a body discovered in a transient motel an hour ago, on Webster. Stabbing death of a homeless guy named Steve Jensen.”

“I’ll put Check and Mason on it. I want this one, Captain.”

Herb’s stomach made an unpleasant noise. Bains stood up and gave us his back. He stared out of his window, which offered a lovely view of the garbage in the alley.

“You’ve got forty-eight hours. If you can’t turn up any evidence by then, I’m pulling you.”

More strange sounds from Herb’s stomach. Bains glanced over his shoulder and eyed him.

“Hungry, Sergeant?”

“That’s not my stomach. I think the GoLYTELY is kicking in.”

“Go attend to that.”

Benedict about-faced and waddled to the door, knees pressed together.

After Herb left, I locked eyes with my boss.

“What’s going on, Captain? I usually enjoy some leeway when it comes to picking cases.”

Chicago had five Detective Areas, and I worked as a floater. My reputation allowed it.

Bains didn’t seem swayed by my reputation. He pursed his lips. Not a good sign.

“What aren’t you telling me, Captain?”

“The superintendent has been getting some flack lately about that TV show.”

“TV show?”

“That series with the PI and that fat woman who plays you.”

I mentally groaned. The show, called Fatal Autonomy, featured a supporting character based on me. I never watched it, but from what I heard, the series didn’t display the CPD in a good light. Or me either.

“I explained this before, I let them use my name because one of the show’s producers helped out with the Kork case.”

Which had been a mistake. Anything to do with Harry McGlade wound up being a mistake.

“The super doesn’t care. Chicago is buried in crime, and that show makes us look like a bunch of idiots.”

“So what are you saying? The super is pissed at me, so he’s gunning for my job?”

“I’m saying I don’t want you on anything that might make you look foolish, or anything high-profile. This will all go away, but laying low won’t hurt.”

I leaned closer to Bains and dropped my voice an octave.

“How angry is he?”

“If you see him on the street, turn around and run.”

Ouch.

“You have two days to come up with something solid, Jack. And keep the media out of it.”

Bains dismissed me, dispersing the wind I’d had in my sails. Having to worry about job security at my age was a stressor I just didn’t need.

I looked for Herb, heard scary sounds coming from the bathroom, and chose to leave him alone for a while.

Evidence was located on the first floor. I took the elevator. The day guy, Bill, greeted me with a grin. He was old enough to have milked Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. Bill rescued a previous mayor’s family member decades ago, and was allowed to stay on without being forced into retirement. It was a good thing too, because he was the only person who could find anything in the cluttered, unorganized Evidence Room.

“You’re like a shot of Viagra, Miss Jack Daniels. I love the boots. Can I lick your heel?”

“No. I thought men lost interest in sex after turning a hundred.”

Bill winked. “I’m only ninety-eight. But I make love like a man of seventy-five. What are your plans for later?”

“I’m visiting my mother.

” “How is she doing?”

I thought of Mom, the tube in her throat.

“No change.”

“How about afterward? Maybe a little midnight rendezvous? You look like you could use a little TLC.”

Bill hit the nail on the head with that one. It had been months since I’d been with a man. But even though I’d passed my prime, I wasn’t desperate enough to date someone so old he farted dust. Not yet, anyway. Give me another few months and I might consider it.

“I appreciate the offer, Bill, but right now I’m interested in a closed case— 333871-5.”

Bill nodded, tapping his pointy chin. “The Gingerbread Man. Eleven boxes. Anything in particular?”

“I need everything. Sorry. You want some help?”

“Nope. I keep in shape.”

Bill held up his right arm and pulled back the short sleeve, flexing his biceps. There was enough extra skin hanging from that arm to upholster a couch. In a liver spot pattern. I kept that to myself.

Bill scuttled off and lugged the boxes out of storage one at a time. I signed the tags and dug in.

The first two boxes were mostly paperwork, much of it mine. I glanced at a few reports, the memories of the case returning full force. Charles Kork had been a very bad man, torturing women in his basement in Evanston, prolonging their deaths for hours and lovingly capturing it all on videotape.

The third, fourth, and fifth boxes contained personal belongings from his last three victims.

In the sixth box, wrapped in tin foil and sealed in a plastic evidence bag, was the first gingerbread man cookie we’d found. Parts of it were stained black with blood. It had candy hearts for eyes and mouth, three gum drop buttons on the front, and had been lacquered. The one we’d recently found was almost an inch larger, had peppermint swirl buttons and raisin eyes, no mouth. Not the same source.

There were other cookies in other bags, but I didn’t bother opening them. In the seventh box I found what I’d been looking for.

Twelve videotapes.

The chain of evidence tags noted how often they’d been viewed and duplicated, which was often. Each tape had a label, done in Kork’s distinctive handwriting.

Tape #1, “Jerry Dies Slowly.” Tape #6, “Kids Say the Funniest Things When They’re Bleeding.” Tape #11, “T. Metcalf Gets a Surprise.” Tape #12, “Slipping the Knife to the Wife.”

The videos contained graphic footage of Kork murdering his victims. There had been ten of them in all, six women and four children. The task force had identified all but one of the kids.

Seeing the tapes filled me with a dread I normally felt in life or death situations. Herb and I had watched part of #4, “Making Little Belinda Cry.” We could only stand it for two minutes, even with the sound turned off.

I hadn’t been able to forget it, much as I had tried.

After only a small hesitation, I sucked up my courage and pulled out the tapes.

“Would you like a bag?”

I nodded, and Bill produced a plastic Jewel Foods bag from under the counter. I poked through the remaining boxes, taking a handwriting analysis report and some autopsy reports.

In the last box, all by itself, was the murder weapon. A large hunting knife with a jagged edge on the back of the blade. Through the plastic evidence bag, I could see some of Diane Kork’s blood dried on the edge.

I put the knife in the bag with the other things. Then I signed everything out, parried another seduction attempt from Bill, and walked up a few flights of stairs to my office.

Benedict was leaning on my desk, looking deflated.

I patted his shoulder. “Everything come out okay?”

He grimaced. “They should put a warning label on the GoLYTELY, something about violent explosions. I think I just lost ten pounds.”

I gestured at the jug on my desk, still half full of liquid.

“Looks like you have a little bit more to finish.”

Benedict glared at the bottle. “I can’t do it. If I finish that, I’ll have to attach a seat belt to the toilet.”

“Maybe an airbag too.”

I sat down and reached for the door-to-door reports on the top of my inbox. A quick scan gave me the gist.

“Neighbors didn’t see anything.” I tossed the reports onto my desk, annoyed. “Why doesn’t someone ever commit a homicide next to a nosy busybody with some binoculars who spies on people all the time?”

Benedict didn’t answer. He was staring at the bottle of GoLYTELY.

I left him to face his nemesis, and dove into the Realtor’s statement. She’d shown the house to over a hundred people since it went on the market last year. Apparently, the stigma of the previous owner had prevented any sales. No one wanted to dwell where a serial killer once had.

There had been talk of bulldozing it, but Diane Kork had insisted on selling. She inherited it from her ex-husband, shortly after he’d tried to murder her.

Herb’s stomach made a noise. He said, “Gotta go,” and ran for the door.

“You forgot your jug!” I called after him.

I checked my watch, saw it was creeping up on five, and I decided to call it a day. The reports went into my Jewel bag, which I lugged down to my car.

The engine coughed twice, then turned over. The lion’s share of my paycheck went to supporting my aging mother. When Mom had lived in Florida, her condo had cost slightly more than the gross national product of New Zealand.

She’d sold the condo last year, to move in with me. That should have freed up some of my financial obligations, but Mom’s current condition cost even more than her condo had.

Mary Streng was in a coma, and her insurance only covered partial treatment. The condo money was almost gone, and soon the debt monster would come a-calling.

It was a burden I gladly accepted. My father died when I was a kid, but Mom had showered me with enough love to make up for the loss. A former Chicago cop herself, she was more than a mother to me; she was a hero.

And now my hero lay in a coma.

And it was all my fault.

Chapter 3

MOM RESIDED IN a long-term acute-care facility called Henderson House, on Chicago’s north side, not too far from my apartment. She was classified PVS—permanent vegetative state, and received artificial hydration and nutrition, though she could breathe without assistance.

I stopped by on the way home.

“Good evening, Ms. Daniels. Would you like to visit your mother?”

The secretary, Julie something or other, already had the phone in her hand to call the nurse station. Normal procedure meant for me to schedule my visits, or to phone ahead of time. That gave the staff time to clean my mother up before I saw her. For what this place cost, relatives tended to get angry if the loved ones they were visiting had a dirty diaper.

“Any change?” I asked when she hung up the phone.

Julie flipped through a chart. “Still Level One on RLA Cognitive functioning. But her Glasgow went up two points. She spontaneously opened her eyes today.”

That got my attention.

“When?”

“Chart says this morning. There’s a notation that we called you at home.”

“Why didn’t you call my cell phone?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Daniels. Would you like me to put down your cell phone as your primary contact number?”

“My cell phone should already be the primary contact number.” My voice got louder. “I don’t understand why you wouldn’t have tried it since you couldn’t reach me at home. Or you could have tried work. I do work for a living.”

I set my jaw and felt my ears burn.

“I understand, Ms. Daniels. I’ll make sure we use the cell next time. Did you want a glass of water? It will be a few minutes before your mother is ready.”

I declined, and sat in a relentlessly cheery waiting room, walls painted bright yellow and adorned with framed prints of rainbows and sunrises. I thought about the Glasgow Coma Score. Mom’s Glasgow scores fluctuated all the time. While she hadn’t spoken since her injuries, her response to stimulus and her eye-opening were on-again off-again. Her doctors told me that a PVS patient might have a low score one day, and then the next day she could suddenly be awake and aware. So much for Glasgow.

I spent a few minutes sitting and staring at a dusty silk flower arrangement on the magazine table and a man I recognized walked in.

“Hi, Tony.”

He brightened when he saw me. Tony Coglioso was tall, in his forties, and had classic Italian good looks. His father had been in a coma for three years.

“Hello, Lieutenant. Any change?”

“Up two points. How about yours?”

“Down a point.” He smiled, but it seemed forced. “It sounds like we’re talking about the stock market, and not our parents.”

Tony and I had seen each other many times over the past few months, exchanging little snatches of conversation in hallways and waiting rooms. Like me, he was divorced, but unlike me he had two adult children. I enjoyed his company, and he wasn’t hard to look at. I wondered why he never asked me out. I still fit comfortably into a size eight, and just last week, on the street in front of my apartment, a homeless man told me I had a nice ass.

“How are the kids?”

“Too busy to visit Papa. My oldest says it doesn’t matter, that Papa doesn’t hear anything anyway.”

“He hears,” I promised him. “He hears every word.

” “Yeah. Well. You on your way up?”

I glanced at Julie, who’d been watching our conversation. Julie nodded.

“Go ahead, Ms. Daniels.”

I smiled at Tony. “I guess I am.”

“Would you like to share an elevator with an old paisan?”

“I’d be honored.”

We didn’t talk during the elevator ride. Though some of the cops in my district would label me as aggressive, I wasn’t that way with men. It didn’t make sense. I could bust down a door and handcuff a murderer, but I’ve never asked a guy on a date. Not once. In all of my romantic encounters, I’d been a follower rather than a leader.

Even worse, I was crummy at dropping hints. Perhaps if I said something like, “Gosh, it’s been a really long time since I got laid.” Would a guy pick up on that?

I didn’t have a chance to find out. The elevator stopped, and Tony went left, without a word or a wave.

Of course, he was off to visit his PVS parent, so I couldn’t really fault his manners.

My own PVS parent was lying peacefully on her bed. A cotton bandage covered the hole in her neck, where the feeding tube went in. Her eyes remained closed, even when I shut the door extra loudly, as I always did.

“Hi, Mom. Still napping, I see.”

I sat in the rocking chair next to her, held her withered hand, and told her about my day.

We talked for an hour or so. I tried to remain cheery and upbeat. Regardless of what I’d told Tony, I had doubts that Mom even knew I was there. But on the slight chance she did know, I didn’t want to depress her.

When I was all talked out, I stood up, stretched, and then did my poking and prodding. I checked her diaper. Examined her for bed sores. Tickled her feet and pinched her arm, hoping to provoke some kind of response.

“You know, Mom, you’re only supposed to sleep for one-third of your life. You’re using up your allotment here.”

After a pillow fluff and a kiss on the cheek, my attention drifted and I wondered if Tony was still here. A kind, good-looking, single man my age was a rarity.

How hard could it be to ask a guy out for a cup of coffee? What’s the worst that can happen? He tells me no? On several different occasions, men have tried to kill me. Getting rejected had to be easier than that.

“See you tomorrow, Mom.” I leaned down, whispered in her ear. “I think I’m gonna ask him out.”

I closed the door behind me, gently this time, and wandered down the hallway.

Tony had left his door open, and when I poked my head in I saw him holding his father close, his face buried in the older man’s chest.

He was sobbing. Great heaving sobs that shook his whole body.

Before I could back away, he noticed me, his face a mask of rage and tears.

“Leave me alone, for crissakes!”

“I . . . uh . . . sorry.”

I backpedaled, not able to get to the elevator quick enough.

In the car ride home I second, third, and fourth-guessed myself. My conclusion: A coma clinic isn’t a smart place to pick up men.

I lived in an apartment in Wrigleyville, a stone’s throw from where the Cubs played. The rent was outrageous and the neighborhood younger than me by two decades. I parked next to a hydrant on the street and lugged the evidence bag up the stairs and to my door.

After disarming the alarm, I went into my kitchen and discovered the cat had been playing his favorite game—toss the kitty litter out of the litter box.

I hated that game, but preferred it to his second-favorite, crap on Jack’s bed.

I decided to leave the mess until tomorrow. There was a lump of solidifying cat food in the bowl, and I couldn’t remember if it was from this morning or yesterday. I scraped it into the garbage and opened a fresh can.

Mr. Friskers leaped onto the counter upon hearing the can opener.

“You don’t greet me when I come home, but you come running when I give you food.”

He didn’t reply. I dumped the food into his dish and he sauntered over and sniffed it. Then he looked at me, his face the picture of utter disappointment.

“How about a thank-you?”

The cat ate without thanking me.

I plodded into the bedroom, took off my outfit and judged it unsmelly enough to hang up, and washed off my makeup in the bathroom sink. I followed that up with a careful mirror examination of my face, studying the wrinkles and deciding I needed nothing short of spackle to fill them in. My roots were showing too. No wonder Tony wanted me to get away from him.

After dunking my head into a bucket of Oil of Olay, I put on one of Latham’s old T-shirts and crawled into bed.

Latham was my ex-boyfriend. I loved him, but messed up the relationship by being me.

I reached across my blanket for the remote, and made an unpleasant discovery: Mr. Friskers had indulged in his second-favorite game after all.

“Dammit, cat!”

I curbed a desire to toss him out the window, a desire I often had but never seriously considered because Mom loved the damn cat. Ten minutes later I’d cleaned up Mr. Friskers’s gift, microwaved a chicken parm Lean Cuisine for myself, and got under the covers to watch TV.

The videotapes from the Kork case called to me from their bag.

I ignored them, sticking with sit-com reruns and zany late-night talk show antics. But the jokes weren’t funny, and my mind wouldn’t let me relax. I brought those tapes home to watch them. And I only had forty-eight hours to find some kind of lead.

But I didn’t want to watch videos of people being tortured to death.

But this was my job.

But they might not even help the case.

But they might.

But, but, but.

Finally, when the only thing on was infomercials and pay-per-view porn, I crawled out of bed and went for the Jewel bag.

I told myself I could handle it. I told myself that the people on those tapes had been dead a long time. They were beyond my control. They weren’t in pain anymore. I was strong. I could handle it.

I could handle it.

I picked out a tape at random and shoved it into my VCR.

Snow. Then an image.

A teenaged girl. Tied to a chair. Crying.

“Hi, Betsy.” Charles Kork’s voice, low and straining to be seductive. “We’re going to play a game. It’s called ‘Please God Make It Stop.’ You see all of these nails? I’m going to hammer them into you, one at a time, and you’re going to beg God for it to stop. Are you ready?”

This happened in the past. I could handle it. I was a police lieutenant.

“Look at how big this nail is, Betsy. I bet it’s really going to hurt.”

I could handle it.

“Here it comes!”

Kork put the nail on the girl’s knee.

I forced myself to watch.

Chapter 4

MY FATHER WOULD . . . do things. To himself. To us.”

“What kind of things, Alex?”

Alex shifts on the shrink’s couch, stares at a small water stain on the ceiling. The office is too bright for Alex to get comfortable. It’s like being scrutinized under a microscope.

“Father’s a very religious man. A member of Los Hermanos Penitentes. Are you familiar with the group?”

“Flagellants. They lash themselves to atone for their sins.”

“They’re a Christian sect dating back to the sixteenth century, extremely strict, focusing on redemption through pain. They kneel on tacks. Rub salt and vinegar into their wounds. Mutilate themselves to absolve their sins. They also whip their children. Or make their children whip them.”

“Your father would whip you?”

Alex’s eyes close, memories flooding in. “Among other things.”

“How often did this occur?”

“Sometimes a few times a month. Sometimes every day.”

“And where was your mother during all of this?”

“Dead. When I was just a kid.”

Alex wonders if revealing the next part is wise. But what good is therapy without a little disclosure?

“My mother died of cancer, after I was born. Father took up with different women after that. Bad women. I remember one of them who wasn’t so bad. Father killed her. He beat her to death and buried her in the basement.”

Alex turns to assess Dr. Morton’s reaction. The good doctor remains composed, sitting in his high-back leather chair. Probably fancies himself Sigmund Freud.

“Were the police ever involved?”

“No. Father claimed she ran away, and ordered us never to speak about her.”

Dr. Morton leans forward. “Sometimes, when something traumatic happens to small children, they create events to help them deal with the trauma.”

“You mean maybe I imagined her death, and blamed my father for it? Because he abused me and she was missing?”

Dr. Morton makes a noncommittal gesture.

Alex considers. “That’s interesting. But not true in my case. I watched Father murder her. He tied her to a beam and flayed all of the skin off her body with a cat-o’-nine-tails.”

“And you saw this?”

“Father made me help.”

Dr. Morton jots something down on his notepad.

Alex smiles. “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe this is what you believe, Alex. In our last session, you mentioned your father is still alive.”

Alex thinks of Father. “Yes. He is. If you can call it living.”

“It’s difficult to believe he was never arrested.”

“Isn’t it? I wonder about that sometimes. How different I’d be if someone had stopped him. How many cats would be alive.”

Dr. Morton’s pen stops on the paper. “Cats?”

Alex yawns. It’s been a long week. Not much sleep.

“I kill cats. I get them from animal shelters, and drown them in a bucket of water.”

“Why do you do this, Alex?”

“It makes me feel better.”

“How often?”

“When the need arises. Does that shock you, Doctor?”

Alex meets Dr. Morton’s gaze. The man doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“No. I don’t judge, Alex. I listen, and try to help. When was the last time you killed a cat?”

“A few days ago.”

“Do you think that hurting animals is a way to release some of the pain you endured as a child?”

“Yes. Plus . . .” “Plus?”

Alex grins. “It’s funny to watch them struggle.”

Dr. Morton stands up, walks to the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re in control of your own fate, Alex, not a victim to it. At an early age, we all create unique ways to deal with life. With determination and effort, we can change. I don’t think you believe that killing cats is therapeutic, or beneficial, and the pleasure you gain from the act isn’t substantive.” The doctor turns around, raising an eyebrow. “We’ve talked about setting goals before.”

Alex knows where this is headed.

“You think I should quit killing cats?”

“What do you think?”

“Yeah. I could probably do that.”

Dr. Morton nods, playing the mentor role to the hilt.

“How are your other goals? You seem more at ease since last we spoke.”

“I’m getting all of my ducks lined up,” Alex says.

“Any ducks in particular?”

“Tying up loose ends from my past. Working to get over it. Taking small steps, instead of large ones, like you said.”

“Glad to hear it. How about that person you’ve fallen in love with?”

Dr. Morton flips through his notebook, but Alex mentions the name and saves him the trouble.

“Everything is going perfectly. Exactly according to plan.”

“And this love—it’s reciprocated, right?”

Alex wonders about this often.

“That’s an interesting question, Doctor. Can you ever truly know if love is being returned? You wear a wedding ring, so I assume you’re married, and I assume you love your wife. But even if she says she loves you, you can’t crawl around in her head and feel it for yourself. You can’t ever truly know.”

“I feel loved, and that’s reassurance enough. Do you feel loved, Alex?”

Alex thinks, really thinks hard.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I do.”

A gentle beeping sound comes from Dr. Morton’s desk. The doctor walks over and presses a button on the alarm, silencing it.

“That’s our time today, Alex. See you tomorrow.”

Alex stands up, stretches. “Absolutely. This is really helping me a lot. I appreciate you fitting me in.”

“That’s good to hear. And remember your goal.”

“Don’t kill any cats. Got it.”

They shake hands, and Dr. Morton shows Alex to the door.

Outside the office, Alex smiles big. Leaving cats alone for a week will not be a problem. Not at all.

The next thing Alex plans on killing isn’t a cat.

Chapter 5

IDIDN’T SLEEP.

Slumber and I were old adversaries, and on an average night I spent six hours doing the toss and turn, with only one or two hours of actual REM.

But last night I had trouble even closing my eyes.

I managed to get through the Kork tape, right up to the sad, sickening end. I kept the sound on, so I heard all the begging, all the screams. All the laughing and grunting.

Cops tended to be more cynical than the average citizen, but I tried to err on the side of neutrality when it came to human nature. I’d seen good, and I’d seen evil, and mankind exhibited both.

Watching the tape changed that for me. I showered, slapped on some makeup, dressed quickly in generic flats, some black Kenneth Cole pants, and a beige turtleneck sweater from the Gap, and drove to work with absolute tunnel vision. There were no depths to human cruelty. The knowledge burned in my stomach like a hot coal.

We were told to be careful of the us against them mentality, but when I finally got to my office, fighting rush hour traffic, watching the honking and the swearing as humans cut each other off, I truly hated my fellow man. I tried to bury my feelings in work. After a cup of vending machine coffee that tasted slightly worse than it smelled, I began going through reports.

The CSU had lifted several dozen prints from the Kork house, which were being run through the database. No prints on the toe jar, or the note. The video that had been dropped off was a Sony brand, available everywhere. The envelope manufacturer still wasn’t known, but it looked like an average padded mailer, and was probably sold at thousands of stores.

The desk sergeant had used an Identikit to put together a composite of the man who dropped off the video. He was average height, thin, in his thirties, with a full blond beard. He wore reflective sunglasses, a Cubs baseball cap, and a hooded sweatshirt. The picture had an eerie similarity to the much-circulated artist’s sketch of the Unabomber.

No prints on the tape. Prints from Herb and the desk sergeant were lifted from the envelope, along with a white powder residue that smelled like cleanser, such as Ajax or Comet. It was an old burglar trick. Scrubbing your hands with detergent will temporarily strip your hands of their natural oils, making it impossible to leave prints.

I called 411, looking for a last known address of Diane Kork, the Gingerbread Man’s ex-wife. Couldn’t hurt to question her again, if someone had picked up where her husband had left off. I found her in Bucktown, unlisted. I gave the operator my badge number and a minute later he called me back with her address and phone number.

I called, got a machine, and left a message. Then I called the county morgue.

“Hughes.”

“Morning, Max. Jack Daniels.”

“Hi, Jack. Here’s what I got so far. Sixty-eight toes, from nine different bodies. They’ve been preserved, and I’m guessing they might be anywhere from twenty to fifty years old.”

Max was an assistant medical examiner, and he considered small talk a mark of unprofessionalism.

“Preserved?”

“Packed in salt. There are still some grains left. The skin is completely dehydrated, no biological activity present.”

“Is that why some of them are so small? They shrunk?”

“There’s been some shrinkage, yes, but many of the toes are tiny because they came from children.”

My mind catapulted me back to the video.

Hughes went on. “I’ve got a forensic anthropologist friend named Coran who’s taking a look at the X-rays—she’ll be more specific. I’m a soft tissue guy, not a bone guy.”

“Could they have come from corpses?”

“You thinking a grave robber?”

“Or an undertaker who keeps souvenirs.”

“Possibly. But several of the toes have slices along the toenails, and along the underside.”

“Hesitation marks?”

“They’re more consistent with defense marks. If someone were trying to cut off your toes, you’d struggle. Wouldn’t be easy to do, even to a child. I don’t think I can test for histamine in a dried specimen, but I’d bet my house they were removed while these people were still alive.”

Pleasant thought. I concentrated on the age. If the toes were twenty years old, they could have come from some of Kork’s early victims. But anything older would have been impossible.

“One more strange thing, Jack—each of the toes has a tiny hole running through them, through the bones.”

“Any idea what that means?”

“None.”

“Thanks, Max. Call me when you know more.”

I hit the computer, searching for missing persons reports going back to 1950.

The number was in the millions.

I added restrictions to my search, confining it to the Midwest, sticking to the years 1970–1996.

Millions became tens of thousands. Still too many to conceivably go through. I back-burnered the idea for later and spun through my Rolodex, looking for an old number at the UIC.

“You’ve reached the office of graphologist Dr. Francis Mulrooney. Please leave a message at the beep.”

“Dr. Mulrooney, this is Lieutenant Jack Daniels of the—”

A click. “Lieutenant Daniels? How delightful to hear from you! I apologize for not picking up. I’ve been forced to screen my calls lately due to some unpleasantness. How can I be of service?”

“Do you still have those handwriting samples from the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve got another note. It looks similar, but I’m not the expert. Any chance of you coming by sometime this week?”

“I’ve got some things coming up at the university. Let me check my schedule.”

I could picture him, reaching a delicately manicured hand into his tailored vest pocket for his appointment book. Mulrooney was short, thin, with a slight blond mustache, comically thick glasses, and a fetish for bow ties. Academics normally intimidated me, but this one I liked. He was both helpful and unpretentious, two traits most professors lacked.

“I’m free tomorrow, late afternoon. But if you’d like a fast and dirty opinion, you can fax it to me.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Mulrooney read off his fax number. I had a photocopy of the recent Evanston note, and managed to feed that into my fax machine on my third try.

“It’s coming through now. Will you pardon me for a moment, Lieutenant?”

“Take your time.”

I trimmed my thumbnail with my teeth, imagining the petite man going over the writing sample with a magnifying glass.

“Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Is the original in marker?”

“Yes.”

“Clever.”

“It’s clever to write in marker?”

“One of the things graphologists look at is pressure. Felt-tip pens disguise that. Tell me, the fax you sent, is this the original size, or did you enlarge it?”

“The real sample is half the size.”

“I see. I look forward to seeing the actual note. This is a very interesting sample. We don’t see this too often.”

“See what, Doctor?”

“It appears to be a forgery. Someone who has seen Kork’s original handwriting and has done their best to imitate it. The descending t-bars. The slant. The capitalization. But there are some obvious differences. First of all, Kork’s writing is heaviest in the lower zone. This person is an upper zone writer, an indicator of high intelligence. Also, there are some feminine characteristics at work here.”

I blinked. “A woman wrote this?”

“It’s impossible to determine sex from a handwriting sample, and men can have feminine qualities in their script, just as women can have masculine qualities.”

Mulrooney went into a lecture about the differences between male and female traits in handwriting, but my attention was drawn away by a very unpleasant surprise standing in my doorway.

“Dr. Mulrooney?” I interrupted. “Something just came up. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Until then, Lieutenant.”

I replaced the receiver on the cradle and turned to face my demons.

Chapter 6

HELLO AGAIN, LIEUTENANT. I hope you remember us. I’m Special Agent Dailey, this is Special Agent Coursey.” He leaned forward a fraction. “From the Bureau.”

They had matching crew cuts. Special Agent Jim Coursey wore a gray suit. Special Agent George Dailey, the same height and build as Coursey, also sported a gray suit, but his buttons were squarish compared to Coursey’s roundish buttons. That must be how their handler could tell them apart.

“Can I see some ID?” I asked.

Dailey reached for his pocket, but Coursey stopped him with a look.

“She’s kidding. She does that.”

“Didn’t you read my profile?” I asked Dailey.

He dropped his hand back to his side and concentrated on looking Federal. Dailey and Coursey were ViCAT operatives from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. ViCAT stood for Violent Criminal Apprehension Team, which used high-tech suspect profiling techniques and state-of-the-art crime detecting computers to waste the time of local cops like me.

“We have some exciting news,” said Coursey.

I couldn’t pass that up. “You’re quitting the Bureau and joining the traveling cast of Riverdance?”

“No. The Evanston Police Department has invited us in on the new Gingerbread Man murder.”

Here was proof that God hated me.

“We’ve obtained a copy of the video. It contains some similarities to the previous Kork murders.”

“Gentlemen,” I began, “while it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that you’re—”

“We’ve had Vicky do a profile.” Coursey talked over me while Dailey removed a thick packet of paper from his briefcase and plunked it on my desk.

“Vicky is what we call the ViCAT computer,” Dailey added. “She’s a comprehensive compiled database of criminal activity committed throughout the United States.”

Every time they dropped by, they explained Vicky to me. Perhaps I had a sign around my neck that said: “Tell me again, I’m an idiot.”

“Though we haven’t had enough time to fully analyze the videotape of the murder, Vicky postulates that this is the work of a copycat,” said Coursey.

“A copycat,” said Dailey.

“A copycat,” said I. “Was your first clue the note, or the fact that it took place in the same house as Kork’s murders?”

Sarcasm was wasted on these guys, but that didn’t stop me from making an effort.

“If you’ll look over the profile, you’ll notice that this crime took an extraordinary amount of planning and organization,” said Coursey.

“So much so, that Vicky doesn’t believe this is the work of a single individual,” said Dailey.

“The facts point to the perpetrator being a group of individuals,” said Coursey.

“A group?” said I.

“An organized group of at least three people. Perhaps members of a club or organization.”

I took a stab. “Like the PTA?”

“Actually,” Coursey lowered his voice an octave, “we’ve been informed by Homeland Security that three members of a subversive Brazilian band went through Customs at O’Hare Airport eleven days ago.”

I held up a palm. “Guys, while being sent a videotape may have been meant to inspire terror, I really don’t think this was a terrorist act.”

“They’re not terrorists,” said Dailey. “They call themselves the Samba Kings.”

Coursey added, “They’re musicians.”

I took a moment before saying, “You think the murderer is a Brazilian samba trio.”

Dailey held up his right hand and ticked off fingers. “They’re organized. Focused. Motivated. And are in excellent physical condition, by the looks of the pictures on their CD.”

I checked my neck for the I’m an idiot sign. I didn’t have one. But I was considering getting two of them made, with matching gray letters.

“Gentlemen—” I began.

“There’s more,” Dailey interrupted. “According to Interpol, both the drummer and the lead singer have priors. And there have been several dozen instances of mutilation in Brazil recently.”

Coursey leaned in. “Cattle mutilation,” he said.

“Maybe their maraca player is a chupacabra,” I offered.

Dailey and Coursey exchanged a glance. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously, Lieutenant.”

I sighed. “Sorry, guys. It’s been a rough day. Why don’t you let me memorize this report you gave me, and I’ll get back to you, say, next week?”

Another look passed between them. I wondered if they had some kind of telepathy thing going. Probably not, as that would require a brain.

“How about tomorrow?” said Coursey.

“How about November?” I countered.

“How about on Thursday?” said Dailey.

“How about the first of never?” I returned volley.

“Next week it is,” Coursey said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Please do. And I’ll put out an all-points bulletin, asking my people to pay special attention to anyone speaking Portuguese.”

The special agents gave me a blank stare.

“That’s what they speak in Brazil,” I said.

“We knew that,” said Dailey.

“We went to Harvard,” said Coursey.

“Thanks for stopping by, gentlemen.” I held up their report. “I’ll get started on this right away.”

They left, and I placed the report in the circular file, on top of my empty coffee cup. A quick check of my watch—a Movado that Latham had given me—showed me it was nearing lunchtime, and Herb was probably done with his procedure. I gave him a call.

“Hello?” His voice was groggy.

“How’d the colonoscopy go? You eating a big plate of nachos yet?” Long pause. I heard hospital sounds in the background. A nurse talking. A doctor being paged.

“They found something. A tumor.”

I momentarily ran out of words.

“Jesus, Herb.”

“Took a biopsy. Won’t know until later.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I gotta go.”

He clicked off.

I stared at the phone, unsure of what to do. Go visit him? Herb, though cuddly on the outside, was a classic stoic. Dropping by would cause embarrassment, and possibly anger. But still, a tumor was a serious thing.

I closed my eyes. I’d had partners prior to Herb, but never one I’d cared about. Benedict was like a big brother. If Herb died . . .

The phone rang. I screwed a cap over my feelings and answered, hoping it was Herb.

“Did the Feebies just drop by?”

Bains.

“Yes, Captain. Evanston brought them in.”

“I want you off this.”

“You gave me forty-eight hours.” “I said to keep a low profile. With those two involved, it’s only a matter of time before the Weekly World News is camped outside the station. You’re off.”

“Captain—”

“Off.”

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. That didn’t do a damn thing, so I took another, and another.

Something inside of me, some little internal switch, had been flipped, and I wasn’t sure who I was. I thought about Herb, and my mom, and my ex-husband, Alan, and Latham, and my job, and my life, and where I’d been and where I was headed.

I thought about how hard I tried to remain in control, and what little good it did. Control didn’t matter. Fate didn’t care about how hard you tried, or how well planned you were, or how much you wanted something.

Fate had its own agenda.

I was forty-six years old. My job, the thing I devoted my life to, was in trouble. My best friend might be dying. My mother was in a coma. And I had screwed up the one thing that I did have some control over; I loved a great guy, and I blew it. And if I wanted to admit it, to take the hard inward glance that made me ask why, I knew the answer.

Deep down, I wanted to be miserable. I wanted to be miserable, because that’s what I deserved, because I hated myself.

Which was a pretty crummy way to live. And not something I wanted to continue.

I picked up the phone, dialing from memory.

“Hello?”

“Hi Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. I know a lot of time has passed, and I’m sure you’ve moved on, but I haven’t. I still love you. Can I come over?”

“Who is this? Do I know you?”

The voice wasn’t Latham’s.

“Ah, hell.” I disconnected and tried again, dialing more carefully.

“You’ve reached Latham Conger, I can’t come to the phone, please leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Say something, Jack.

The silence stretched.

Open your mouth.

Dead air, each passing second like a kick in the gut.

Dammit, woman, do you want to be miserable your whole life?

“Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry for everything. I love you. I’d like to see you again. Please call.”

There. I did it. I actually did something for myself. It brought a small smile to my face.

But my shoulders bunched up again when I realized I’d be up all night, waiting for him to call.

Once again, control was out of my hands.

Chapter 7

ISTOPPED BY Henderson House on the way home from work, but there had been no change. Mom hadn’t opened her eyes again. I sat with her for an hour. No talking this time, just holding her hand.

Twice I checked my cell phone, to make sure it was on. It was.

After a pillow fluff, I turned to leave and had a good startle seeing Tony Coglioso standing in the doorway. His eyes seemed glazed, far away.

“Tony?”

“Hi, Jack. How’s she doing?”

“The same. How about your dad?”

“The same.”

I wondered if I should apologize for barging in on him yesterday, and then thought that maybe he was the one who should apologize for being so rude, and finally accepted that neither of us needed to say the s word because, hey, our parents were dying.

“You look nice,” Tony said, not quite focusing on me.

I figured I looked like hell, but thanked him anyway.

Tony smiled. “See you soon.” Then he walked off.

Strange. Maybe he was drunk, or high on something. Or maybe he stopped by to ask me out, checked the merchandise, and decided to pass.

I fluffed Mom’s pillow again, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and headed to the elevator. No Tony in the hall, no Tony in the lobby, and no Tony in the parking lot. It didn’t matter. My mind was on Latham, not Tony, so I didn’t dwell.

After a quick check to make sure my cell phone hadn’t accidentally switched off during my walk to the car, I headed home.

Mr. Friskers gave me a warm welcome, howling and running away when I walked through the door. I reset the alarm and turned the dead bolt. Time to plan my big evening.

I made dinner, maxing out my culinary skills with a BLT. Then I fed the feral cat, plugged my cell into the charger, set my .38 next to my bed, swapped my outfit for a T-shirt and fresh panties, scrubbed my face, ate my BLT, brushed my teeth, and switched on the TV. Network drivel was better than brainwashing when it came to clearing a woman’s mind. I hopped on the bed, content to play station roulette.

Next to the TV, still in the Jewel bag, were the Kork videotapes.

They might as well have been blinking like a beacon.

You were pulled from the case, Jack. You don’t need to watch more people being tortured. You’ve got enough on your plate as it is.

I put on a game show, but stared at the bag. I switched to a cooking show, but kept looking at the bag. I tried a sit-com starring the stand-up comedian du jour.

That damn bag kept demanding my attention.

I crawled out of bed. Picked up the bag and carried it into the kitchen.

Mr. Friskers had his face crammed in his bowl. He hissed at my interruption of his gluttony. I hissed back and set the bag on the counter, next to the sink. The cat ran up and swiped a claw at my leg.

I jumped back, knocking the bag over and spilling files onto the floor. My ankle sprouted three shallow cuts, not too far from the other set of shallow cuts that had already healed, but lower than the fresh cuts a few inches higher.

“Dammit, cat!”

It was always my left leg too. He’d clawed me a dozen times, but never on the right leg. Sadism, with an agenda.

I tore off a paper towel, dabbing it at the blood while picking up papers with my free hand. My fist closed around the Diane Kork file, and I paused.

An image, unbidden, flashed into my head, of the first time I’d seen Diane Kork, half naked and bleeding in Charles Kork’s basement. I remembered her pleading, crying face. Her ugly wounds, weeping blood. And something else. Something familiar.

I paged through the file, but there weren’t any pictures of her wounds. Made sense; the case was closed, and evidence was no longer needed.

But I did have images of Diane. Videotape #12, “Slipping the Knife to the Wife.”

“You’re off the case, Jack,” I said aloud.

I didn’t listen to myself.

I found tape #12 and took it into the bedroom. I hit Play and then Fast-forward, cycling through Diane being tied up, up to the scene where he sliced off her clothes.

I paused the tape.

The image jittered, two lines of snow framing the edges of the screen, but I could clearly see what I’d been looking for: a heart-shaped tattoo, the size of a dime, on Diane’s hip bone just below the bikini line.

I stared for a moment, then went back to the kitchen and dug out the copy of the tape of the latest murder—the original was still at the lab.

I swapped cassettes and again viewed the slow approach to the Kork house, the walk into the basement, and the zoom in on the naked victim.

I couldn’t see any tattoos because the woman was sitting, and the crease in her lap obscured her bikini line.

I let the tape play in slow motion, watching her struggle and die frame by frame, and five minutes into her pain she arched her back and her pelvis came briefly into view.

Pause.

The heart tattoo was the same.

I felt my breath catch, and hashed out the possibilities. Either the killer had put a fake tattoo there to make it look like Diane Kork, or else the victim was indeed Diane Kork.

I had Diane’s phone number in my jacket pocket, from when I’d called Information earlier. When I dialed it, I got her answering machine for the second time.

“Shit.”

Two options. I could call the station, have them send a car over to check out Diane’s place. Or I could go myself, even though Bains had ordered me off the case.

Diane lived on Hamilton, and I was more than a mile closer to her than anyone at the 26th District.

I slid into some Levi’s, shrugged on a sweater, strapped on my .38, and was out the door before I gave it any more thought.

Chapter 8

ALEX CHECKS THE caller ID. It’s Jack Daniels.

Alex knows the number.

Alex knows a lot about Jack. Jack has been part of the plan from the very beginning.

It’s a little after ten p.m. and the lights are off in Diane’s house. This has been a good base of operations, but Alex knows it can’t last. Jack will come by eventually. She might even be on her way now.

What to do, what to do?

“An ounce of prevention,” Alex says, and smiles. In the bedroom are a suitcase and a trunk. Alex begins to pack—clothes, shoes, gear, the video recorder, all of the equipment. Alex takes it through the back door, through the yard, and into the tiny, unattached garage adjacent to the alley.

The trunk goes into the backseat of the rental car, and Alex finds a tire iron and a length of garden hose in the garage.

The car has a safety device in the gas tank that prevents siphoning, but Alex breaks through it with the crowbar. The hose snakes down the tank, and a few foul-tasting sucks on the other end brings forth the gas.

Alex fills two old buckets and a washtub, then removes the hose.

It takes two trips to carry the gas back to the house. Slosh-slosh-slosh. First the bedroom. Then the kitchen. Then the den. The place is filthy with Alex’s fingerprints, and this is much faster than wiping it all down.

When the gas has been poured, Alex begins to search Diane’s cabinets for matches. There’s a box on top of the refrigerator. Alex takes a deep breath, tastes gasoline fumes, and smiles.

The doorbell rings.

Jack.

Alex selects a matchstick and drags it along the side of the box, annoyed at the interruption.

Arson should be savored.

The match is dropped, igniting the linoleum floor with a soft whoomp.

Next to the sink is a semiautomatic pistol. Alex picks it up and walks into the living room, through a path in the flames, and waits patiently for Jack.

Chapter 9

IRANG DIANE Kork’s doorbell again, not expecting an answer. The tattoo match in both videos was enough to suggest a crime had been committed, giving me probable cause to enter her house without a warrant. The front door was heavy wood, dead-bolted, and I doubted even my best tae kwon do spin-kick would open it.

The neighborhood was dark, quiet, parked cars lining the unlit street. Kork’s house was typical for Chicago, a two-story red brick duplex with a black iron fence encircling a postage-stamp-sized lot. Similar buildings bookended this one, less than two yards between them. I walked down the porch stairs and took the narrow walkway to the rear of the house, looking for a basement window to break.

The windows along the side had decorative bars on them. I followed the perimeter, advancing into the backyard, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. We were in the heart of downtown, but with the lack of any lights it might as well have been the woods.

The backyard also had a porch, with two small windows framing the back door. I climbed the wooden stairs, tugging my .38 from my holster, keeping my elbow bent and the barrel pointed up.

Two things hit me at once: the smell of smoke, and the orange light flickering through a crack in the drapes.

Fire.

I tried the door. Locked, but the knob was cool. Switching the grip on my revolver, I tapped the glass out of the left-hand window and yanked the curtains through, smoothing them over the ragged shards.

“Police! Is there anyone in here?”

No answer. I tasted hot, foul air, shoved my gun back in my holster, yanked out my cell, and dialed 911. Then I pulled myself through the window.

I fell into the kitchen hands first, palming the linoleum floor and dragging myself along until my feet followed. Two countertops, and the floor in front of me, were ablaze, and the flames seemed to notice my arrival and launched themselves at me.

Smart move, Jack, breaking a window and feeding the flames with O_2.

I reached behind me in a panic, pulling the heavy drapes over my head, feeling bits of glass caress my hair, just as the fire surrounded me.

It got stifling hot, like I’d crawled into an oven. My fingers singed, and I released the burning drapes and rolled toward the door, becoming tangled in flaming, smoking fabric.

My head popped through the front, and a patch of my hair stuck to the melting floor. I peeked through one eye, noting I’d rolled through the worst of it, but the curtains cocooning me were sporting some serious flames of their own. Plus, whatever the curtains were made of, it didn’t burn cleanly, and choking brown fumes clouded my eyes and provoked a coughing fit.

First things first. I freed my left arm and tried to unwind the curtains, grabbing for the patches of fabric that weren’t on fire yet.

A wave of heat turned my attention to the right, and I witnessed the flames lick up the wall, enveloping the window I’d gone through. No exit there.

My eyes were useless now, my nose running like I’d turned on a faucet, and my coughs racked with phlegm. What kind of material were these curtains made from? Arsenic? I knew I’d choke to death before I burned to death, so I tore away the fabric, kicking and clawing, getting singed over and over until I was finally free.

I coughed, and spit, and crawled through the doorway. My left hand screamed at me, and I squinted at it but couldn’t make out the burns from the soot. I made a fist. It hurt, but was still functional.

Still on my knees, I took a quick look around and figured out I was in the living room. The ceiling was obscured by a thick cloud of gray smoke, and the walls looked like reverse waterfalls; flames flowing upward rather than water coming down. And the noise—a sort of low roaring sound, mixed in with the crackle of a billion dry leaves. Loud enough to mask my coughing. The sound of raging fire.

Twenty feet away, I saw the lower half of a doorway. I scrambled toward it on all fours, ignoring the pain in my burned hand, getting within fifteen feet . . . ten feet . . .

Two legs cut through the smoke and appeared in the doorway, obscured from the knees up. They wore loose jeans and construction boots, unlaced.

“Police!” I croaked, fumbling for my holster.

I heard the shot at the same moment I felt it, an explosive BOOM passing the right side of my head. I cleared leather and drew a bead, firing three shots at the center mass of the shooter just as the legs darted back.

My head rang with a deep resonation that shut out the sounds of the flames. I rolled right, on my stomach, keeping my gun on the doorway. I waited fifteen seconds. Thirty seconds.

My feet got hot, and I chanced a quick look and saw the fire creeping up behind me. I was about to be engulfed.

I crawled forward, using my legs and my burned hand, my .38 still trained ahead of me. The smoke had filled the room, hovering so low, it was in my face. I fired once more through the doorway, and then got on my feet and ran through it in a crouch.

A quick glance around showed me my mistake.

I’d run right into hell.

Chapter 10

ALEX FROWNS AT the miscalculation. The front door, the escape route, is an inferno, a giant wall of flame that is impossible to get through. The other two windows facing the street are also blazing.

There is no way out.

Alex thinks for a moment, then dashes through the haze and up the stairs. Visibility is poor, and it’s hard to breathe, but Alex remembers that the master bedroom has a window facing the street. A window that opens onto the roof.

A gunshot, from downstairs. Jack is still alive. Doubtful she will be for long, though.

Eyes burning and teary, Alex squeezes them closed and feels along the wall, eventually arriving at the bedroom. The latch opens easily, and Alex pulls up the window with enough force to crack the frame.

The cool Chicago air is like honey. Alex sucks down a breath, wiping away soot from stinging eyes. Walking onto the roof is ridiculously easy, and Alex follows the gutter around to the rear of the house.

Sirens pierce the night, closing in from all directions. Alex gets down on all fours and scoots to the edge of the roof. The drop is about twenty feet, onto grass, but the gutter looks sturdy.

Gripping the aluminum, Alex swings over the side and hangs for a moment before falling to the ground.

Ankles tight together, knees bent, Alex hits the earth hard but unharmed. Alex ponders for a moment—the suitcase is still in the house, but there’s nothing in it that can’t be replaced.

Jack is also still in the house.

Not the way Alex had intended for Jack to die, but a fitting way to end the lieutenant’s life. Choking, burning, and panicked. What more could a gal ask for?

Digging keys from a front pocket, Alex enters the garage, opens the garage door, and hops into the rental car. The sirens are deafening now. Alex starts the car and guns the engine.

A quick left down the alley proves to be a mistake; there’s an enormous fire engine blocking the exit. Alex checks the rearview and sees another truck, also crammed onto the narrow alley.

Leaving on foot isn’t an option. There are things in the trunk. Incriminating things.

Alex jams the accelerator to the floor and the tires screech. Between the fire engine and the building is a small gap. It doesn’t look wide enough to get a car through, but Alex has to try.

Twenty.

Thirty.

At forty miles an hour the car reaches the gap and Alex grips the steering wheel in iron hands. There’s some yelling—firefighters pointing at the car—and a clunking noise as both the driver’s-side and passenger’s-side mirrors tear from the chassis, but Alex makes it through the hole, clips a fireman and sends him spinning into his truck, and then speeds down Hamilton, grinning like the devil himself.

Chapter 11

LIKE ALL CURIOUS teenagers, I’d tried cigarettes. I decided early on that a nicotine buzz wasn’t worth holding hot smoke in my lungs.

That popped into my head as I crawled across the smoldering carpet, my head pressed to the floor in an attempt to suck the last bit of oxygen floating at the bottom of the living room.

The ringing in my head was subsiding, the fire sound coming back. I squinted through the thick smoke, which felt like sandpaper on my eyes, and wondered where I was crawling to. Disorientation had dug its claws in, and I might have been crawling around in circles. I tried to go where there weren’t flames, but there were more flames than not, and they danced and jumped around, igniting more things.

The heat had officially become unbearable. One time many years ago, in an effort to bake away my clammy white pallor, I’d visited Oak Street beach in July and had forsaken the sunscreen in order to minimize my tan time. I’d fallen asleep, and wound up with a nice case of sun poisoning, my skin so red, it had blistered.

This hurt worse. Though I wasn’t actually on fire, it was so hot, I felt like I was on fire. The sweat poured out of me in rivulets, but evaporated almost as soon as my pores squeezed it out.

My knuckles hit something ahead of me. A scorched wall. I followed it, blind and hacking, and it fell away into an opening.

Stairs.

Going up is never a smart idea in an emergency situation, but I couldn’t stay where I was. I climbed the stairs on my hands and knees, my .38 still gripped in my fist. Soon it would be too hot to hold. I wondered how stable the rounds were—on top of everything, I didn’t need my bullets exploding in my gun.

The higher I climbed, the smokier it got, which made sense because smoke rises. When I reached the top of the stairs, I couldn’t see and I couldn’t breathe. My lungs felt like two ashy lumps of charcoal, and I was light-headed and in surround-sound pain. I’d begun to cry between coughing fits.

The fire was right behind me.

Not knowing which way to go, I continued on my present course and felt tile under my hands. A bathroom. I got on my knees, felt up the wall, and hit the switch, hoping to turn on the fan to suck away some of the smoke.

No electricity.

Frantic and blind, I closed the door behind me and swung my hands wildly around, bumping the sink. I turned on the water, cupping some in my hands, splashing it onto my face to clear my eyes.

It helped a little, and I could make out the window opposite the sink. A ventilation window. Too small to crawl through, but I sure could use some ventilation right about now.

I fumbled with the latch, tugged it open, and took big, greedy gulps of cool night air.

Above the din of the flames, I heard sirens.

“Help!” I tried to yell. But it only came out as a croak.

I holstered my gun and felt around for a towel. Holding it tight, I stuck my arm out the window and wagged the towel frantically, like I was signaling to surrender. The window faced one of the narrow spaces between buildings, and all I could see was the side of the duplex next to me.

Then the heat suddenly kicked up, and I noted with displeasure that the bathroom door I closed moments ago was ablaze.

I hung the towel on the window latch and then backed away from the door, almost tripping against the bathtub.

Not a bad idea, a bath.

Climbing into the tub, I tugged on the faucet and yanked up the little handle to turn on the shower.

The water came out hot, but it felt wonderful on my face and hands. I stood in the spray, opening my mouth, letting it bathe my scratched throat. Then I bent down and pulled the lever to plug up the bathtub drain, letting the tub fill with water.

Though the window was open, the flaming door was creating smoke faster than it left the room. I sat down, hugging my knees, watching death descend from the ceiling, inch by inch.

The firefighters had to be hosing down the building, right?

It was a brick construction, and that helped, didn’t it?

Didn’t they see my towel hanging out the window and know I was in here?

Though it had to be over 110 in that bathroom, my whole body was shivering.

I was soaked, so I probably wouldn’t burn to death. The smoke would get me. Or maybe the water would heat up to the point that I’d boil. It felt like it was getting close. I had turned the handle to Cold, but there wasn’t any cold; the fire was heating the water as it came through the pipes.

It was just a matter of time until they figured out I was in here and rescued me. Two minutes, tops. I could last another two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds. Then I’d be safe.

I began to count.

One . . . two . . . three . . .

I stopped counting at 160.

The flames leaped from the door to the ceiling, and bits of burning plaster flaked down and sizzled in my tub, a rain of fire. I picked up the bath mat, dunked it in the sooty water, and wound it around my head. The shower slowed to a trickle, and then stopped, with my tub only half filled.

A calm came over me, possibly induced by oxygen deprivation. I was going to die. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I knew that I should be fighting somehow, trying to prevent it. But there was nothing else I could do.

I’d been beaten.

A small part of me didn’t want to accept it and screamed for me to act. Maybe I could wrap myself in wet towels and charge down the stairs. Maybe I could bust the bathroom window and scream until I was noticed, even though that wall was on fire now too.

But the larger part of me recognized those options as futile. I’d live a little bit longer if I waited for death, rather than rushed to meet it.

Once I accepted my fate, I accepted everything that went with it.

I wouldn’t ever know if Herb had cancer or not.

I wouldn’t ever know if my mom came out of her coma.

I wouldn’t ever know if Latham would have called me back.

I wouldn’t ever know who it was that shot at me downstairs, which seemed like hours ago.

Lifetimes ago.

It made me sad.

The bathroom door burst inward, and the last thing I remembered was a large man in a firefighter uniform reaching out for me.

Chapter 12

SOME FIRST-DEGREE burns on your left hand, smoke inhalation, and you’ll need stitches in your ear.”

I took another hit from the oxygen mask, my lungs feeling like they’d been scoured with steel wool. I went on another coughing jag, and spit something black and gross into my tissue.

“Stitches?” My voice was low and raspy.

The doctor, whose name tag said Williams, prodded my ear with a wet cotton ball.

“You’re missing a tiny piece on the top. You probably nicked it on something.”

I stayed silent. I hadn’t nicked my ear on anything. That bastard in Diane Kork’s house had shot the top of my ear off.

“Nothing to worry about,” the doctor said. “It won’t even be noticeable after it heals. Well, maybe a bit noticeable. Are you good with makeup?”

While the doc stitched me up, I used his rubbing alcohol and some cotton pads to clean the soot off of my face. My clothes were a disaster, soaked and scorched and garbage. I currently wore a hospital gown, but one of the shift nurses promised she’d find me some pants and a top.

“Are you sure you don’t want a local?”

“I’m fine.”

The Darvocet I’d been given for the pain in my hand had kicked in, and all I felt in my ear was a slight tugging while he sutured.

He knotted it off, and I had to fill out some forms before being discharged— against the hospital’s recommendation. A cute male nurse came in and flushed my eyes with something that helped stop the itching, and while he held my head in his strong and capable hands the shift nurse returned with some clothes.

“Do you think you can squeeze into a size twelve?” she asked.

“Maybe if I suck in my stomach,” I told her.

The male nurse offered me a towel and left, and I dressed in a large pair of khakis and a Bulls sweatshirt. The khakis were so large, I had to keep one hand on the waist to hold them up.

Finally, when I was forcing on my wet shoes, the fireman who’d rescued me poked his head through the curtain.

“Just wanted to check how you’re doing, ma’am.”

He was probably half my age, and his boyish face made him look even younger.

“I’m fine. Thanks again, Peter. You saved my life.”

“Just doing my job. Smart thing you did, hanging the towel out the window.”

He looked pleased with himself, and had a right to be. Saving a person’s life is the best natural high there is.

“Did you find anyone else in the house?”

“No. You were the only one in there.”

“No bodies?”

“Nothing.”

“You check the basement?”

“We checked everywhere. House was empty, thank God.” I thought about that. I would have bet good money that Diane Kork’s body was somewhere in the house.

“Did you see anyone running from the house before me? Someone in jeans and work boots?”

“I didn’t. But someone was in a hurry to get away from there. Tommy got clipped by a car in the alley out back.”

“Tommy?”

“Tommy Thurston, guy from my unit. He’s just a couple beds down. Broken leg. Want to meet him?”

“Yeah, I would.” I squeezed on my second shoe and stood, one hand holding my pants.

Peter led me down the hall. Tommy lay on his cot, his calf wrapped in a fiberglass cast. His eyes were closed. He looked too young to shave. Where were they getting firemen these days, out of grammar school?

“Mr. Thurston?”

“What? Oh, hey. You’re the one we pulled out.”

I offered a hand. “Lieutenant Jack Daniels. How’s the leg?”

“Tibia fracture. Not bad.”

“I heard you were hit by a car.”

“Damnedest thing. He came screeching out of the alley like Dale Earn-hardt. Clipped engine number twelve and the side of a building, and gave me a love tap like I wasn’t even there. Probably didn’t see me.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No. Too dark. Happened too fast.”

“How about the car?”

“Dark color. Looked new. Could have been anything. Lots of cars look alike these days, don’t you think? Shouldn’t be hard to find, though.”

“Why is that?”

“Guy lost both his side mirrors driving through the gap.”

I nodded. “Any chance you noticed the license plate?”

“Actually, right before it hit me, I did notice the plate. Started with D one.”

“D one? You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh. I remember because when it was coming right at me I thought, I’m the Dead One. D one. Get it?”

“I got it. You don’t remember any other numbers?”

“Nope. There were six or seven of them. Looked like an Illinois plate.” His eyes lit up. “Hey, your name is Jack Daniels?”

“That’s me. Lightly braised, but in the flesh.”

“I like that show on TV that you’re in, that Fatal Autonomy. You’re pretty funny. I loved the one where you were screaming and screaming and screaming for help and that private eye guy took off his dirty sock and crammed it in your mouth.”

I gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Good episode.”

Peter chimed in. “My favorite is the one where you tracked down that killer and went to shoot him but you forgot to load your gun.” He slapped his thigh, grinning. “Classic.”

“That didn’t really happen.”

“Sure was funny, though.” Peter eyed my outfit. “I think it’s great you’re losing weight. Made my job a lot easier, carrying you.”

I considered telling him that I wasn’t fat, that was only the actress who played me, but I let discretion be the better part of valor.

“Excuse me.” I slid past. “Gotta get home and drink my Slim-Fast shake. Thanks again, guys.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Daniels.”

Since the paramedics had taken me to the hospital, I had to take a cab to my car, still parked on Hamilton. A single fire engine remained on the scene, hosing down Diane Kork’s house. The flames had long since been extinguished, but the heat remained. When the water hit certain spots, it hissed and steamed fiercely.

I wanted to poke around inside, but now didn’t seem like a good time. Plus, I was exhausted. I did drive around to the back alley, and was rewarded with a nice surprise: two rearview mirrors, broken and lying on the asphalt.

Evidence. I hoped it would be enough.

Chapter 13

IMANAGED TO sleep for six whole hours, which was wonderful, but waking up was a Spanish Inquisition interrogation.

My eyes were glued shut with crust, my nose and throat were raw, my hand felt like I was holding it over a stove burner, and my ear throbbed with my heartbeat. A bad headache was the cherry on top of the pain sundae.

Good freaking morning.

I sat up and stared into the indifferent eyes of Mr. Friskers, who perched at the foot of my bed like a gargoyle.

“What do you want, cat? Food?”

He meowed.

I almost did a double take. Mr. Friskers never meowed. His normal method of communication was hissing or yowling.

“What, are you actually trying to be friendly?”

The cat meowed again.

Though my heart was carved from glacier ice, I felt it melt a bit.

“That’s sweet.” I reached out to pat him on the head, and he hissed and clawed my hand, drawing blood.

He ran off before I could find my gun and shoot him.

I glanced at the clock. A little after nine a.m. I had a lot to do, plus that handwriting expert was stopping by the office this afternoon, but I couldn’t comprehend going to work feeling as crummy as I did. The very thought of explaining to Captain Bains what happened last night made my head hurt worse than it already did.

Screw it. I needed a day off.

I peeled myself out of bed, found my way to the bathroom, coughed and hacked and spit black mucus into the toilet for ten minutes, changed into some old Lee jeans and the Bulls sweatshirt I inherited last night, and then lurched into the kitchen. Checked my answering machine. No calls. Plodded back into the bedroom and checked my cell phone. No calls. Found some aspirin, made quick work of three, then forced myself back into the kitchen, where I liberated a tray of ice from the freezer.

I chewed on the cubes, which helped my sore throat. Then I called the graphologist, Dr. Francis Mulrooney, to cancel our appointment. He wasn’t in. I left a message.

I spent the next thirty minutes cleaning and oiling my .38. I carry a Colt Detective Special, blue finish, black grips, with a two-inch barrel. It weighs twenty-one ounces, and is seven inches from butt to front sights. I preferred revolvers to semiautomatics for several reasons. They had fewer moving parts, which meant less could go wrong in terms of jamming and misfiring. At any time, I could visually check how many rounds were left. And they were easier to clean.

I threw away the two remaining bullets still in the cylinder, not knowing how the heat and the water from yesterday had affected them, and was loading six fresh rounds when I heard someone at my door.

It wasn’t a knock. It was someone trying to turn the knob.

I slapped the cylinder closed and walked silently up to my door, keeping to the right of the frame.

The knob continued to turn, and I heard the jangle of keys.

Latham? He had a key to my apartment. I disengaged the burglar alarm and almost turned the dead bolt and threw the door open, but thought better of it and checked the peephole first.

Good thing I did. The woman outside my door was someone I’d never seen before. She looked to be in her late thirties, short brown hair, with a jagged scar reaching from her left eye to the corner of her mouth.

I wondered how I should play it. Announce myself as a cop through the door? Ask who is it? Surprise her with a snub nose in her face?

“Who’s there?” I said.

My voice seemed to startle her. She backpedaled away from my door and walked quickly down the hall.

I flipped back the dead bolt and swung the door open, my .38 locking on her back.

“Stop! Police!”

She turned and froze, her face going from white to whiter.

“Hands in the air!”

Her hands shot up. “I just moved in! I thought that was my apartment!”

“Palms on the wall, feet apart.”

The woman hugged the plaster like she knew the drill. She wore some kind of work overalls, brown and grubby, and the odor she gave off wasn’t pleasant.

I did a quick but thorough pat down, and found a butterfly knife in her boot.

“That’s for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Department of Sanitation. The sewers.”

“You need a martial arts weapon for sewer work?”

“It’s under four fingers. It’s legal.”

I opened the butterfly knife, and it had a short blade. Short but thick. Any blade longer than a handspan was against the law, and this one looked like it could go either way.

“Why were you trying to break into my apartment?”

“I told you, cop.” She said the word cop as if it hurt her. “I thought it was mine. It was an honest mistake. Quit hassling me.”

I fished out a wallet, which wasn’t the most pleasant thing to do because she had gunk—presumably sewer gunk—on her pockets. Her driver’s license told me she was Lucy Walnut. Address in Oak Park.

“Says here you’re in the suburbs.”

“I just moved in last week. Haven’t got the license changed.”

“Okay, Ms. Walnut. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. Which door is yours?”

“I’m in 304. The doors don’t have numbers on them.”

Three-oh-four was right next to mine.

“Keys. And stay put.”

She handed over the keys and I kept a bead on her while trying the lock. It turned.

“Told you so. Can I go now?”

“Where’d you do time, Ms. Walnut?”

She stayed quiet.

“I can find out easy enough.”

“Did a nickel at Joliet.”

“What for?”

Silence again.

“I asked, what for?”

“I don’t need to tell you nothing.”

“No, you don’t. But if you’re on parole, I can find out who your PO is and explain how you were trying to break into a cop’s apartment.”

“That was an accident.”

“My word against yours. Who do you think the judge will believe? Now, what were you in for?”

“Battery. I answered your damn questions. Can I go now?”

I tossed her keys on the floor by her feet.

“Keep your nose clean, Ms. Walnut. I’m going to hold on to your knife, because I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself with it.”

“Whatever.”

We both went into our respective abodes, and I took a big breath and let it out slow. My hands were quaking from adrenaline, just like they always did after I shook down a suspect.

I set my gun on the counter, tossed the knife in the garbage, closed my eyes, and let my body return to calm.

The calm was shattered two minutes later, by a knock on my door. Ms. Walnut again, back to take revenge against the cop who stole her knife?

I picked up my gun and peered through the peephole.

It wasn’t Ms. Walnut. It was someone a lot worse.

Chapter 14

WHAT DO YOU want?” I said through the door.

“Can’t an old friend drop by and say hello?”

“An old friend, yes. You, no.”

“Come on, Jackie. Open the door.”

“No.”

He knocked again, harder.

“Hurry! Open up! It’s my heart! I feel a blockage in my pituitary artery! My left arm has gone numb! Jackie, for the love of God!”

I thought about going into my bedroom and watching TV, but I knew he’d just keep bugging me until I let him in.

“I’m dying, Jackie! Everything’s getting dark! So dark! I’m too young and too pretty to die like this!”

I wistfully eyed the .38 I’d set on my counter, then unlocked my door.

Harry McGlade, private investigator sub-par and namesake to the lead character in the TV series Fatal Autonomy, came into my apartment without being invited.

He wore the typical Harry outfit: a wrinkled brown suit, a stained tie, a chubby face in need of a shave, and enough cologne to make my nose hurt.

“Hiya, Jackie. What’s shaking?”

“I see you’re still allergic to ironing.”

McGlade tugged on his lapels like a wise guy. “This is Armani. Armani doesn’t wrinkle.”

“Then what are all of the crinkles and creases?”

“Those are style lines.”

He smiled at me, the smile becoming a wince as he took in my condition. “Damn, what happened to you? Looks like you got into a fight with an ugly stick, and the ugly stick kicked your ass.”

I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “This is the amount of patience I have left, McGlade. What do you want?”

“I need a favor.”

“No.”

“It’s important.”

“No.”

“It’s not work-related. It’s personal.”

“Hell no.”

“I’m getting married.”

“My sympathies to your fiancée.”

“I’d like you to stand up.”

I was about to say no again, but I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.

“What did you just ask me?”

McGlade spent a moment studying his shoes. Brown leather, Italian. Probably worth a fortune.

“I need a, uh, best man. I want you to be my best man.”

I considered all of the hurtful put-downs I could sling at him, and gave him my best.

“Let me guess. You don’t have any friends because you’re an obnoxious bottom-feeding creep, so I’m the only person you can ask.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. That pretty much covers it.”

I rubbed my eyes, a bad move because they hurt like hell. Millennia ago, McGlade worked for the CPD and was my partner. He screwed that up, and screwed me over, which should have been the end of our relationship. But Harry kept reappearing in my life, like an antibiotic-resistant rash. He was the reason why that stupid character on that stupid TV show was named after stupid me.

“Will you do it?”

“I’d rather eat a box of tacks.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I’ll pay you. I’m rich.”

“Pay someone else.”

“I would, but my betrothed wants it to be you.”

“She knows me?”

“She loves the TV show.”

That damn show. “I’m close to losing my job because of that show.”

“Aren’t you knocking on retirement anyway, Jackie? Pretty soon you’ll be chasing bad guys with a walker.”

It was my fault. I let him in.

“You want me to be your best man?” I gave him a sharp poke in his chest, feeling my finger sink into pudge.

“I’m begging you, Jackie. I’ll do anything.”

“Kill me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“On the show. Kill my character. You’re the executive producer, right?”

“Yeah. But an executive producer doesn’t do anything, other than collect a fat paycheck.”

“Then find some other moron to stand up for you.”

McGlade chewed his lower lip, and I could practically see the two gears turning in his head. I was pretty sure there were only two.

“We haven’t filmed the season finale yet, and it has a big surprise in it.”

“Great. Gun me down.”

“Actually, your character professes love for me and we have sex in an alley.”

“There’s your surprise. After sex, I eat my gun. A perfectly natural reaction.”

“I have to talk to the producer. And the writers. And the network.”

“Yes or no, McGlade?”

He grinned. “It’s a deal. The network has always pushed to replace you with someone sexy. Here’s their chance.”

“Good. Now you can leave.”

Harry headed for the door.

“The rehearsal is in two days.”

“Two days?”

“Wedding is in four days. Why wait?”

“Indeed . . .”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. And you need to bring a date.”

“Why?”

“Holly doesn’t have anyone to stand up either.”

“Great.”

“Toodles, Jackie. And try to wear something nice, not any of that Home Shopping crap.”

I may have smacked him in the ass with the door as he left.

After regaining my composure, I hit the bathroom and took a few more aspirin—standard procedure after a visit from Harry—and then attempted to shower.

The water hurt, but I scrubbed until the last of the soot swirled down the drain. After the shower I rubbed some burn salve on my hand, bandaged it up, dressed in a T-shirt and jogging pants, and jogged into the kitchen to eat.

I microwaved a potato and stuffed it with cheddar cheese and some pan-seared broccoli. Swallowing brought tears to my eyes, and the tears in my eyes made them hurt. I was squirting myself in the face with Visine when the phone rang.

Latham? I hurried to answer.

“Hughes at county. Got some results.”

I sighed. If I couldn’t speak to my ex-boyfriend, I suppose the next best thing was speaking to an assistant medical examiner about a jar of severed toes.

“I’m all ears, Max.”

“My bone girl, Jess Coran, confirmed the toes are all about thirty years old. We also did some tests, found saliva.”

Yuck.

“Is it from a secretor?”

“It’ll take a few days to know. Sample is tiny, it will be tough to pull.”

“If anyone can do it, you can.”

“I wouldn’t need the flattery if I made more money.”

“Flattery costs the taxpayers less. What about those holes you found in the toes?”

“I’ve got a hypothesis. We dissected one, found minute fibers. Could be thread.”

“Meaning?”

Hughes clucked his tongue. “I arranged the toes in a circle. There were just enough to make an adult-sized necklace.”

Chapter 15

ALEX SHIFTS ON the couch and mentally replays the shrink’s question.

“What are some of the things your father did to you?”

There are so many, Alex sometimes wonders if they were all real. The punishment box, the size of a coffin, locked inside for days without food or water. Wetting the bed and being forced to lick up the mess. Kneeling on thumbtacks. Being hung from the rafters and lashed until you went hoarse from screaming. Having to help Father kill people. Even other children, friends from school.

“He did many things,” Alex says. “If there was an award for child abuse, he’d have won.”

“You know it’s abuse as an adult. How about as a child? Did you understand your father was unfit?”

“I knew Father was different, but I didn’t understand he was crazy until years later. I didn’t question the abuse. I just tried to cope.”

“By killing cats?”

Alex smiles. Dr. Morton has probably been waiting to slip that in.

“Among other things. We lived in constant fear, and did things to help with the fear.”

“What things?”

“I would cut myself, sometimes, on my legs. Isn’t that strange? Here I was, a kid, being horribly abused, and I abused myself even more.”

“Perhaps you were doing it to express the pain you were feeling inside.”

Alex digested this.

“Or perhaps I began to like the pain.”

“Do you enjoy pain, Alex?”

Alex sneaks a glance at Dr. Morton. The good doctor is calm and composed, as usual.

“I’m not sure. I was always terrified of being hurt. But after a while, it was kind of like a challenge. Sort of like, I can handle this, what else have you got? I don’t think I enjoy the pain so much as I enjoy mastery over it.”

“How about the pain of others?”

Alex grins, full wattage.

“Oh, now that I love.”

“Hence the cats.”

“Yeah. Hence the cats.”

“But you know now that it’s not beneficial for you to harm animals.”

Alex nods. “Right. No more animals. I’m clear on that.”

Dr. Morton makes a grunting sound, perhaps trying to convey approval.

“What are some of the other things you did to cope, Alex?”

“Sex. I had sex.”

“Were you sexually abused by your father?”

“No. Never. For Father, sex was something perverted. Unnatural. The devil’s work.”

“Is that how you feel about sex?”

“No. I think sex between two people who love each other can be a beautiful thing.”

“How old were you at the time?”

Alex thought about it. “Fourteen.”

“And the person you had sex with?”

“Fifteen.”

“Were you in love?”

Alex’s eyes close, and the memories seep in. Stolen kisses. Sideways glances. Shameful caresses that felt so good, they couldn’t be the devil’s doing.

“Yes. Yes, I was in love.”

The timer on the desk beeps.

“We’ve come to the end of another session.” Dr. Morton stands up, smiles benevolently.

“Same time tomorrow?” Alex asks.

“Unfortunately, no. I’m booked for the day.”

Alex’s mood darkens. “You told me we could have daily sessions. I’ll only be in town for a short time, and I have a lot to figure out.”

Dr. Morton pats Alex on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I can see you the next day, same time.”

“I’d really like to see you tomorrow.”

“Impossible. But if it matters, I think you’re coming along wonderfully.”

Alex blinks. “I am?”

“You are. You’re well on the road to recovery, Alex. The progress you’ve made in these last few sessions is tremendous. Take a day off. Do something fun. Enjoy yourself.”

Alex stands, extends a hand.

“I’ll do that. Thank you, Doctor. See you tomorrow.”

Dr. Morton smiles. “The day after tomorrow, Alex. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Alex walks outside, to the rear of the rental car. Looks carefully up the street. Down the street. No one is around. Alex opens the trunk.

Dr. Francis Mulrooney stares up, eyes wide with terror. Clothesline binds his wrists and ankles, tight enough to be cutting off the circulation. It’s probably excruciating, Alex thinks. The graphologist’s hands are an ugly blue. Deprived of blood, necrosis is already setting in. Like dead fruit, rotting on the vine.

It doesn’t matter. He won’t be needing his hands ever again.

Mulrooney tries to scream, but the gag muffles it. Alex shushes him.

“It’s okay. My psychiatrist says I’m making a lot of progress.”

Mulrooney had been incredibly easy to locate; a quick call to the university did the trick. And kidnapping is child’s play. All a person needs is some Rohypnol, available over the Internet, and a used wheelchair. Jab a man on the street, sit him down as the drug takes immediate effect, and take him anywhere. He won’t even complain.

Alex opens the kit bag by Mulrooney’s feet and removes a syringe.

“Nighty-night time. When you wake up again, we’ll be at my new place. I’m going to see how much of your skin I can peel off before you die.”

Another muffled scream. Alex jams the needle into his biceps and injects the drug.

It will be a pleasant warm-up for Jack. Alex is pleased that the lieutenant survived. It would have been a shame for her to die without getting to know her.

Mulrooney’s eyes begin to flutter. Alex pats him on the cheek.

“I have to enjoy myself. Doctor’s orders. But first, we need to stop at the hardware store and get some tools. Can’t skin you without tools.”

Mulrooney continues to scream as the trunk is closed.

Chapter 16

WHAT HAPPENED TO your hair?” The stylist frowned at me. “Did you have the hair dryer on too long?”

“Something like that.”

I disliked getting my hair done, which is why I kept it long and dyed it at home. Sitting still while someone fussed over me made me nervous.

Unfortunately, the fire had done some major damage, making it impossible to get a comb through it. So I sought professional help. This particular stylist was named Barb. Her own hair was pink, and she had enough facial piercings to set off a metal detector.

“The ends are melted here. You see that?” She held up my bangs and frowned at my reflection in the mirror.

I shrugged. “Cheap shampoo.”

“You get what you pay for. We only carry Vertex hair care products. The shampoo is seventy dollars for a thirty-two-ounce bottle.”

“Seventy dollars? Is it made out of caviar?”

“Kelp. And biotin.”

“Can I pay on installments?”

Barb smacked her gum. She didn’t find me funny.

“When I finish cutting, should we do something about these gray roots?”

I didn’t find that funny.

An hour later I’d lost six inches of hair, gained some auburn highlights, and was out almost three hundred bucks—but that included the tip and a bottle of Vertex, with biotin and kelp.

While vanity wasn’t one of my hobbies, I really liked the new cut. It softened up my appearance, and I daresay, made me look a little younger.

My next stop was an auto supply warehouse. I brought in the two side mirrors I’d picked up in the alley behind Diane Kork’s house, and a helpful guy named Mitch found the parts number.

“They’re from a Dodge Stratus, a Mitsubishi Eclipse, or a Chrysler Sebring. Coupes and sedans, going back a few years.”

“It could be from any of those?”

“It fits any of those. Parts manufacturers sell to different car companies.”

“Any way to narrow it down?”

“I could try to match the paint. There’s some flakes from where this one broke off.” He used his thumbnail to scrape some paint chips onto the white counter, then hauled out a book of colors. “I’m not sure if that’s Magnesium or Graphite Metallic.”

“Looks like plain old dark gray to me.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Gray is boring. No one would buy a gray car.”

He went back to his book. I neglected to tell him that I had a gray car. Or perhaps it wasn’t really gray. Perhaps it was Silver Dusk. Or Sissy Black.

“No to Graphite Metallic. And Magnesium doesn’t match either. Which means it has to be Titanium Pearl.”

“Naturally,” I said. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”

I got another eye roll. “Graphite Metallic and Magnesium are colors used by Dodge and Chrysler. If it isn’t one of those, it has to be Mitsubishi. They call their gray Titanium Pearl.”

“Are you sure?”

“Check for yourself.”

He found the appropriate page in the color book and placed the paint flakes on the swatch. Looked like a match to me.

“Thanks, Mitch.”

I used my cell to call the station. Herb hadn’t come in today, so I gave instructions to Detective Maggie Mason, who was a comer in Violent Crimes due to good instincts and a lack of any sort of social life. Like me.

“Late model Mitsubishi Eclipse, color gray, first two plate numbers Delta one. Call me when you get the search results.”

If there turned out to be too many to track down, I could get a team to start calling repair shops, to see if anyone came in to replace their side mirrors.

My next stop was Diane Kork’s house. It was in much better shape than I would have guessed, considering the inferno of the night before. The only evidence a fire had occurred were some black scorch marks on the brick, and plywood sheets nailed over the windows and doors to discourage looting.

I stood staring for a moment, wondering how the hell I’d get inside, when luck winked at me and a woman in an OSFM Windbreaker appeared from the backyard, walking a German shepherd.

I flashed my badge.

“Lieutenant Daniels, Violent Crimes. You with the office?”

The woman nodded, offering a hand. She was pear-shaped, short, with large blue eyes.

I hesitated, keeping one eye on the dog, which was the size of a small bear.

“Jeanna Davidson, arson investigator. Don’t mind Kevlar. He’s a sweetheart.”

The sweetheart yawned, showing me enough teeth to swallow a Volkswagen. I shook Jeanna’s hand slowly, to avoid getting mauled.

“I’m guessing this was arson.”

Jeanna nodded. “Kevlar sniffed out the accelerant. Burn pattern suggests gasoline. Were you the one we rescued?”

“Yeah. Thanks for that. Do you mind if I poke around inside?”

“Sure. Structure’s stable. Want a tour?”

“If it’s okay with Kevlar.”

We went around back and Jeanna walked up the porch. The rear entry had a makeshift door nailed to it, with a standard latch and padlock. Jeanna opened it and switched on a Maglite.

Unlike the exterior, the inside was an unholy mess. What wasn’t burned black had been soaked with water. Gray puddles (closer to Magnesium than Titanium Pearl) spread across the kitchen floor, each pool several inches deep. Jeanna led me into the dining room, and I knelt in the doorway and searched the charred floor.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“Bullet casings. Someone shot at me from here.”

“Do you have any bullets on you?”

“In my gun.”

“Show one to Kevlar.”

I unholstered my .38 and removed a round, passing it over to Jeanna. She held it before the dog’s nose.

“Kevlar, scent.”

The German shepherd sniffed the bullet, which easily could have fit into one of his huge nostrils.

“Kevlar, find.”

She unclipped his leash and the dog shuffled off, snorting here and there.

“Kevlar is one of four dogs in the state’s canine arson unit. I’ve been handling him since he was a puppy.”

Jeanna spoke with the inflection of a proud mother. Since she was helping me, I made with the small talk.

“How long have you worked for the Office of the State Fire Marshal?”

“Seven years. I bring Kev in on maybe thirty investigations a year.”

“Are there many deliberate cases?”

“Last year the office investigated over a thousand. About four hundred confirmed arson. Usually we don’t need the dogs—the signs are obvious, like in here. See how this patch of carpet burned away hotter than that patch? Gas spill.”

“So why bring Kevlar along if you already know it’s arson?”

“He hates being left out.”

Kevlar whined, and Jeanna focused the flashlight on the floor in front of him. I gave the dog a pat on the head and found what he’d been sniffing: a shell casing.

“Good boy, Kevlar.”

Jeanna hugged the bear, and I dug a plastic bag from my jeans and coaxed in the cartridge.

“There might be others,” I said. “Do you mind if I borrow the flashlight?”

Jeanna handed it over and pulled a smaller, slimmer model out of her jacket. Then she commanded the dog to find more bullets. Useful dog. Much more useful than a cat.

I wandered back into the kitchen, tripping over the curtains that had almost been my shroud the night before. I played the Maglite over the entire room. Nothing jumped out at me.

I crept into the living room, and then the dining room, my Nikes quickly becoming waterlogged. The house had gone from Dante’s Inferno to the Addams family, dark and damp and creepy, filled with long shadows and unpleasant odors. Near the wall in the dining room stood a strange-looking pile, and I nudged it with a wet toe and saw part of a handle.

A suitcase.

I squatted and picked through the cinders. Everything was burned pretty good, but two things stood out. The first was a five-inch flat wire, curved into a half-moon shape. The second was a congealed knot that I recognized immediately by its distinctive smell.

Human hair.

“Did you find something?”

“Maybe. Can you check the cabinets in the kitchen, see if any garbage bags survived the fire?”

“Sure. Watch Kevlar for me.”

More poking produced nothing but ash and melted globs. I’d take it back for the lab guys to interpret.

Jeanna found a bag, Kevlar didn’t find any more shells, and I spent another half an hour bumping around in the dark before calling it quits and heading out into the fresh air.

I placed the wet bag in my trunk and called Mason.

“How’s the search for the car going?”

“Narrowed it down to six gray Mitsubishi Eclipses with Illinois plates beginning with D one. Ran priors on five of the registered owners, came up clean except for traffic violations.”

“Send out some squads to visually check the cars for missing mirrors. What about the sixth?”

“Owned by a car rental place.”

She gave me the address, on Irving Park. It wasn’t too far, so I decided to check it out.

The office was typical for Chicago; a tiny building next to a cramped parking lot crammed with vehicles. The lobby was the size of my closet. A stained coffeemaker with a quarter-full carafe sat next to the unoccupied counter. A floor plant, brown and shriveled up, sat in an oversized plastic pot, next to a magazine rack that contained a single copy of Car and Driver and nothing else. I rang the bell.

“Just a second.”

He took his time. I stared at the coffee, cooking away on the warmer, probably since the morning. Against my better judgment I poured myself a Styrofoam cupful. It had the consistency of mud, which was pretty much how it tasted.

Should have trusted my better judgment.

I dumped it on the dead plant. Probably wasn’t the first to do it. Probably was the reason the plant had died.

“Help you?”

The guy was older, several days’ growth of beard on his face, grease embedded in his wrinkles and fingernails. He wore equally stained overalls, and a sewn-on name tag that said Al.

I flashed my star.

“Have you rented out a gray Mitsubishi Eclipse lately?”

He stared, then shook his head.

“Nope.” Then he said, “I did rent out a Titanium Pearl Eclipse, though.”

I bit back my first response.

“We have reason to believe it was involved in an accident. Can you show me who rented it?”

“Lemme get the book.”

Al plodded off, and eventually plodded back, nose pressed into a cracked binder. This time he had on a pair of bifocals thicker than ice cubes.

“Rented it out last week to a fella named Mayer. Mike Mayer.”

“You get a copy of his driver’s license?”

He handed me the book. “That’s the law, ain’t it?”

I checked out the info on Mr. Mayer. White, thirty-seven years old, had an Indiana license that said he lived in Indianapolis. The car was rented for the next two weeks. There wasn’t a credit card receipt. I wondered why.

“Paid cash. I’ve got the card number, though. In case of damage.”

“Where’s that?”

Al frowned, and disappeared again. I spent the time counting the cigarette butts in the dead plant. Nine, plus a cigar stub, a lottery ticket, and something that looked like a Tootsie Roll. I hoped it was a Tootsie Roll.

“We keep the card numbers on file in here.” He set a metal lock box down on the counter and fumbled with the combination.

Three eternities later, squinting through his glasses, Al had found the slip.

“Were you here when Mr. Mayer rented the car?”

“I’m the only one works the counter.”

“A testament to your efficiency. Can you describe Mr. Mayer?”

“Looked like his driver’s license picture, I reckon.”

“I’d like to hear it from your own mouth.”

“Thin. My height. Blond beard. Sunglasses, those kind that look like mirrors. Curly hair.”

He sounded like a dead ringer for the guy who dropped off the videotape at the station. I had a Xerox in the car, and asked Al to wait for a moment. He grunted.

When I returned with the picture, Al was gone. I rang the bell. He took his time.

“Busy day,” he said. “Lots of work.”

I made a show of looking around. “Yeah. They’re lining up out the door for rentals.”

“Rentals are just a side business. We’re part of Manny’s Car Repair Shop. Mostly use the rentals for loaners. Insurance reimburses us.”

“Is Mr. Mayer getting his car repaired here?”

“Nope. Just the rental.”

“Do you get a lot of people who rent cars without leaving one to be fixed?”

“Some. Not a lot.”

I handed Al a copy of the Identikit picture, the one that looked like the Unabomber.

“Looks like the Unabomber,” Al said.

“Is that Mr. Mayer?”

“I thought Ted Kaczynski was the Unabomber.”

He had to be putting me on. No one was this slow outside of HEE HAW.

“Does this resemble Mr. Mayer?”

He squinted. “Yeah. Could be.”

“Anything else you remember about Mr. Mayer?”

“He had a cold. Talked quiet. Did some coughing.”

I thought about it. I could have called in a Crime Scene Unit, dusted the place, but a hundred people have probably left their prints in the last week.

“I’ll need copies of all these papers.”

Al grunted. “I figured.”

While Sling Blade loped off to figure out the copy machine, I called Mason back and gave her Mayer’s info. She put me on hold and called Indianapolis PD.

Mason got back to me before Al did.

“No record. Guy’s clean.”

“How about the phone number he left?”

“Disconnected. Didn’t pay his bill.”

I waited another five minutes, and Al finally returned with my copies. I gave him my card.

“Thanks. When Mr. Mayer comes back, please try to detain him and give me a call.”

“Detain him how? Like tie him up?”

“Tell him there was a problem with his credit card. Then call me.”

“Might not stop in. Might just park the car in the lot and drop the keys in the slot.”

“If he does that, call me as well.”

“Might drop it off when I’m not here.”

“You said you’re always here.”

“Might get sick.”

“Do you get sick a lot, Al?”

“Might have caught Mr. Mayer’s cold.”

I drilled Al with a cop stare.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Al?”

He smiled, revealing three missing teeth. “Gotta have fun where you can get it, Lieutenant.”

After leaving Al, I really needed a beer.

And I knew just the place to get one.

Chapter 17

ALEX OPENS THE bottled water, takes a greedy sip, then pours some on the pliers. The handles are supposed to have no-slip grips, but Alex’s gloved hands have already slipped off them half a dozen times.

It’s hard. Much harder than expected.

“Want some water? I’ve got an extra bottle.”

No answer.

Alex takes another deep gulp, picks up the pliers, and gets back to work.

Again, it’s a strain. Teeth clenching. Muscles bunching. But Alex manages to pull an unbroken fifteen-inch strip of skin from Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s bare chest. The longest one yet.

Mulrooney screams his approval.

Almost done with the front, Alex thinks. Have to start on the back next.

Lots of skin there.

Chapter 18

BEFORE I ALLOWED myself any alcohol, I dropped off the bag and the shell casing at the Illinois Forensic Science Center. It used to be called the Chicago Crime Lab, up until it merged with the Staties in ’96. One of the officers who worked there, Scott Hajek, had helped me on a few cases, and promised he’d do a rush job on the ballistics and burn analysis.

A rush job meant at least a week. More than enough time to have a beer.

Joe’s Pool Hall was kitty-corner to my apartment in Wrigleyville. The after-work crowd hadn’t converged yet, and I managed to snag a table near the rear and a cue that still had a tip.

I drank a Sam Adams and settled in, running a rack and trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. I had a lot on my mind, plus shooting stick with a burned hand threw me off my game.

A waitress brought me another beer, and when I pulled out a buck to tip her, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

“Asshole customer,” she said without me asking.

I tipped her an extra buck.

Halfway through the next set, a guy I knew came over and stood by the table, watching.

“Came to watch a pro?” I asked.

“No. Came to watch you.”

His name was Phineas Troutt. Younger than me by a decade. Blue eyes set in a hard face. Tall, with the type of muscles one got from working rather than working out. Last I’d seen him, he was bald from the chemotherapy. I took the blond fuzz growing on his head to be a good sign.

I ran the table, Phin racked the next set, and we lagged for the break. He won.

“Hair looks nice.” Phin executed a sledgehammer break that sunk two solids and a stripe. He chose solids.

“Thanks. It’s the shampoo. You should pick some up.”

He touched his head.

“Maybe when it grows out a little more.”

“It’s called Vertex. Only seventy bucks a bottle.”

“How big is the bottle? Two gallons?” “Thirty-two ounces.”

Phin grinned. “For seventy bucks, it should clean my hair and then straighten up my apartment and make me dinner.”

He pocketed the four ball. I took a pull from my Sammy and scanned the bar for the server. She was two tables over, her face shiny with tears. She tried to move forward, but the man standing next to her moved his body in her path, not letting her pass. The man was grinning.

“Excuse me a second,” I told Phin. As I approached I heard the waitress saying, “Stop it, stop it,” as the guy pawed at her.

“There a problem?” I used my best commanding tone, the one that scared suspects into confessing to crimes they didn’t commit.

The man was young, early twenties, dressed in a golf shirt, shorts, and flipflops. He looked like he just came from the beach, though I couldn’t imagine which one, it being April.

“This is a private conversation, skank.”

He said it with a dismissive sneer, and then turned back to the waitress.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“She’s fine. Mind your own damn business, bitch.”

With my left hand, I liberated my badge case from my back pocket. With my right hand, I set the tip of the pool cue down on his bare big toe and leaned on it.

He yelped, jerking his chin left to face me, the perfect picture of fury and pain.

Some of the fury disappeared when he saw my star. But the pain stayed.

“Kind of early in the season for flip-flops, don’t you think so, Romeo?”

I leaned harder on the stick. He squealed.

“Let me see some ID.”

I put my badge away and took the wallet he eagerly offered. I gave his license a quick glance.

“Okay, Carl Johnson, here’s how I see it. Threatening a police officer is a felony. Plus, it pisses me off.”

I twisted the cue to indicate my displeasure.

“Shit! You’re hurting me.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby, Carl. I’m not even pushing hard. See how much worse it could get?”

I put some serious weight on the cue, for just a second, and he screamed like I was killing him. Now he had a teary face too, to match the one he gave the waitress.

“Here’s the deal, Carl. This is my bar. I never want to see you in here again. Understand?”

He nodded.

“And this lady is a personal friend of mine. If she tells me you’ve been bothering her, I’m going to pay a visit to 3355 Summit Lane and break both of your knees because you resisted arrest. Are we clear?”

I twisted hard. He moaned, “Yes.”

“Now tip your waitress and leave.”

Carl pulled out a twenty and handed it to the girl, his hand shaking. I lifted the pool cue and he ran out of there as fast as he could, bumping several customers on the way.

The waitress grasped my hands.

“Thanks so much. He’s been coming in here for a month, making comments, pinching my ass, not leaving me alone.”

I gave her a card. “I don’t think he’ll come back. Call me if he does.”

“Thanks. Really.”

I smiled. “When you’ve got a chance, we need two beers.”

“You got it. Thanks so much.”

When I came back to the table, Phin was racking the balls. “What happened to the last game?” I asked.

“I won. You owe me a beer. You better take this next break, or you might not have a chance to play.”

I managed to sink a stripe on the break, and the waitress brought beer for me and Phin.

“On me,” she told us.

Being a hero had its perks.

We played for two hours, Phin beating me five games to one. I blamed the losses on my burned hand, though the beer went a long way to easing the pain.

I met Phin several years ago, before he had cancer. It was an odd friendship, because I was a cop, and Phin was a criminal, though I wasn’t entirely clear on what kind of criminal he was. I think he operated as some kind of unlicensed private investigator, and considered laws optional.

Thinking of private eyes made me think of Harry, and the wedding rehearsal. McGlade had told me to bring a date, and I got the impression if I showed up solo our deal would be off and my fat alter ego would continue to embarrass the CPD on a new season of Fatal Autonomy.

I wasn’t the type to call in markers, but desperate times and all that. Occasionally, Phin called me up, needing some bit of info that only cops were privy to, such as a plate trace or a criminal record search. Occasionally, I helped him. That put the karma debt in his corner.

“I need a favor,” I said to Phin when he came back from the bathroom. “What are you doing on Saturday?”

“Apparently, I’m doing you a favor.”

“It’s easy. A guy I know is getting married, and he needs some people to stand up.”

“You want me to stand up at a wedding for some guy I don’t know?”

“Yeah. But this isn’t the wedding. It’s the rehearsal dinner.”

Phin shrugged. “Sure.”

“Thanks. I don’t know the time yet. Can I call you?”

“No phone. I’ll call you, day of.”

We played one more game, he won, and then we said our good-byes and I headed home. It turned out asking guys on dates wasn’t so hard after all.

I entered my building and passed my new neighbor walking down my hall. She wore the same dirty uniform she had on that morning, and carried a large leather satchel.

Though she didn’t look at me, I heard her whisper “Bitch” as she passed. I let it go. I’d already gone Rambo on her once today. Besides, the woman was entitled to her opinion.

Back at my apartment, Mr. Friskers surprised me by leaving no surprises. No mess. No destruction. Everything was exactly as I’d left it.

This bothered me. Perhaps he was sick. Or perhaps he’d spent the day deep in thought, plotting the annihilation of the human race.

“Mr. Friskers? Where are you?”

I made a kissing sound.

There was an unbearable screech that shook my core foundations, and the cat launched himself at me from atop the refrigerator. He landed on my chest, claws digging in, and I had to clench to avoid soiling myself.

My sweatshirt protected me from any scarring, but my heart was beating so hard I could feel it thump against the inside of my rib cage.

I unhooked the cat from the fabric and placed him on the floor. He sat and stared up at me, apparently pleased.

“You’re under arrest,” I told him.

He yawned, then walked over to the litter box and began kicking litter onto the floor.

I checked my answering machine. Nothing. Then I searched for edibles and found a can of potato soup that I made easy work of. I also had some vanilla wafers, but only after promising myself I’d exercise in the morning.

My evening’s entertainment consisted of the new Robert B. Parker book, which Herb had bought me for Christmas. Why couldn’t I meet a guy like Spenser? To make it work I’d have to get rid of his shrink girlfriend, but I figured that was no big loss.

When I was getting too tired to read I turned off the light and tried to sleep.

Sleep didn’t come. I had a zillion things running through my head, and my mind refused to shut off. I thought about my mom. About Latham. About the case. About Herb. My hand hurt, and I couldn’t get comfortable, and I finally just gave up and flipped on the TV.

Big mistake. The Home Shopping Club was selling designer shoes. I bought some black Prada sling-backs, some brown Miu Miu sandals, and thankfully they were out of my size in Dolce & Gabbana, because my credit card wouldn’t have been able to handle the shock.

Two a.m. crept by. Then three. Then four. Then five. I tossed and turned, and finally dozed off trying to picture a woman stupid enough to marry Harry McGlade.

Chapter 19

THE PHONE WOKE me up, which was a blessing. I’d been in the middle of a dream where I had to warn some children that danger was coming, but no matter how hard I screamed, no sound came out.

After shaking away the disorientation, I picked up the receiver.

“Daniels.”

“Morning, Jack.”

I sat up. “Hi, Herb. How are you doing?”

“Okay. Didn’t mean to be a jerk the other day.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind. Any results yet?”

“We should find out today. I heard about the fire. You coming in to work? I’ve got something.”

I looked at the clock. Nine twenty. I’d gotten about four hours of sleep. Not too bad.

“What is it?”

“I got in early, went through the old Gingerbread Man files. Something was missing. I remember searching Kork’s house and finding an address book. Wasn’t there.”

“Misfiled?”

“Signed out. Bill checked the sheet, and the last person to go through the Kork stuff was our old friend Barry Fuller, right after the case ended. So I had Bill pull Barry’s things, and found the address book.”

“You wouldn’t be telling me this unless you found something.”

“Book was mostly empty, except for some scribbles. They look like the letter L, except some of them were upside down and backwards.”

That got me fully awake. “Is it a code?” “I’ll tell you when you get here.”

I showered, and dressed in a gray Shin Choi A-line skirt, a white Barbara Graffeo blouse, and some Dior flats, no hose. The shoes were acquired at an outlet store and had been mispriced. I got them for eight bucks. I remember holding my breath when the cashier rang them up, figuring she’d notice. She didn’t. That’s been the high point of my year so far.

The day was dark, cool. Looked like rain. I stopped at the churros cart before going to my office, and bought Herb two with extra cinnamon.

“Churros?” Benedict lit up like a hundred-watt bulb. “Jack, my stomach thanks you. Both for me?”

“Both for you.”

He bit a sizeable portion out of the first. “Mmmm. I’m taking you to dinner on your birthday.”

Benedict had been saying that for years. By my count, he owed me 108 dinners.

“What have you got, Herb?”

He handed me the address book, open to the page with the scribbles on it.

“I thought it was a doodle at first. But then I realized it had ten characters.”

“A phone number with an area code.”

Herb nodded, his mouth full of fried Mexican dough. While he chewed, I stared at the symbols.

“Pigpen code.”

My partner frowned. “That took me an hour to figure out.”

“We learned it in Girl Scouts.” I drew a quick tic-tac-toe board and filled it in with numbers. “Each symbol represents the number inside it. So the first number is a two.”

Herb stared at me as if I’d grown a tail. “You were a Girl Scout?”

“My mother thought it would build character.”

“Can you get cookies at a discount?”

I quickly deciphered the first nine numbers. The dot on the end had to stand for a zero.

I clucked my tongue. “Two-one-nine area code. Indiana.”

“I already looked up the number. It’s in Gary. Unlisted. And you won’t believe who it belongs to.”

Herb waited for me to ask, so I did.

“Tell me if this name sounds familiar, Jack. The owner of that phone number is Bud Kork.”

“The Gingerbread Man’s father?”

We’d tried to locate him after the murders, but he never turned up.

“The one and only.”

I thought about the jar of severed toes, all of them at least thirty years old. Too old for Charles Kork to have done it, but not too old for his father.

“Insanity runs in families.” Herb shoved the remainder of the churros in his mouth.

I rolled it around in my head. Could our perp be the father, taking over where his son left off?

Only one way to find out for sure.

“Want to go for a ride?”

Chapter 20

GARY, INDIANA, LIES forty minutes east of Chicago. I filled Herb in while he drove, covering everything I’d done over the last few days. Rather than praise my heroics, Benedict latched on to the mundane.

“I can’t believe that asshole McGlade is getting married. She a hooker?”

“Haven’t met her yet. That sounds about right.”

“Currency must be changing hands. There’s no other way. Unless the woman has some serious mental problems.”

“I told you about the fire, right?”

“Twice. Hey, if Bud Kork’s our man, how does the rental car fit in?”

I shrugged. The other five Eclipses on my list had been found, their side mirrors intact.

“He could be working with an accomplice. Or Bud Kork might not be our man. Or maybe the fireman ID’ed the wrong car. Or maybe the car that lost the mirrors wasn’t driven by the killer—maybe it was just a citizen who panicked.”

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Lots of maybes.”

“Someone killed Diane Kork and burned down her house. Someone familiar with the Gingerbread Man case.”

“Could be a copycat.”

I made a face. “In the thirty years you’ve been a cop, have you ever encountered a copycat killer?”

“Not once. But it happens all the time on CSI.”

Herb took a box of orange Tic Tacs out of his ashtray and offered them to me. I declined, and he emptied the whole box into his mouth.

“Maybe,” he said, the candy clicking against his molars, “Diane Kork is the killer. She put a fake tattoo on the woman in the video, making us think she’s dead.”

“I don’t think so. The tattoo was hard to see in the video.”

“Still, we can’t rule it out. We haven’t found her body, and after what she lived through, maybe it pushed her over the edge.”

“Diane Kork was a schoolteacher. Whoever shot me missed my head by less than an inch.”

“Could have had lessons. Or could have gotten lucky.”

Herb called Dispatch on his cell, and had them check if Diane Kork had a FOID card. Illinois required all gun owners to have one. The info came back quickly.

“No firearm owner ID for Diane. But she could still have a gun.”

“Doesn’t feel right to me. It’s someone else. I told you about the suitcase.”

He frowned. “The guy’s keeping trophies.”

Thrill killers liked to keep little reminders of their deeds. The burned human hair probably came from a scalp. And I knew the curved piece of metal was the underwire from a bra, having been poked by enough of them in my time.

“If Diane Kork were the killer, I don’t think she’d keep a victim’s bra.”

“Could have been Diane’s bra.”

“Was it her hair too? We can call the Feebies, get a lecture about how rare female serial killers are, and how none have ever been found that take trophies from their victims. No, Herb, it’s someone else. Someone picking up where Charles Kork left off. Someone who knows the case.”

“That could be twenty million people, Jack. Maybe more. Is the movie out on video yet?”

“I hope not.”

Before Fatal Autonomy became a crummy series, it was a crummy made-for-TV movie about the Kork case. I’d been forced to watch some of it; Harry had conned me into being a technical advisor.

“For verisrealityitude,” he’d said.

My input had been ignored, and the movie turned out to be a travesty. But it still had a lot of real facts in it. And after the case ended, there were the inevitable quickie true crime paperbacks, and that TV documentary.

Much of the world knew about the Gingerbread Man. It made me reconsider the copycat angle.

Herb slowed for the toll. We were about to get on the Skyway, Chicago’s largest bridge. It ran about eight miles long, and high enough to see deep into Indiana. Our view proffered a smattering of factories, their gigantic chimneys spitting copious amounts of smoke and filth, staining the overcast sky. Industry wasn’t pretty.

We drove in silence for a few minutes before Herb finally spoke.

“I’m scared.”

I reached over and touched his arm.

“You’ll be fine, Herb. Even if it is cancer, you’ll get through it.”

“That’s what Bernice says.”

“Smart lady.”

“I’m the homicide cop, and she’s stronger than I am.”

“People deal with death in different ways, Herb.”

Drizzle accumulated on the windshield. Herb hit the wipers, causing a dirty rainbow smear.

“Do you ever think about death, Jack?”

“Sometimes. I almost died yesterday, in the fire.”

“Were you afraid?”

“At first. Then I accepted it, and I was just sad.”

Herb’s voice, normally rock solid, had a quaver in it. “My father died of cancer. Strongest man I ever knew. By the end he weighed ninety pounds, had to be spoon-fed.”

I thought of my mother, steadily losing weight despite the feeding tube. I pushed away the image and tried to be jovial.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Herb. You’ll never weigh ninety pounds.”

My joke fell flat. Herb looked out of his side window. We passed a particularly ugly factory, its smokestack belching flames like the great Oz’s palace.

“What scares me the most is no longer existing. Everything I am, everything I think, everything I feel, all of my memories and thoughts and dreams— erased. Like I’ve never been here at all.”

“You’ve got family, Herb. And friends. They’ll remember you.”

Herb’s face was a mask of sadness. “But when I’m dead, I won’t remember them.”

We continued down I-90 east for another twenty minutes. The expressway was newer, and the asphalt better, on the Indiana side. It ran parallel to a train track for a while, and then we turned north on Cline and west on Gary Avenue, and we were soon on the plains, no buildings for miles.

I checked the MapQuest directions.

“We’re looking for Summit. Should be coming up.”

“Nothing’s coming up. Except some cows. Hey!”

Herb pointed to the right. I followed his finger to a large bale of hay.

I didn’t laugh, but at least he’d snapped out of his funk.

Summit turned out to be a dirt road, and it ended at a 1950s prefab ranch, the front yard overgrown with weeds. Ancient appliances and rusty old farm equipment peppered the property, and an old barn that looked like Godzilla had stepped on it sat behind the house.

“Is this it?” Herb asked.

“Has to be. There’s no place else.”

“It looks like the shack from The Beverly Hillbillies.”

“Or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”

Herb parked next to a Ford pickup truck that looked old enough to run on regular gas.

“Ready to meet the monster’s father?”

Herb nodded and we got out of the car. The closer we walked, the worse it looked. The roof was missing half its shingles. Several boards on the front porch had rotted away. So much white paint was flaking off the sides, the house looked like a paper birch tree.

I took out my badge, and noticed Benedict already had his in hand.

Wouldn’t be smart to surprise the occupant. It was too easy to picture him crouched behind the front door with a shotgun, waiting for strangers to trespass.

Herb hesitated before getting onto the porch, eyeing it dubiously. I went first. The warped wood groaned, but it took my weight. Benedict followed, stepping gingerly.

I knocked, a thin, hollow sound.

“Bud Kork? This is the police.”

We waited.

No answer.

I knocked again.

“Mr. Kork? We see your truck outside. We know you’re home.”

A voice filtered through the closed door. “Come on in. I’m getting dressed.”

I looked at Herb, and we both put our hands on our holsters. He pushed the door open, and I went in fast and stepped quickly to the left.

The house was dark and smelled like something had died under the floor-boards. A single fly buzzed around in the stuffy, fetid air. I located a switch on the wall and flipped it on, bathing the room in a sickly yellow glow from a bare forty-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling.

The room took the word mess to new heights.

There were several stacks of old newspapers, piled high as my shoulder. A dozen broken television sets, some older than me, lined up along the walls. A large box of rusty gears sat atop a cracked aquarium filled with dry grass. The walls were bare, except for a dusty framed portrait of a severe-looking Jesus, staring down from heaven. The caption beneath read: God is always watching.

Herb followed me in, pausing to look around. He was humming something softly, which I recognized as the violin riff from the shower scene in Psycho.

I stepped over a bushel basket of balled-up Wonder Bread bags, and walked toward the doorway at the end of the room.

“Mr. Kork?”

“In the kitchen.”

He had a cracked, broken voice, like he might burst into tears. I navigated more garbage and peeked through the doorway.

A painfully thin old man stood in the tiny kitchen, his entire body twitching and shaking from Parkinson’s disease. He wore a stained white undershirt that hung on him like drapes, and a pair of beige slacks, equally stained, with holes in both knees. His face was a skull with a thin layer of age-spotted skin stretched over it. Thin, colorless lips. A hook nose. Bulbous, rheumy eyes. His head was bald, but he had bushy white eyebrows long enough to comb, and enough ear hair to stuff a pillow.

I showed him my star.

“I’m Lieutenant Daniels. This is Sergeant Benedict. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

He nodded, his oversized Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “About the devil. Questions about the devil.”

I stepped closer, the stench of his body odor preventing me from getting within touching distance.

“What about the devil, Mr. Kork?”

“Well, you know all about the devil, don’t you? You’ve met him.”

“I’ve met the devil?”

Parroting tends to draw people out, make them more compliant. Even if they weren’t making sense.

“The devil. Charles. My son. Terrible boy. Knew it from the day he shot out his mother’s cloaca.”

“Cloaca?” Herb raised an eyebrow.

“Her dirty bits. Female parts. His mother was a harlot. The whore of Babylon. Bore me the devil for a son, praise Jesus Christ Almighty in heaven above.”

Bud made the sign of the cross, then fished a black rosary from his pocket and kissed it with trembling lips.

I frowned. This wasn’t our guy. He couldn’t have made the video of Diane’s death, or shot at me in her house. He was too disconnected, too frail, the Parkinson’s too advanced.

“Where is your wife, Mr. Kork?” Herb asked.

“Roasting in the flames of hellfire.”

“Do you have other children?”

Kork looked beyond us, into space. “Had a daughter. My blessed little angel.

Helper and defender of mankind. She sits at God’s right hand and watches me from heaven, protects me from sin and from myself and from unnatural urges.”

“She’s deceased?”

His eyes glazed over. “Taken from me. By Charles. The devil took my angel. Matthew 4:1; ‘then Jesus was led up by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.’ Corruption of the flesh, of the soul, my poor little girl.”

“Do you have any other relatives, Mr. Kork?”

He shook his head. “No flesh of my flesh, no blood of my blood.”

“Cousins? Nephews?”

He made fists and pounded on his thighs. “NO FLESH OF MY FLESH AND NO BLOOD OF MY BLOOD!”

This wasn’t getting us anywhere.

“Jack . . .” Herb nudged me and pointed with his chin. Behind Kork was a refrigerator, old enough to still be called an icebox. Next to that, an open pantry, the shelf inside loaded with mason jars.

The law was clear when it came to search and seizure. A cop can only search if given permission, or with a warrant. Kork inviting us into his house wasn’t the same as permission to search, but if while in the house we saw evidence of anything illegal or suspicious, the evidence was admissible in court.

The mason jars lining the shelf looked to be the same type as the jar full of toes. I sidestepped Kork and peered into the cabinet.

“Mr. Kork, what’s this?”

I pointed to a jar full of small round things. Some were tan. Some pink. Some green.

He grunted. “Used gum. Help yourself if you want some, but I chewed all the flavor out.”

“This jar is similar to another jar we found, full of human toes. Do you know anything about that?”

Another faraway looked crossed Kork’s face.

“Mr. Kork? Did you hear me?”

“Niblets,” he breathed.

“Speak up, Mr. Kork.”

“Sweet.”

“What’s sweet?”

His focus came back, and he looked at me, a thin line of drool sliding down the corner of his mouth.

“The toes of babes. Sweet, like corn Niblets.”

Alarms went off in my head. I noticed Herb’s hand had returned to the butt of his gun.

“Did you own a jar of human toes, Mr. Kork? Some of them from children?”

“ ‘And they were bringing children to him, that he might touch them.’ Mark 10:13.”

“Mr. Kork, may we search your premises?”

“Two Peter 2:14. ‘They have eyes full of adultery, insatiable for sin. They entice unsteady souls. They have hearts trained in greed. Accursed children!’ ”

Herb came up to Bud, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Kork, do we have your permission to search your house?”

Bud blinked, then looked at Herb.

“What did you say?”

“Your house, Mr. Kork. We’d like to search it.”

He grunted, nodding. “Go ahead. Help yourself.”

I began sorting through the cabinets. Herb tried the drawers.

“You might want to start in the root cellar.”

I stopped, stared at the old man. “What’s in the cellar, Mr. Kork?”

Bud Kork peered down at his bare feet, then put the rosary against his lips.

“That’s where I buried the bodies.”

Chapter 21

BUD KORK LED us out of the kitchen. He had a slow, bow-legged gait that seemed to cause him pain with every step. He took us past several cluttered, dirty rooms and through a closed door at the end of the hall.

A soiled bare mattress sat on the floor, pointy springs jutting out through the fabric. As in the first room, the walls were bare, save for a giant black crucifix hanging crookedly over the bed.

“This is the devil’s room. Unclean.”

Kork pointed to the closet, open to reveal a dozen empty wire hangers hanging from a rope nailed lengthwise inside.

“Under the board.”

The bottom of the closet had a four-by-four piece of plywood on its floor, three pairs of worn shoes on top. Herb kept watch on Bud, and I knelt by the board and lifted the corner, dragging back the wood to reveal a squarish hole.

The smell rose up like a ghost, catching in my throat and forcing me to gag.

I covered my mouth and nose. “Something dead.”

Herb’s nostrils curled back. “Many somethings. Call the GPD?”

I glanced at Kork, who was gnawing on a dirty fingernail. I could smell the schizo on him like I could smell his stale sweat. He was completely unreliable. Maybe there were indeed corpses under the house. Or maybe there were dead dogs, or a pig, or he simply used this hole to dump leftover cooking grease.

“We need to confirm first. Got a flashlight in the car?”

Herb told me no.

“I have a lantern,” Kork said. “In my room.”

I nodded at Benedict, and he whisked Kork away to locate the lantern. Holding my nose, I took another look into the hole.

It seemed to be very deep. Ancient wood was laid into the dirt floor, making a kind of staircase that led down into blackness. The smell was so bad it penetrated my tongue. The smell of decay. The smell of rot. The smell of old death.

Herb returned, Kork in tow. He held an old-fashioned gas lamp, the wick burning bright inside the glass.

He cleared his throat and asked, “You or me?”

I had no idea how big the space was down there, and Herb was almost double my size. I held out my hand for the lamp.

“Want me to hold your shoes?”

Wrong day to wear Dior.

“No. They only cost me eight bucks. But I could use your handkerchief, if it’s clean.”

He pulled it from his jacket pocket. “Snot free.”

I pressed it over my nose and mouth, held the lamp before me like a talisman, and began my descent.

The stairs canted at a steeper angle than normal. I took them slow, careful of my footing. The walls were cut directly into the earth, like the sides of a freshly dug grave, and the black dirt absorbed the lantern light. The dirt also absorbed sound, and my climb was eerily quiet.

I counted thirteen steps before reaching the bottom. It had a dirt floor, bumpy and uneven, and the lamp revealed an area of roughly twenty feet by forty feet. The ceiling was low, brushing the top of my head. This made the space seem small and tight, and I felt a spark of panic that the ceiling would collapse on my head, burying me alive. I controlled my fear and moved on.

Three steps into the room I saw the first mound. A raised pile, no more than six inches higher than the surrounding earth.

The length and width of a child.

“Herb!” I yelled through the handkerchief—the smell was abominable. “I need a shovel!”

“Just a minute!” He sounded very far away.

I went deeper into the room, illuminating more burial mounds.

I counted eighteen.

“Shovel coming down!”

With four clangs and a thud, a spade hit the cellar floor. Long-handled, with a rusty blade. I set down the lantern and was forced to tuck the handkerchief into my pocket—I couldn’t dig with only one hand.

I picked the nearest mound. The spade dug easily into the earth, biting deep with each swing.

Every breath provoked a gag.

I badly wanted to spit the taste of rot out of my mouth, or to vomit, but I kept swallowing it back, unwilling to contaminate the scene. The lamp cast wild flickering shadows along the walls and ceiling, and I knew I was getting close to the end of my reserves. I had two minutes, tops, before I wouldn’t be able to take it anymore.

I dug faster, my back muscles screaming, my jaw set tight. The smell made my eyes tear up. The ceiling pressed down, as if I were sinking.

That was enough. I couldn’t do it. I was going to barf all over, and no force of will could stop it.

My blade hit something.

Hurrying, no longer caring about getting dirty, I dropped to my knees and scooped away handfuls of earth, inch by terrible inch, until the child’s head appeared, a pink barrette still clipped in the muddy blond ponytail.

I jerked my hand back, pulling out several strands and part of the scalp. The flesh had taken on the consistency of soap.

Game over. The smell had become a living thing, so potent, so pungent, I could feel it even though I held my breath. It dug into my pores, penetrating my skin, infecting me with its corruption.

I pressed my lips together and made it up the stairs before the vomit burst forth, spewing onto the stained mattress.

Herb approached me, concerned, but stayed back when the stench of me hit him.

“Call the Gary police,” I managed to get out between expulsions. “Tell them to bring digging equipment, HazMat suits, the county coroner, and at least twenty body bags.”

Herb fussed with his cell phone. “No signal. Where’s your phone, Kork?”

Bud Kork eyed Herb, an odd expression on his face. He didn’t seem nervous, or upset. More like curious.

“In the kitchen,” he answered.

“I’ll watch him,” I told Herb. He waddled off.

I coughed, spit. The smell was in my clothes, in my hair, on my skin. I knew from experience it would be hell to get rid of. I stared hard at Bud Kork, anger slowly replacing my revulsion.

“How many are down there, Bud? How many kids?”

He spoke softly. “ ‘He must manage his own household well, keeping his children submissive and respectful in every way.’ That’s 1 Timothy 3:4.”

“How many people, Bud? How many children?”

“Sinners. All sinners. I helped them atone.”

His palsy became worse, his fists shaking like he was plugged into an electrical outlet.

“Tell me about Diane Kork, Bud. Did you kill her?”

“I’m a sinner too. Lord, I am a sinner!

Kork dropped to his knees, his eyes filling with tears.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins . . .”

He began to rock back and forth, bending down, touching his forehead to the floor.

“Did you kill your son’s wife? Or do you know who did?”

“. . . because of Your just punishments, but most of all because they offend You . . .”

“Do you have a video camera, Mr. Kork?”

“. . . my God, who is all-good and deserving . . .”

“Who brought the jar of toes to Chicago?”

“. . . of all my love, I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to sin no more!”

His rocking was violent now, and he snapped his body back and drove his head hard into the wood floor.

“Mr. Kork!”

“Sin no more!”

He smashed his head down even harder. Blood erupted from his face and nose. I made it to him in two steps, reaching for his shoulders, trying to pull him back. He was much stronger than I would have guessed, and he had momentum on his side.

“SIN NO MORE!”

With his final blow I actually heard the sound of his skull cracking. He slumped over onto his side, one eye closed, the other open and fully dilated.

“Herb! We need an ambulance!”

I put two fingers against his grimy neck, feeling for a pulse. It was weak, but there.

Pulling back his collar, I noticed some scar tissue on his breastbone. A sense of uneasiness, of dread, came over me, and without thinking I lifted up his ratty undershirt.

It was one of the most horrible things I’ve ever seen.

Chapter 22

ALEX WAITS FOR Dr. Morton outside the pizzeria, on the sidewalk. The doctor had gone in alone, eighty-five minutes ago. Long enough for a leisurely lunch. This place is known for its deep-dish pizza, baked in a pan with the sauce on top of the cheese. Alex has never tried it.

At the eighty-sixth minute after entering, Dr. Morton exits the restaurant. His face is the picture of shock and surprise when he bumps into Alex at the door. He recovers quickly, but Alex is secretly delighted to have flustered the shrink.

“Alex! Oh, hello. Just in the neighborhood?”

“There are more than three million people in Chicago, Doctor. What’s the likelihood we both just happened to pick the same restaurant for lunch?”

Alex watches him puzzle it out.

“So, you followed me. Was there any particular reason?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Dr. Morton looks at his watch. Very unprofessional. “I’m sort of pressed for time, Alex. Don’t we have an appointment tomorrow?”

“You spent eighty-six minutes eating pizza. You can’t spare ten minutes for me?”

“But I’m seeing another patient, Alex.”

“I have to talk to you now, Doctor.” Alex checks the street, which is clear, and casually pulls the gun out. “I’m having a crisis.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t look afraid. But that doesn’t matter.

He will. Soon.

“Can we talk in my car? Just five minutes. I can even give you a ride back to the office, save you some cab fare.”

The doctor lets out a slow breath. “Fine. But I want the gun.”

“Don’t you trust me, Doctor?”

“You said yourself that you’re having a crisis. I wouldn’t want you to do anything regrettable.”

Alex smiles, hands over the weapon.

Dr. Morton shoves it into his blazer pocket, and Alex leads him to the car. If the good doctor notices the missing side mirrors, he doesn’t say anything about it.

After the doctor puts on his seat belt, Alex jabs him with the needle in the upper arm.

“Alex? What are you doing . . . ?”

“Just something to relax you, Doctor.”

Dr. Morton’s mouth opens. He’s shocked. He isn’t used to surprises. He’s used to being in control. Alex can read it in his face.

The doctor grabs for the door, but Alex has disabled the handle. He pulls four or five times, but it doesn’t open.

“Sorry, Doc.” Alex grins.

“Let me out of here, Alex.”

“I can’t do that, Doc. You’re a loose end. I told you too much, and now I have to take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” His words are beginning to slur.

“I’m going to cut a small slit in your belly, right under your navel. And then I’ll stick some tongs in there, and pull your intestines out through the hole. Then you’re going to eat them.”

Dr. Morton’s eyes get comically wide. He gropes for the gun and pulls it out.

“Do you know how to work a semiautomatic, Doctor? That one has a safety on it.”

The doctor obviously doesn’t know. His hands are shaking, and he’s trying to pull the trigger. Alex reaches over, flips off the safety for him.

Dr. Morton doesn’t hesitate. He points the gun at Alex’s head and fires. There’s a clicking sound, and the slide goes back.

No bullets.

“I’m disappointed, Doctor. Is that how you deal with the mentally ill? By trying to shoot them in the head? I’m surprised you have any patients left at all.”

The doctor raises the gun, tries to hit Alex with it.

Alex laughs, easily blocking the blow, then pops Dr. Morton in the nose, causing a minor explosion of blood.

“Don’t bother trying to fight, Doctor. I’m stronger than you are.”

Dr. Morton doesn’t listen. He again tries to club Alex with the gun. Alex slips the blow and takes the gun away.

“Enough. It’s nighty-night time.”

“Please.” Dr. Morton’s head lolls to the side. He’s almost out.

Alex pats him on the head.

“You’ll have plenty of time for begging tomorrow, Dr. Morton. I promise.”

Chapter 23

WHEN THE DOCTOR came into the waiting room to talk to me, he looked ashen. I put him at about my age, five-ten, graying temples, nurturing a pot belly on an otherwise skinny body. His name tag read Murphy.

“How’s Kork doing?”

“The patient has a linear skull fracture, a third-degree concussion, and a broken nose. I also put six stitches in his scalp. You said this was self-induced?”

“He banged his head into the floor.”

He pursed his lips. “That makes sense, considering the overall shape he’s in.”

“You’ve obviously seen his chest.”

“The chest is child’s play compared to some of the other things I found. He has no relatives?”

“None.” I stood up, stretching my back, my vertebra popping like a cellophane bag. I’d been cramped in the little plastic chair for over three hours.

For the second time this week I sported the latest borrowed hospital fashion: baggy jeans, a Pacers shirt, and sandals. The clothes I’d put on this morning, including my Dior flats, were double-bagged in plastic. I doubted I’d ever get the stench out of them.

The hospital had been kind enough to let me use the residents’ shower, and I scrubbed myself pink with industrial strength antibacterial soap. It still hadn’t been enough to get the stink of rot out of my hair and skin. The stench lingered like a perfume I’d put on. Eau de Decay.

“I’d like to see him, Dr. Murphy.”

“He isn’t conscious yet. Might not be for a while.”

“I want you to show me the other things you just mentioned.”

The doctor hesitated. I had no authority there, but I pressed anyway.

“He’s a mass murderer. They’ve pulled eleven bodies out of his basement already, and more are on the way. Let me see him. It may help save some lives.”

Dr. Murphy relented, and ushered me down a brightly lit hospital corridor to a room in the ICU. A uniform from the Gary PD stood guard by the doorway, young enough to still have acne.

“Just pulled out number twelve.” He tapped his radio and gave me a respectful nod. “You did Indiana a huge favor.”

“Let’s hope your district attorney thinks so.”

Though Herb and I went by the book, there might be prosecution problems because this wasn’t our jurisdiction. But I had more immediate concerns.

Bud Kork lay on a hospital cot, handcuffs locking him to the bed frame. White gauze swaddled his head like a turban. Cotton packed his nose, and a piece of tape stretched across the bridge. Two shiners encircled his eyes, and his mouth hung open, revealing decades of dental neglect in muted browns and yellows.

Dr. Murphy pulled back the sheet and the hospital gown, exposing the marks on Kork’s pale, sunken chest. The scars were in the shape of three-inch letters, forming the word sinner. The word was repeated eight times on his chest and abdomen in raised pink skin.

“I’m guessing this came from branding.”

“It was. We found the branding iron back at his house.”

That wasn’t all we found, so I had an idea of what to expect as the examination continued.

“Help me turn him over, Lieutenant.”

He pushed Kork’s shoulders, and I pushed at the hip. Kork flounced onto his belly. His back was a road map of pain. There wasn’t a single patch of unmarked skin from his collar down to the backs of his knees. It looked like a buffet of chopped, congealed lunch meat, knotted and discolored.

“Most of these marks appear to be self-inflicted.” Displeasure bunched up Dr. Murphy’s face. “Some kind of many-tailed whip with barbs on the end.”

In Kork’s bedroom closet we’d found an old toolbox full of implements. These scars would match the cat-o’-nine-tails he owned.

“Down here, along the thighs, the pattern is different.”

The rusty wire brush, used for stripping paint.

“These X’s here, here, here, and here are burn marks.”

Another branding iron, in the shape of a cross.

“And these puncture marks appear to be from nails.”

We hadn’t found any nails in his mutilation kit, but they’d probably turn up.

“Let’s put him on his back again. There’s more.”

We flipped Kork over and his head lolled to the side. He snored softly.

“Brace yourself for this, Lieutenant. I’ve been an MD for sixteen years, never saw anything like it.”

He pulled down the sheet, exposing Kork’s groin. I winced.

Bud Kork had no genitalia. His penis and testicles were missing. A small brownish nub of scar tissue poked out of the nest of gray pubic hair.

The doctor dropped the sheet. “It gets worse. When I saw the mutilation to the genitals, I ordered a pelvic X-ray.” He pulled out the chart at the foot of the bed. “Take a look.”

I stared at the X-ray of Kork’s pelvis and thighs. It appeared to be covered with white scratches.

“See all of those lines? Between two and four centimeters long? There are forty-three of them.”

“What are they?”

“Needles.”

I stared at Kork in disbelief.

“He’s got over forty needles embedded in his groin, rectum, buttocks, and thighs. See the dotted lines here? Those are ones that have been in him for so long, his body is breaking them down. The pain must be unimaginable.”

I recalled how Bud Kork walked, like every step hurt.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up?”

“Could be in ten minutes. Could be next year.”

I gave the doctor my card. “It’s very important you call me if there’s any change. Or when he regains consciousness. Besides all those dead kids we found in his cellar, he’s a prime suspect in a current homicide investigation.”

“When he wakes up, he might not remember where he is or what happened. Head injuries are fickle.”

I offered a grim smile and shook the man’s hand. “I’ve dealt with something similar before. Thanks, Doctor.”

I stepped out of the room and asked the officer to contact the team at Kork’s house and put me in touch with Sergeant Herb Benedict. After a burst of static and some chatter, Herb came on.

“Hi, Jack. You’re missing a real circus here. Over.”

“Perp’s out, will be for a while. How’s the search? Over.”

“No camcorders, no videotapes. Guy didn’t even have a TV that worked. No black gloves or hunting knives either, over.”

The killer in Diane Kork’s murder video wore black leather gloves and used a hunting knife.

“Anything at all, Herb?”

“They’re removing the thirteenth body now. Plus, there’s some weird stuff.”

“On this end too. When you’re done, pick me up.”

“I’ll be there soon. Out.”

I’d left Herb on the scene because Gary PD broke the Kork story, and there were now more reporters in this town than residents. So far the hospital had kept them out, which suited me fine. I’m sure Bains was already cultivating an aneurism about the fire last night. If he saw me on TV, his head would explode.

I went back to the waiting room and watched CNN. Two guys in disposable paper suits and air regulators hauled another body bag out of Kork’s house. The top graphic read Horror in Indiana, and the rolling caption along the bottom of the screen told how this was the home of Bud Kork, supposed father of Charles Kork, the infamous killer known as the Gingerbread Man.

The scene cut away to some footage from two years ago, the day we closed the Gingerbread Man case. My face came on, full screen, and I said something about justice being served.

The graphic flashed my name, Lieutenant Jack Daniels, in large letters, and then went on to explain how the event turned me into a television star on the series Fatal Autonomy.

I wondered if the superintendent watched CNN.

Mercifully, my big face was replaced with some awful tragedy happening in the Middle East. I buried my nose in a Woman’s World magazine and waited patiently for Benedict to arrive.

He did, twenty minutes later.

“There’s a horde of reporters out there, Jack. Maybe you want to take a back way out? Or wrap a sheet around your head?”

“Doesn’t matter now. I was just a sound bite on CNN, and they’ll replay it every forty minutes until this all blows over. Let’s just get out of here. It’s doubtful anyone will recognize me anyway.”

Herb and I stepped outside into a thick sea of reporters, cameras, and crews. Someone yelled, “It’s Jack Daniels!” and the mob closed in and swallowed us up, chattering and shoving.

“Lieutenant Daniels, did you make the arrest?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, have you spoken to Bud Kork?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, how does this compare to the Gingerbread Man case?”

“Lieutenant Daniels, you look like you’ve lost weight. Is it the stress?”

Herb tried to pull me through the throng of bodies, but the throng refused to budge. With no other options, I finally held up a hand and yelled, “I’d like to make a statement.”

Everyone shut up.

“I’m not in Gary because of Bud Kork. I was visiting the Blessed Mercy hospital to have elective surgery.”

“What kind of surgery?” eight or nine networks shouted. “I was having my foot removed from a reporter’s ass. I don’t want to have surgery again so soon, so please let us through.”

They let us through. When we finally reached the car, Herb grinned at me.

“I’m guessing they won’t air that.”

“Who knows? Fox might. I don’t really care. My hand hurts, my lungs hurt, and we still have nothing at all on this case. And I smell like dead people. I just want to get home.”

Herb motored out of the parking lot and followed the signs to the expressway.

“We just took a very bad man off the streets, Jack. Should be happy about that.”

“He’s crazy. He’ll spend the rest of his life in some cushy institution, being scrutinized by ViCAT chuckleheads. He was doing a fine job punishing himself. We could have left him alone.”

“Punishing himself?”

I gave Herb the condensed version. He looked appropriately ill by the end of it.

“He cut off Little Willy?”

“Right at the root.”

“And the twins?”

“Lefty and Righty, both.”

Benedict shuddered. “Jesus. That’s who they belonged to. Cops found a set of genitals wrapped in foil, in the freezer.”

I made a mock-serious face. “Herb, you know what that is, don’t you?”

“No. What?”

“It’s a cocksicle.”

He didn’t laugh. Maybe my timing was off. Comedy is all about the timing.

“Guys don’t find castration funny, Jack.”

I nudged him with an elbow. “That’s because it’s like getting a lobotomy.”

“See? Not funny.”

But I still had more material.

“In a way, I kind of feel sorry for Bud. I mean, where does he put his hand when he’s watching TV?”

“Not all men grab themselves when they’re watching TV.”

“Or when they’re driving?”

Benedict looked down, noticed he was adjusting himself. He turned a shade of red normally seen on valentine cards.

“I wasn’t grabbing.”

“What were you doing? Frisking yourself?”

He went sheepish. “Just checking to make sure they were still there.”

Benedict merged onto the expressway. When his blush faded a bit, he changed the topic.

“We found some seriously awful things at Kork’s place. In the barn there was a locked wooden box, with tiny holes punched in it. When we opened it, the inside was covered in scratch marks. He kept people in there.”

I shuddered. “Jesus.”

“This guy’s a monster. Sort of makes sense why his son turned out the way he did. Can you imagine growing up in a house like that?”

“I don’t even want to try. It’s not my job to understand these kooks. It’s just my job to catch them.”

“Doesn’t understanding them make catching them easier?”

“Sure. Next time I see a guy who has sinner branded all over his chest, I’ll place him under arrest.”

“Want to hear the weirdest thing we found? In the bathroom. The bathtub. Filled to the top.”

I bit. “With what?”

“With urine. Kork must have been peeing in that tub for years.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Gets worse.” Herb made the Mr. Yuck face. “Next to the tub was a bar of soap and some piss-soaked towels. Apparently, he’s been taking baths.”

I massaged my temples. This had officially become too freaky for me to adequately process.

We spent the remainder of the ride trying to gross each other out, and by the time Herb dropped me off at home I’d decided to give up food forever.

Back in my apartment, Mr. Friskers ran away from me when I entered. Must have been the death smell. I checked for messages (none), and drew a bath into which I dumped every oil, salt, and soap I owned. I’d just climbed in, bubbles up to my ears, when the phone rang.

I let the machine get it.

“Jack, it’s Latham.”

I vaulted out of the tub, almost met my death slipping on the tile floor, and snatched up the phone, out of breath.

“Latham? Hi! I just got in.”

“Hi yourself. How are you doing?”

Stinky. Alone. Depressed. Freezing. “Great. I’m great. How about you?”

“Good. Job’s going well. I love the new condo. How’s your mom?”

“Still in a coma.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Can we get together?” I bit my lower lip. I was so cold, my knees were knocking together.

“Sure. That would be nice. The thing is, though, I’m seeing someone.”

If he’d cut my heart out of my chest with a cleaver it would have hurt less. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to sound upbeat.

“That’s great. What’s her name?”

“Maria.”

“Maria. Great. Great name. Is it serious?”

“We’ve been dating for a few months, and I just asked her to move in with me.”

Latham had asked me that same thing, but I turned him down, because I am the Queen of All Who Are Stupid.

“Well . . . that’s great. I’m happy for you.”

“I’d still like to see you, though. To catch up. Touch base.”

Screw me until I can’t stand up? Instead I said, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

“I’ll give you a call in a few days?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.”

“Bye-bye, Jack. Great talking to you.”

“Yeah. Same here.”

He hung up.

I stood there a moment, teeth chattering, and then moped back into the bathtub.

It was my fault that he was with Maria. Just like it was my fault my mother was in a coma. She’d been living with me, and a criminal I’d been chasing broke into my apartment and took his wrath for me out on her.

I wondered if Bud Kork had a branding iron that said fuckup.

After a long soak, which still didn’t get all of the stink out, I crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling, knowing I’d never be able to fall asleep.

So I didn’t even try.

Chapter 24

DR. MORTON TRIES to scream, but he can’t—his mouth is full.

Chapter 25

SLEEP NEVER CAME.

I crawled out of bed at six a.m., hacked up some black gunk from my lungs, forced myself through a hundred sit-ups, and showered. I’d spent all night watching the Weather Channel, and there was enough meteorological evidence to suggest that today would be partly cloudy, with a high of seventy-five.

I dressed in a gray Ralph Lauren pantsuit, a black short-sleeved blouse, and some two-inch heels I picked up at Payless. It would take me a while before I wore nice shoes to work again.

I also put on just a small spray of L’Air du Temps. I’m not a perfume kind of gal, but I wanted to cover up the smell of decay that still clung to me. I was supposed to meet up with Harry McGlade tonight. If I stank, he’d be vocal about it.

After feeding the cat, who still avoided me, I searched the pantry for foodstuffs and found some cranberry granola bars. Mom loved them. I hated them. But I was starving, so I forced one down.

I stuck another one in my pocket, disengaged the alarm, and opened my door to leave. As I did, a small package that had been leaning against the door fell inward.

Same brown envelope as the one delivered to me at work.

I tugged out my Colt, looked left, right, then hurried down the hallway to the stairwell.

There wasn’t anyone to chase.

I went back into my apartment, nudging the envelope in with my toe. Then I found some rubber gloves under the sink and carried the package over to the kitchen table. I slit it open with a bread knife and dumped out the obligatory unlabeled black VHS tape.

Such a small, harmless, everyday item. Yet it filled me with dread.

The first tape had been wiped clean of prints, but hope springs eternal, so I only held the video by the very edge in my gloved hand. I brought it into the bedroom, put it in the VCR, and let it play.

This one began with a close-up of a man’s bare chest. He was sitting on a chair with his hands behind him, probably tied or cuffed.

A black gloved hand, with a long black leather sleeve, used a box cutter to open him up from nipple to nipple. The screams were so loud they distorted the audio. Then the hand came back into frame with some pliers.

The granola bar jumped around in my stomach. I hit the Fast-forward button, watching this poor guy get his chest, then his back, peeled in triple time. When the atrocities finally ended with a deep slash across the carotid artery, the killer stepped behind the camera and zoomed out, revealing the man’s head.

No burlap bag this time. The victim’s face was clear. And worst of all, identifiable.

Dr. Francis Mulrooney. The eccentric, gentle handwriting expert. A man whom I considered a friend.

The tape ended, reverting to blue screen.

Anger came first. Then sadness. Then, like a slap, fear.

The killer had murdered Diane Kork and Francis Mulrooney, two people involved in the Gingerbread Man case. The killer also knew where I lived.

When I received the first tape, I took it to be a boast by the perp. Look what I can do, and you can’t catch me.

This second tape was more than a boast. It was an obvious threat. He was saying You’re next.

I placed the tape and the envelope into a fresh plastic garbage bag, and headed for Mulrooney’s office, keeping a careful eye on the rearview mirror. Why did it seem like every looney in Chicago knew where I lived? Did they give out my address at Serial Killer School?

The day was partly cloudy, I’d guess it at seventy-five degrees. Score one for the Weather Channel.

The graphologist’s office was on Fifty-ninth Street, at the University of Chicago’s Hyde Park campus. I took Lake Shore Drive south, a twenty-minute trip, exiting at the Museum of Science and Industry on Fifty-seventh, following Stony Island to Fifty-ninth. The campus area covered about five square blocks, wooded and peaceful and brimming with coffee shops and used bookstores and academic activity. But south of Stoney, and west of Drexel, the neighborhoods turned very bad very fast, with high crime rates and Emergency Stations every few blocks—phones that linked directly to 911.

I parked next to a hydrant and entered the old brownstone where Mulrooney worked. A fat security guard sat behind a round counter. He had a squashed appearance, with several chins, and resembled a bullfrog perched on a toadstool. I flashed my gold, my earlier anger and fear stored safely behind a cloak of cool professionalism.

“Where’s the office of Dr. Francis Mulrooney?”

“Second floor, last door.” His voice was high and whiny, ruining the frog motif he had going for himself.

“Is it locked?”

“Probably.”

“Can you open it?”

“Sure.”

We took the elevator, a small space that could carry five people, four if they were as rotund as my security guard friend. Someone had scratched some swear words into the stainless steel panel next to the buttons. Even our highly praised bastions of education weren’t immune from folks who thought “shit-breath” was high comedy. Why didn’t vandals ever quote Shakespeare? I’d love to see graffiti in iambic pentameter.

“Has Dr. Mulrooney had any visitors lately?”

“Students.”

“Any adults?”

“No.”

“Have you seen this guy hanging around?”

I showed him the Unabomber Xerox, which I now carried everywhere.

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw Dr. Mulrooney?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Left the building at his usual time, around one.”

“Did he seem worried? Scared? Distracted?”

“Seemed normal.”

The door opened. The guard went first, leading me down a thinly carpeted hallway to a hollow core door I could have opened by sneezing on it. The first two keys didn’t work, but the third was a charm.

I thanked him, and he waddled off. The office wasn’t much larger than the elevator, and certainly more crowded. All four walls were lined with crammed bookshelves. A desk sat in the corner, covered with papers and folders and clutter. An older model Dell rested on the desk, the monitor partially obscured by Post-it notes, a screen saver bouncing around a Microsoft logo.

I nudged the mouse, and the Windows desktop appeared, which was almost as cluttered as his real-life desktop. I clicked on Outlook and read a few e-mails. Nothing interesting. Then I clicked on the Start Menu and looked at Recent Documents. Nothing there either.

I searched his real desk next, uncovering a combo phone/answering machine beneath a stack of student reports. A number four blinked in the red LED window. I hit Play and began going through drawers.

The first message was from me, canceling our appointment. The machine beeped, and the next message played.

“. . . you’re going to die . . .”

The voice was a whisper, barely audible. A few seconds of silence followed, then a beep.

“. . . today . . .”

More silence. Another beep. I found the volume control and turned it up.

“. . . did you like the video, Jack? You’re next . . .”

That seriously weirded me out. I pressed Play and listened again. The sex of the speaker was impossible to determine. I tried to find the Eject button to save the tape, but the machine had no tape—this was a model that recorded digitally. Whispers could be voice-printed, but I didn’t know if unplugging the machine would erase the data on the chip. I left it alone for the time being.

The desk yielded no secrets, save for a single key with a round green tag that Mulrooney had carefully labeled House spare.

I pocketed the key, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs back to the frog.

“I need Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s home address.”

He had a large black binder labeled Faculty Directory, and I learned Mulrooney conveniently lived a block away, on Fifty-eighth.

The walk was pleasant, though my cheap shoes pinched my toes. Mulrooney’s building was an apartment, three stories, two tenants per floor. The single key fit both the security door and his door, on the ground level. I knocked first, in case he had a dog, and when no noise erupted from within I went inside.

His dwelling was the opposite of his office, everything neat and tidy. I gave the place a thorough toss, beginning in the kitchen, then the bedroom, bath, and living room.

Like his office, I couldn’t find any signs of a struggle. Unlike his office, there were no messages on his answering machine.

I found an address book, tucked it into my pocket, and locked the door when I left.

Abducting someone isn’t very hard. Mulrooney was a slight guy, short and thin. A reasoner, not a fighter. A large man could have muscled him into a car or truck within a few seconds, without attracting much attention. Or he could have been drugged, or tricked, or gone someplace with someone he trusted.

I stood on the curb and called Officer Hajek at the Crime Lab, asking if he had time later to swing by Mulrooney’s office to see what could be done with the answering machine. He promised me he would.

“. . . did you like the video, Jack? You’re next . . .”

I shuddered.

This wasn’t the first time I’d been a target, but that didn’t mean I was used to it.

I walked back to my car, acutely aware of my surroundings.

Chapter 26

HERB WAS WAITING for me in my office. He looked to be in good spirits, and cradled half a large bag of Chee•tos. His walrus mustache had a distinct orange tint. It matched his orange fingers, orange shirt, and orange tie. That’s how I knew for sure Herb wasn’t the killer; he would have left an easy-to-follow trail.

“Morning, Jack. You look upset. Saw the captain?”

“He looking for me?”

“That’s the buzz around the station.”

Great. I left the garbage bag containing the latest video on my desk, told Herb I’d be back in five, and headed for the lair of Captain Bains.

As expected, Bains didn’t greet me with flowers and a big hug. The large vein in his forehead bulged out when he saw me, and I heard him grind his teeth; not a happy sound.

“Goddammit, Daniels. I recall ordering you off the case. Do you recall that?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And since then you’ve been involved in an arson, a high-profile arrest outside your jurisdiction, and your face is all over national news telling the media you’ll stick your foot up their collective asses.”

“They aired that?”

Bains made a face. I made one as well. At least he didn’t mention the shots fired at Diane Kork’s. When a police officer dischargers her firearm, there’s an automatic IA inquest and a mandatory visit to the department shrink. I didn’t have time for either.

“You’re suspended, Jack. With pay. Report to the commissioner tomorrow at nine a.m.”

“What?” That clocked me from left field. “What’s the charge?”

“Does it matter? Pick one. How about official misconduct? Insubordination? Acting like an ass on CNN? The superintendent wants your job, and it seems like you want to give it to him. I need your badge and gun.”

I was so furious, I could spit. I spoke through my teeth.

“This isn’t a good time. He’s hunting me.”

“Who is?”

“The killer.”

“The killer’s in Indiana, in a coma. Case closed. Take a week off and let this blow over.”

“Bud Kork isn’t the guy we’re after. The guy we’re after came by my apartment last night and gave me another videotape. A videotape of Dr. Francis Mulrooney getting skinned alive.”

The anger melted off the captain’s face. It was replaced with a tired kind of sadness. When he spoke, the venom was gone.

“He’s dead?”

“You remember him?”

“I’m the one who asked him to assist on the Charles Kork case.”

“Well, I’ve got thirty minutes in screaming color of him dying an agonizing, horrible death. And it was dropped off at my house, Captain. I’m a target. You can’t pull me off now.”

Bains didn’t seem to be listening. “Francis was my cousin,” he said in a soft voice. “I used to baby-sit him when we were kids.”

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “He never mentioned that.”

“Did you bring him in on this?”

“I had an appointment with him, but had to cancel. I think he knew someone was stalking him, but didn’t mention it to me. There were some threatening messages on his office phone. The same person also threatened to kill me.”

Bains put his hands on his desk and stared at them, spreading out his fingers.

“I know the suspension is bullshit, Jack. It’s out of my hands. But the paperwork hasn’t been done yet, the official charges haven’t been filed.”

“How long do I have?”

“Two, maybe three days. You can fight it, of course. Contact the union rep. Request a hearing. But you’re being suspended with pay. Doubtful you’d get much sympathy.”

“The super can suspend me for a year after I catch this guy.”

Bains nodded. He looked smaller than he normally did. “We never had this conversation. Go find this animal. And keep your face off the boob tube, or it will be both our jobs.”

I reached into my pocket, placed Mulrooney’s address book on the captain’s desk.

“Did you want to inform his family?”

“I’m part of his goddamn family.”

I waited.

“I’ll make the calls.” Bains took the book.

Back in my office, I gave Benedict the blow-by-blow.

“Bains is a careerist. He’s bucking for commander. He won’t go down with you, Jack.”

“He’s a good cop.”

“He’s a politician. Shit trickles down. If the super wants you out, you’re out.”

“I can fight it. Unreasonable termination. Discrimination.”

“No you won’t. You’re not the type.” He looked at the garbage bag on my desk. “Couldn’t find a purse you liked?”

“I got another video this morning. The graphologist, being skinned.”

Herb winced. I didn’t want to watch the tape again so soon, but I snapped on a glove and popped it into the VCR.

Three minutes into it, Herb excused himself to go to the men’s room.

I made myself be analytical. I freeze-framed on the gloves, to try to read the tag inside the cuff. I freeze-framed on the pliers, to try to see the manufacturer mark. Emotional detachment was impossible, but I owed it to Dr. Mulrooney to do my job as best I could.

By the end of the tape I had no leads, and I was quivering with disgust.

I spent a few minutes trying to calm down, trying to distance myself from the images. The phone rang, scaring the hell out of me.

“Hiya, Jackie. What are you wearing?”

Harry McGlade.

“A frown,” I answered.

“We on for later?”

“Unfortunately.”

“How’s three o’clock?”

“I’m at work.”

“Take a day off. You deserve it. Meet us at Mon Ami Gabi, on Lincoln Park West. I’ve got reservations under the name Buttshitz. You’re bringing a date, right?”

“I think so.” Phin hadn’t called yet.

“Rent a guy if you have to. Or bring that fat partner of yours. Tell him it’s free eats; he’ll come running.”

“Good-bye, Harry.”

“Don’t be late. You’re late, I’ll make sure your TV character gets her own spin-off series.”

He hung up. I searched my desk for aspirin, finding the bottle just as the Feebies walked in. Well, a single Feeb anyway.

He nodded at me, wearing the same gray suit he had on a few days ago. Or perhaps a completely different gray suit that looked exactly the same.

“Lieutent Daniels. How are you?”

I was tired and bitchy and not in the mood to suffer fools.

“Now’s not a good time, Agent Coursey.”

“I’m Dailey.”

“Where’s your partner? Aren’t you guys always side by side, holding hands?”

“He’s ViCAT’s liaison with the Gary Police Department, investigating the Bud Kork murders. And our relationship is purely professional.”

“So you don’t give each other oily back rubs after a long day of securing our personal freedoms?”

His lips twisted somewhere between a grin and a wince.

“I understand. You’re attempting to assert your control over this situation by belittling my masculinity.”

I got wide-eyed. “Wow. You BSU guys don’t miss a trick.”

“Now you’re using sarcasm to undermine my professionalism.”

“It’s like I’m under a microscope. All of those Quantico classes have given you tremendous insight into human nature. What am I doing now?”

“You’re giving me the finger.”

Herb returned, a bit green around the gills. He surveyed the situation.

“Am I interrupting an intimate moment?”

“Special Agent Dailey was just leaving. He’s got a samba band to chase.”

Dailey cleared his throat. “We believe the Gingerbread Man wasn’t working alone.”

That got my attention.

“What do you mean?”

“After careful analysis of the twelve previous Charles Kork murder videos, we’ve deduced the recordings were made on two different camcorders. Each particular brand leaves a unique signature when laying down an electromagnetic control track on—”

I held up my palm. “Spare us the details. What difference does it make if there were two recorders? So he used one for a while, it broke, then he bought a new one.”

“The camcorder recovered at Charles Kork’s residence matches six of the videos. The other six were done on a different machine, an RCA DSP3. The recent videotape that you were sent was also done on an RCA DSP3. It’s an older model, discontinued years ago.”

That was compelling, but not enough to get me excited. “I’m sure they sold thousands of that model. Any way to prove the same camcorder recorded both?”

“Not conclusively. But let me show you something. Do you have a DVD player?”

“Not in the budget this year.”

Special Agent Dailey put his briefcase on my desk and opened the clasps. Sure enough, he had a mini DVD player. It took him a minute to attach it to my TV, and then he inserted a disc.

“This is from one of the RCA tapes. Number seven, which Charles Kork titled ‘Fresh Meat.’ We had it cleaned up and transferred to digital. A videotape is normally an analog signal, so during the transfer—”

“No technospeak. Please.”

“Fine. Just watch this and tell me what you notice.”

This was one I hadn’t seen, and had no desire to see. Dailey retrieved a remote from his attaché, pressed a few buttons, and the image showed Charles Kork brutally slapping a bound woman. The slapping went on and on, the camera zooming in closer and closer, until you could clearly see the marks Kork was making.

Dailey paused the video.

“Did you notice that?”

“I saw a woman getting beaten. It was revolting.”

“Of course it was revolting. But what else did you see?”

He began the scene at the same point, and again we witnessed the atrocity, starting with Kork full body and ending with him right in our faces, close enough to see his sweat.

Herb pointed at the screen. “The zoom.”

Then I got it. Kork was in front of the camera. If he was in front, who zoomed the lens in?

Now I got excited.

“Was it an automatic zoom?” I asked. “Or a remote control?”

“That RCA model doesn’t have one. Not only that, we analyzed this frame by frame. The camera is mounted on a tripod, but at the beginning of the zoom, the picture jars slightly. Consistent with someone behind the camera, pressing the zoom button.”

“The Gingerbread Man had a partner.”

Dailey nodded, somber.

I sat on my desk. Bud Kork, though a serial killer himself, couldn’t have been Charles Kork’s accomplice. Bud was in a coma when I received the videotape this morning. And the cameraperson who taped Diane Kork’s death had steady hands; Bud’s were racked with Parkinson’s.

“Who?” Herb asked.

“We’ve discovered that Bud Kork had a common-law wife for twelve years. She’s doing life for manslaughter—she sliced up a girl she believed was sleeping with Bud.”

“She’s still in prison?”

“Yes. And she had a boy of her own. We know he was one year younger than Charles, and they lived together for a while.”

“Remember what Bud Kork said yesterday?” Herb nudged me. “No flesh of my flesh. This kid lived in his house, but wasn’t Kork’s son.”

I tried to picture two little boys, growing up in the hell house of Bud Kork. They’d both be majorly screwed up. Chances are they relied on each other. Bonded. Maybe developed the same grotesque appetites.

“Where’s this guy now?”

“We haven’t been able to locate him. Last known address is in Michigan.”

“Record?”

Dailey paused. “Assault and battery. Burglary. Armed robbery. Rape. Did a few stints in prison. But three years ago, the guy just disappeared.”

“Have you asked his mother where he is?”

“Not yet. As of today, the special agent in charge of the Chicago office is sending me to Gary to assist Special Agent Coursey.”

Now this generous sharing of information made sense.

“You came to us, knowing we’d want go and interview her.”

Special Agent Dailey smiled. “We’re all on the same side, right?”

“Fine. What’s her name and where is she?”

Dailey played coy. I stated the obvious.

“You want something.”

“The Behavioral Science Unit is facing cutbacks. Homeland Security is getting all of the funding. We’re going to be downsized. A major bust would go a long way to preventing that.”

“You want the collar.”

Dailey nodded. “We’re willing to share. But we’d like to be in on it. If I give you the woman’s name, and you find out where her son is, we’d like to assist in the arrest.”

“Won’t that only matter if state lines have been crossed?”

“We can still be there to smile pretty for the cameras.”

I mulled it over. “We could find her on our own.”

“Maybe. But it will be tough. You don’t have access to all of the information that we do. You’d need subpoenas to obtain records. All of that will take time.”

I glanced at Herb. He shrugged.

“Deal.” We shook hands on it. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Lorna Hunt Ellison. She’s currently in the Indiana Women’s Prison in Indianapolis. Son’s name is Caleb.”

I wrote the info down, then hit the Eject button on my VCR.

“I got another tape this morning. It shows the death of the handwriting expert who helped with the Gingerbread Man case.”

Dailey raised an eyebrow. “You believe Diane Kork was killed on the first tape, correct?”

“We don’t have a body, but the tattoo matched. And someone burned down her house when I showed up. I find it hard to believe that’s coincidental.”

“So do we. And it’s also not a coincidence that the handwriting expert was killed. It appears that the Gingerbread Man’s partner is targeting people involved in that case. Who else had a hand in it?”

“Harry McGlade, obviously. And a guy named Phineas Troutt helped out. Some men from the medical examiner’s office, Phil Blasky and Max Hughes. A handful of uniforms from my district, who did legwork. Guys from the Evanston PD.”

“And us.” Agent Dailey frowned. “We’re on his list too.”

Chapter 27

INDIANAPOLIS WAS A three-hour drive. Herb and I made arrangements with the warden to visit with Lorna tomorrow afternoon. Indianapolis was also the hometown of Mike Mayer, who rented the Eclipse. We could check out his house after visiting Lorna.

I still hadn’t heard from Phin. Herb vehemently disliked Harry, and not even a free meal would convince him to sup with the PI. Racking my brain for someone else to bring was an exercise in futility. I didn’t have any friends. I hadn’t dated anyone in months. My life was police work.

I wondered, ironically, whom I would ask to stand up if I ever got married. I was in the same boat as McGlade in that respect.

Not that I’d ever have to face that situation.

“You gonna eat that?”

Herb pointed at the cranberry granola bar sticking out of my jacket pocket.

I flipped him the bar. He took a tiny exploratory bite.

“This is awful.”

“I know.”

“And so tiny.”

He finished it, then traded me a five-dollar bill for singles to go on what he called a Carb Quest—a trip to the vending machines.

“Want anything?”

“No.”

“I’ll drop by later.”

“Herb . . . let me know when you get the biopsy results.”

I gave the Detroit PD a call, and asked them to give me whatever they had on Caleb Ellison. They reiterated what Dailey had told me. Ellison was a career dirtbag who dropped off the face of the earth.

“Probably in a shallow grave someplace,” said the cop I spoke with. “No big loss.”

I asked him to fax over Caleb’s record, which turned out to be a Greatest Hits package of felony arrests. Presuming Caleb wasn’t in a shallow grave someplace, he was in his late thirties, two hundred pounds, with red hair and lots of tattoos.

I switched gears, and hunted and pecked my way through the reports I’d been neglecting, beginning with the fire from two days ago.

Three hours later I was bleary-eyed and falling asleep. The phone snapped me out of my stupor.

“Hi, Jack. It’s Phin.”

That was a relief. “Hey. Thanks for calling.”

“Where are we meeting?”

“At Mon Ami Gabi, a French steakhouse in Lincoln Park. Three o’clock. Reservations are under the name Buttshitz.”

“Unfortunate name.”

“It’s not real. Harry thinks he’s funny.”

“See you at three.”

He hung up. I yawned, stretched, checked my watch. Twelve thirty. Back to the thrill-a-minute fast lane of report writing.

The writing was so white-knuckle exhilarating that I actually did fall asleep. Someone nudged me out of slumber an undetermined time later.

“Jack. You asleep?”

I peeled my eyes open, focused on Herb. “Not anymore.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m heading home.”

I felt a brief flash of panic and checked my watch. Ten after three.

“Shit. I’m late.” I focused on Herb. “Why are you heading home so early?”

“I got my biopsy results.” His face split into a broad grin. “Benign. Bernice and I are going to celebrate.”

I cracked a huge grin and gave my partner a hug. “That’s great, Herb. Congrats. Tomorrow, early, we go to Indiana.”

I rushed past Herb, flew down the stairs, hopped in my Nova, stuck the cherry on top, and hit the siren.

Even with traffic parting for me, I didn’t get to Mon Ami until a quarter to four. I did a quick once-over in the rearview, threw the valet my keys, and entered the posh Beldon Stratford Hotel.

The restaurant occupied the left of the lobby, up some carpeted stairs. It was an upscale French steakhouse; probably a redundant description, considering there aren’t any budget French steakhouses. Small, intimate, with starched tablecloths and a wine cart worth more than a Mercedes. I sheepishly gave the tuxedo-clad hostess the reservation name, and she led me past a dozen or so tables, all occupied.

During the ride over, my mind filled with worst-case scenarios, most of them centered around Phin murdering Harry.

Color me surprised when I spotted their table and heard gales of laughter.

“Jackie!” Harry pointed at me, speaking much too loudly for the venue. “Come! Sit! Meet my beloved.”

I eyed Phin, who was looking pretty good in a charcoal jacket and a light-blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. He offered me a pleasant smile.

Harry stood up to greet me, an unprecedented move, and Phin stood as well. McGlade clasped my hand as if I’d just returned from war, his face glowing with happiness. He wore another wrinkled suit, but his shirt was starched, and the handkerchief in his breast pocket matched his tie.

Harry’s beloved didn’t stand up, but she flashed me a dazzling smile. I practically did a double take.

This woman was actually cute. Great skin, a delicate nose, full lips, high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, thick black hair in a bob cut.

“Jack Daniels, meet my fiancée, Holly Frakes.”

Holly offered a hand, her nails to die for. She had a strong, firm grip.

“So this is the famous Jack Daniels. Quite a difference from your TV counterpart. I love the suit.”

“Thanks.” I wished I’d dressed up a little more. Her cream silk blouse was gorgeous, displaying her figure to good effect. I glanced at her lower body and noted a matching skirt, and a handbag that was unmistakably Prada. A Prada purse cost more than everything I owned put together.

“Nice to meet you, Holly. That’s a lovely outfit as well.”

Holly’s smile blazed brighter. “Emanuel Ungaro. I just love Ungaro, don’t you?”

“Only from afar.” Emanuel Ungaro hadn’t appeared on the Home Shopping Club yet. I wasn’t holding my breath.

I sat down between the men, placed the napkin in my lap, and glanced at Phin again.

Phin was staring at Holly.

“Holly was just telling us a skip trace story.” McGlade patted her on the hand. “Go ahead, baby.”

“You’re a bounty hunter?” I asked.

“Private investigator. Like Harry. I occasionally chase bail jumpers to keep things interesting. Where was I, hon?”

“You had him cornered in the alley.”

“Right. So the punk didn’t want to be brought in, even though I had my gun out. He told me to go ahead and shoot him.”

“What was his crime?” Phin had puppy-dog eyes.

“Assault. He liked to hit women. Now, personally, I wouldn’t have minded pumping a few rounds into this son of a bitch. He deserved it. But he wasn’t armed, and the local police department probably wouldn’t have supported such an action. So I fired twice, over his head, to get his attention. Guy just stares at me, not moving.”

Holly had a totally engaging way of telling a story, her eyes wide and her hands in constant motion, adding greater impact to her words.

I instantly disliked her. There was a bottle of red wine on the table, and I filled my glass and took a healthy slug.

“So I fire another round, between his legs.”

“How far away were you?” Phin asked.

“Twenty feet.”

“Holly’s an expert marksman.” Harry beamed.

“Marksperson,” Holly corrected. “I’ve won a few trophies. No big deal.”

“So have I. I’m the Area champ.”

Was that me talking? Jesus, Jack, are we that insecure? “What do you carry?” Holly asked me.

“A .38 Colt.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What is that, a two-inch barrel?”

I knew what she was hinting at. A .38 snub nose was no good for sharpshooting.

“In my job, I’ve never had to hit anything farther than ten feet away. The shorter barrel means a quicker draw. For handgun competitions I shoot a .22 LR, Smith and Wesson Model 2206.”

“Capable weapon. I prefer the Number 41 Rimfire.”

“Doesn’t that have a shorter barrel?”

“Half inch less than the 2206, and five ounces heavier. But I like the thumb-rest on the grips, and think it’s a better balanced weapon.”

She knew her firearms. Which made her even more annoying.

“So what happened next?” Phin asked.

Holly grinned. “Well, I probably missed his peter by two inches, and that would have scared the spaghetti out of most men, but this guy still just stands there. Now the only way I can collect from the bondsman is if I bring him in, and he outweighed me by about a hundred pounds and wasn’t afraid of guns.”

Harry’s smile threatened to crack his face. “I love this next part. Tell them what you did, baby.”

“I put away my gun, walked up to the prick, and asked him if he was right-handed or left-handed.”

“And what did he say?” This from Harry, who had somehow turned into Ed McMahon.

“He called me a bitch, and told me it was none of my business.”

“So what did you do?”

I know what I did. I drank more wine.

Holly sipped some wine too. Both Phin and Harry reached for the bottle to pour her more. Phin won.

I set my empty glass on the table.

No one filled it.

“Well, I told the guy that I was originally planning on just breaking his bad arm. But since he wouldn’t tell me which that was, I’d have to break them both.”

Harry clapped again, and let out an inappropriate whoop.

“So what did he do?”

“He laughed in my face.”

“And what did you do?”

Holly’s smile was tight-lipped. “I broke both of his arms.”

Harry laughed, and Phin joined in. A waitress came by and filled my wine-glass, asking if we’d like another bottle. I gave her a vigorous nod.

Harry nudged me. “Holly’s a martial arts expert.”

“Really?” I feigned interest. “Which discipline?”

She shrugged. “Tae kwon do. Third dan black belt, but I don’t practice much anymore.”

I was only a first dan black belt. I drank more wine, then tried the bread. Excellent bread.

“So where did you two meet?” This from Phin.

McGlade puffed out his chest. “Eye-Con. It’s the largest private investigator convention of the year. Held in Chicago this year, in February. I sat next to her during a lecture about listening devices, and she recognized my name from the TV series.”

“You just met two months ago?” I formed the words around the bread in my mouth. “Isn’t it kind of soon to leap into marriage?”

“Why wait?” Holly reached over and held McGlade’s hand. “We’re not getting any younger.”

I went fishing. “That’s ridiculous. You’re how old, thirty?”

“Thanks so much.” Holly patted my forearm. “I’m thirty-eight.”

Now I really hated her.

The waitress came again, with more wine, and after an elaborate wine presentation she discussed the daily specials. I tuned her out, trying to understand what the hell Holly saw in Harry. He was probably rich because of the series, but all the money in the world didn’t make up for the fact that McGlade was one of the most obnoxious, offensive, and annoying people to ever drag his knuckles, and Holly seemed, well, perfect.

We ordered. Holly regaled the boys with more tales of heroics. I drank. After my fourth glass, I came right out and asked.

“Holly, you have to tell me. What in God’s name are you doing with McGlade?”

“What do you mean?”

I mutely gestured with both hands, finally saying, “Well, look at him.”

Holly placed a hand on Harry’s head and ruffled his curly brown hair.

“He makes me laugh.”

McGlade wedged a fist-sized hunk of bread into his mouth. “Plus I’m hung like a beluga whale. But I have more hair.”

They shared a kiss. I rolled my eyes. I’d fallen for my share of losers too. At least when she divorced him, she’d get a decent settlement.

Dinner arrived, and it was probably excellent, but I had too much of a buzz to notice. I switched from wine to coffee, knowing I’d eventually have to drive, and Holly held Phin’s hand and asked him in a breathy Happy-Birthday-Mister-President voice if he’d do her the honor of standing up on her side at the wedding two days from now.

Phin agreed, of course. If she’d asked him to cut off his own legs he would have been racing for the hacksaw.

“And you, Jack, thank you so much for being there on Harry’s side.”

She said it in such a genuine way that I actually believed her.

“It’s my pleasure.” I wasn’t nearly as genuine.

If Holly noticed, she kept it hidden. “You know, I’ve got some free time during the afternoon tomorrow. It’ll be the first time in days.”

Harry grinned and held her hand. “I don’t like letting her out of my sight for very long.”

Holly grinned back. Love sure was disgusting.

“Anyway, Jack, I haven’t been shooting in forever. Would you like to fire off a few rounds?”

“Sure.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Drop by the station tomorrow, around five. We’ll hit the range.”

I had no idea why she was making an effort, and an even lesser idea of why I was reciprocating. Because I had no friends? Because I still didn’t understand why such an incredible woman was marrying Harry?

Or was it because I’d take an obscene amount of delight in outscoring her ass on the firing range?

We had dessert, more coffee, and then Holly got up to visit the ladies’ room.

“Well?” Harry elbowed me in the arm. “What do you think of her? What a filly, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, Harry. She’s a real filly.”

“How about you, Jim?”

“Phin.”

“Phin. Pretty prime piece of real estate I’m developing, huh?”

“She’s lovely.” Phin looked at me, for only the second time of the night, a question in his eyes.

Harry slurped some coffee, spilling it onto his shirt. “I’m the luckiest man who ever lived, that’s for sure. She’s beautiful, smart, funny, and the sex is mind-blowing. She doesn’t wear underwear. Can you believe it? I’m writing a letter to Penthouse.”

Holly returned, McGlade made a big show of picking up the check, and everyone hugged everyone else, some more enthusiastically than others. The valet got Harry’s car first, and he and Holly drove off honking and waving.

“That was surreal,” Phin said as we stood in the lobby.

“How so?”

“McGlade. That guy is an idiot. Actually, calling him an idiot isn’t fair to all the other idiots. What in God’s name is she doing with him?”

“McGlade’s rich. She could be gold-digging.”

“Maybe that’s it. She obviously doesn’t love him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Come on, Jack. Who could love that guy? If I had to spend ten minutes alone with him I’d eat my gun. Or make him eat it.”

The valet pulled my car up.

“I read somewhere that beautiful women are often lonely because men are afraid to approach them.”

That received a snort. “Get real, Jack. Did you look around the restaurant? Everything with a Y chromosome was ogling her. Holly hasn’t lacked for companionship a single day of her life.”

That made me feel much better.

“You need a ride someplace?”

“No. I’m good. See you Monday, Jack.”

“Thanks for coming, Phin. I owe you one.”

“It was fun. Hey, you don’t like McGlade, right?”

“He’s like the brother I never wanted.”

“If he met with some kind of fatal accident, would that be a problem?”

I couldn’t tell if Phin was joking or not. I tipped the valet, climbed into my beater, and opened my window.

“You can’t kill him until I’m off the TV series.”

“Got it. You looked nice tonight, Jack.”

“I’m glad someone noticed,” I said. But I said it after I’d already pulled away.

Chapter 28

SERGEANT HERB BENEDICT gives his sleeping wife a pat on the rump and climbs out of bed. It’s a hair past midnight, and midnight is the perfect time to have a midnight snack.

He creeps to the door—the house is old and the wooden floors creak like the shrieks of the damned. Bernice is a light sleeper. She made a wonderful rib roast for dinner, and there’s very little left. If he wakes her, he’ll have to share.

Herb takes the stairs slowly, as if stepping on eggshells. He doesn’t put on any lights. He doesn’t need to. He’s lived in this house for decades, and can navigate entirely by feel.

The kitchen floor is slippery under his bare feet. Bernice waxes the tile once a week, and Herb’s soles are dry and calloused. More than once he’s almost taken a dive during a late-night refrigerator raid.

He manages to keep his balance this time, pulling the Tupperware bowl of meat and potatoes from the fridge, deciding whether the microwave is necessary, or if straight from the container will suffice.

The kitchen is cold, so he goes with the microwave. He sets it for a minute—just enough to get the chill out of the food—and opens the utensil drawer, feeling for a fork.

A creaking sound comes from the living room.

Herb freezes. Instantly he knows the noise came from a person, and that person can’t be Bernice because he would have heard her coming down the stairs. The lights are off, but there’s illumination coming through the small window of the microwave. Herb squints across the kitchen and into the dining room, where he sees the drapes ruffling.

The window is open, the wind blowing in. That’s why the kitchen is cold. That’s how someone got into his house.

Benedict’s gun is upstairs, next to the bed. He keeps it there on the off chance someone ever tried to break in. He’s aware of the irony. Who knew he should have armed himself to go eat leftovers?

Another squeak. Closer. The person is right around the corner, less than ten feet away. Herb considers his options. Most burglars don’t want to be confronted. They run at the very thought of the house being occupied. A loud shout will scare this type of criminal away.

But this might not be a burglar. It might be someone with a grudge. Someone Herb arrested in the past, looking to settle a score.

Or someone else. Someone planning on making a new videotape to give to Jack.

He chances a quick glance at the microwave. Thirty seconds left. Then there will be a loud beep to signal the food is ready. Herb had planned to open the microwave door a few seconds early, so the sound didn’t wake Bernice. Now he decides to use the beep to his advantage. When the microwave beeps, the light will go off. Maybe the combination will mask Herb’s movement, giving him a chance to strike first.

Silently, Herb reaches back into the utensil drawer and finds a paring knife. Long-bladed weapons aren’t good in a fight. They get caught on clothing. The large blade makes penetration more difficult, and easier to defend against. A short blade is easier to control and wield, and can do more than enough damage.

Herb takes one for each hand.

The microwave reaches 15 seconds left . . . 14 . . . 13 . . .

Benedict spreads his feet apart, widening his stance.

12 . . . 11 . . . 10 . . .

The kitchen is dark, but he knows every inch of it. He imagines the three steps he’ll have to take before the quick right turn into the living room.

9. . . 8 . . . 7 . . .

He bends his knees and crouches down. He’ll hit low, use his weight to knock the person over.

6. . . 5 . . . 4 . . .

Herb takes a deep breath, holds it, clenching the knives as hard as he can.

3. . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Benedict is already two steps into his run. Before he can make the turn into the living room he bumps straight into the man standing next to the refrigerator.

Momentum takes Herb forward, but the shock of hitting someone sooner than expected, plus the slippery floor, makes him lose his balance. He falls face-first, trying to break his fall with his knuckles, realizing at the last possible moment that falling on two paring knives is a bad idea.

Herb manages to stretch one knife in front of him.

The other penetrates his chest and slips between two ribs, puncturing his right lung.

The pain is instant and intense. A sharp, searing pain, accompanied by a sudden urge to cough.

Ahead of Herb, the intruder also hits the floor. It’s followed by a clanging sound, something metal hitting the tile. A crowbar? A gun?

“Herb?”

Bernice. She heard the sound. Herb tries to warn her, but he can’t take a breath. Nothing comes out, only painful wheezing. He pulls at the knife in his chest, and it comes out with a wet sucking sound.

A foot catches Herb in the face. Herb lashes out with the knife, finding a calf, digging the blade in.

There’s a scream, low and loud, and the leg is pulled away. Herb hears limping footsteps heading into the living room. And then he hears something that almost stops his heart: the stairs creaking.

Bernice is coming down.

Herb tries to get up. He’s struggling to breathe, and there’s a wet hissing sound coming from the hole in his chest. He presses his palm to it, pain be damned, and manages to get to his knees.

The light goes on in the hallway.

“Herb!”

Bernice’s voice, panicked. There’s a grunting sound. Something breaks, sounds like glass.

Not Bernice please God please not my wife . . .

Herb crawls across the tile, desperate. Another light goes on, in the living room. He sees what the intruder dropped. A hunting knife, the blade over ten inches long.

Footsteps, getting closer. Herb raises the paring knife, ready to fight.

Bernice walks into the kitchen. She’s holding Herb’s gun.

“Oh my God, Herbert!”

Herb tries to speak. Can’t. Bernice reads the question on his face.

“He’s gone. He saw the gun and broke through the living room window.”

Herb coughs, blood bubbling from his lips. He collapses onto the floor and is conscious long enough to notice the note on the floor, next to the hunting knife.

Chapter 29

FOR THE SECOND time in twelve hours, the phone woke me up. I squinted at the clock in the darkness. One a.m. I’d been asleep for almost an hour.

The phone rang again. I slapped it to my cheek.

“Daniels.”

“Jack? It’s Bernice Benedict. Someone just broke into our house.”

I went from groggy to alert in record time.

“Are you okay? Where’s Herb?”

“He’s been stabbed in the chest.”

She sounded scared, but in control. Cops’ wives were tough.

“Have you called 911?”

“An ambulance is on the way. The man who broke in, he left a handwritten note. It says ‘All shall be punished.’ ”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. If you’re already on your way to the hospital, leave the back door open.”

I threw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and made it to Herb’s place in nine minutes. Scores of squad cars jammed the side streets; cops took care of their own.

I parked on his lawn and caught Benedict being shoved into the rear of an ambulance. His pajama top was open, and an EMT pressed a large piece of gauze to his bloody chest. Herb’s face was literally gray, but he was awake.

“How you doing, partner?”

He rolled his eyes, which buoyed me with relief. The dying don’t bother with sarcasm. He whispered something, more a gargle than a whisper. I leaned over, my ear to his lips.

“. . . stabbed the guy . . . leg . . .”

“Description?”

“. . . dark . . . Bernice . . .”

“She saw him?

His eyes said yes.

“I’m going to check out the scene. I’ll visit you later.”

I patted his cheek, and he whispered something again.

“. . . crow wave.”

“What?”

“. . . microwave . . . don’t touch my rib roast.”

Bernice stood in the doorway, talking to three cops. She was in her midfifties, short and a shade too plump for this era. Her gray hair was in a bun, and she hugged her robe around her, cold or scared or both. I approached, and when Bernice noticed me she grasped my hands.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Though I didn’t see how she could be.

“Did you see his face?”

“Yes. Short red hair. Acne scars. Chubby. I don’t know about height—he was limping and hunched over. In his late twenties or early thirties.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A black sweatshirt, black jeans, gloves.”

“Black leather?”

“White rubber. Like a doctor wears.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Bernice laid it out for me: waking up when she heard a noise, calling for her husband, hearing a man scream, grabbing the gun and coming downstairs, finding the suspect in the living room. When he saw the gun, he busted out through the window.

“Did you see which way he went?”

“No. I was in a hurry to find Herb.”

Something in her tone made me wonder if there was more. “Anything else, Bernice?”

“Yes. He spoke to me, before he ran off.”

“What did he say?”

Bernice didn’t flinch. “He said, I’ll be back, bitch.”

I left Bernice in the capable hands of Chicago’s finest and entered her house. The Crime Scene Unit hadn’t arrived yet, and the first-on-the-scene officer was reluctant to let me in, even though I pulled rank. He was worried about contaminating evidence, which wasn’t an unfounded concern. A few recent high-profile court losses due to compromised scenes had made many of the higher-ups unhappy.

I assured him I’d be careful, and wandered through the living room, mindful where I stepped, taking everything in.

The entry point was through a living room window. A hole had been cut in the glass, wide enough to accommodate an arm. Then the latch had been turned and the window raised. Silent and effective. It was an MO I’d seen before—the Gingerbread Man had used it.

The perp had exited through another window, smashing the glass. There was blood on the window frame, on the wood floor trailing up to it. I followed the blood into the kitchen, found the note and the hunting knife. The note seemed to match the first note left for us, and the hunting knife appeared to be the same one used in the Diane Kork video.

There was more blood here, Herb’s and the intruder’s, smeared around in a pattern that suggested a struggle. Two paring knives were slathered with the stuff.

I looked in the microwave, found the Tupperware bowl full of rib roast. I didn’t see how touching it would in any way, shape, or form hurt a conviction, so I put it in the refrigerator.

Careful to avoid the blood, I left the kitchen and followed the blood spatters, through the living room, up to the window. Hanging on a jagged shard of glass were three red hairs.

Caleb Ellison, who lived with Charles Kork for ten years, had red hair.

The CSU arrived. Pictures were taken. Video was shot. Samples were acquired. I left after an hour, heading to St. Vernon to check on Herb. He hadn’t come out of surgery yet. I sat with Bernice, holding her hand, trying to get my mind around everything.

It didn’t make sense.

The note and the hunting knife looked to be matches, but other than that, this crime didn’t seem at all related to the deaths of Diane Kork and Francis Mulrooney. There were too many discrepancies. The MO was all wrong.

Diane and Francis were abductions. No evidence had been left. Their deaths had been videotaped. Their killer wore black leather gloves. Everything pointed to him having a blond beard.

But in this case, the killer was a redhead who wore latex gloves, tried to kill his victims in their homes without recording it on tape, and left a truckload of physical evidence.

Why so many differences? Was the killer escalating? Or getting sloppy? Or was this a hasty attempt, thrown together at the last minute?

By four a.m., Herb was out of surgery, and his doctor came to see us. I didn’t like the fact that he appeared grim.

“We repaired the damage to his lung and inserted a tube to reverse the pneumothorax—the collapsed lung—but while on the table your husband suffered a myocardial infarction.”

Bernice’s only reaction was to blink.

“He had a heart attack?” I asked.

“We were able to resuscitate, and he’s in Recovery now. We anticipated this might happen. A chest CT before surgery revealed large amounts of calcium deposits on his arterial walls. So after closing him up I ordered an MRA and found evidence of coronary artery disease. He’s going to need angioplasty at the least—I need to run some more tests. There’s enough plaque to qualify for bypass surgery.”

Bernice began to cry, and I didn’t feel so hot myself.

“I want to see my husband.”

The doctor nodded. “One visitor only. He’s still in critical condition.”

Bernice hugged me, and the doctor escorted her out of the waiting room. I sat for another hour, pestered the nurse to visit Herb, got turned down, and went home, worried sick.

Chapter 30

SLEEPING WASN’T AN option, so I left for Indianapolis early, the rising sun in my face as I headed southeast. There was a little bite of winter lingering in the air, a frigid breeze that made a jacket necessary. I wore my three-quarter-length London Fog trenchcoat, black Levi’s, and a black and red blouse by Kathleen B that I picked up in a small boutique in Aurora. The blouse was made of material called poodle fabric, and had the thickness of a sweater without the bulk. For shoes, I went with Nikes—no woman likes to drive long distances in heels.

I did a lot of thinking during the trip. If I truly was happy being miserable, as I suspected, then I’d just attained a state of euphoria.

My father died when I was young. My mom raised me, but she’d worked full-time as a police officer, and from eleven years old on I spent a lot of time alone, locked in our little apartment. I loved Mom, and appreciated all she’d done for me, but I didn’t need a therapist to know I had abandonment issues. Control issues too. Chasing bad guys helped keep the issues at bay. It was easier than dragging them out into the sunlight and dealing with them.

But at times like these, when the world felt like it was falling apart around me, when it didn’t look like the bad guys would ever get caught, when I needed more than ever to be strong—I always seemed to come up short.

When I joined the police force out of college, Mom hugged me and told me how proud she was, and then begged me to quit. She was my role model. I wanted to be like her, and didn’t understand why she regretted me following in her footsteps.

Now I understood. It took twenty years, but I understood. I did a lot of good things, helped a lot of people. Saved lives. Caught criminals. Made the world a better place.

A better place for everyone but me.

I had a husband. I could have had a family, and pursued some other career that didn’t involve death.

Funny thing about regrets. I don’t lament what I’ve done, but rather, what I didn’t do.

And now, with my partner hurt, my job in trouble, my love life nonexistent, and my mother in a coma, I couldn’t help but wonder if I should have listened to Mom and not have become a cop.

Would I be happy?

I considered the melancholy I felt when I thought I was going to die in the fire. I’d faced death, and met it with apathy.

That spoke volumes.

I arrived at the Indiana Women’s Prison a few minutes before nine. From the outside it looked like an old schoolhouse, a two-story building made of reddish brown brick, with a circular driveway and well-tended green landscaping. The assistant superintendent met me inside, a thin reed of a woman named Patricia Pedersen. She had severe black eyebrows that looked like caterpillars and the barest hint of a mustache above thin lips. Her pantsuit matched the mustache.

“Lieutenant Daniels, welcome to our facility. We’ll need to check your weapon, of course.”

My .38 was locked away, and Ms. Pedersen had me sign in before leading me inside. I knew a little something about the prison. It was the first all-female penal institution in America, having opened in the 1870s. High-medium security, dorm living rather than individual cells.

“We’re currently over capacity, with 388 inmates. Most of the latest are juvenile offenders. We just received an eighth grader who beat her mother to death with a baseball bat. Tried as an adult and sent here. Thirteen years old.”

The hall we walked down didn’t have any doors—just concrete blocks painted gray and a white tile floor that met Ms. Pedersen’s square-heeled shoes with a horselike clip-clop.

“Tell me about Lorna.”

“Admitted twelve years ago. She cut off another woman’s breasts. Lots of trouble, for the first few years. Fighting. Attacking guards. Starting fires. She’s settled down some recently, since turning sixty. Still a strong woman, though. Don’t underestimate her.”

“Any visitors lately?”

“I don’t think so. I can check the records.”

“If you could.”

She led me through some heavy steel doors and into the first dormitory. It resembled a military barracks, beds alternating with metal lockers. All were empty.

“Breakfast just began in the mess hall. We’ll catch her as she’s coming out. Need a private room, or can you talk in the yard?”

“A room.”

“I can move some chairs into isolation, post a guard on the door for you.”

“If you could take her there first.”

“Of course. You can wait in my office.”

“Can I read her file?”

“I’ve already pulled it for you.”

Ms. Pedersen took me through more locked doors, another lonely hall, and into a small room with a cluttered desk. An American flag hung limply on a pole in the corner, and a signed picture of a former president adorned the wall. I sat in a wooden chair, the red vinyl cushion cracked and hard.

She brought me the Lorna Hunt Ellison file, and I gave it a quick gothrough. Lorna had been born in Indiana, sixty-two years prior. She’d been arrested over a dozen times, mostly violent offenses, and previously served a two-year stint in Rockville Correctional Facility for setting fire to a liquor store.

That was the litmus test for blue-collar crime: liquor store burning.

A psych eval spun a story of antisocial personality disorder, passive-aggressive disorder, impulse disorder, and sadistic tendencies. A recent update added bipolar to the diagnosis. Lorna took a daily cocktail of antipsychotic medication, the dosage high enough to cause stupor in a gorilla. Her IQ was in no danger of reaching the triple digits.

Hardly any mention of her son, Caleb, and no mention at all of Bud Kork.

I wondered if the Feebies were wrong, and Lorna had nothing to do with Kork. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Ms. Pedersen came back and told me Lorna was ready. “She’s not in a pleasant mood this morning. Just warning you.”

“Did you check her visitor list?”

“Yes. Not a single visitor since her incarceration.”

“Popular lady. Do you think I might grab a bagel or something? I left early and missed breakfast.”

“Sure. Let’s swing by the mess.”

I wasn’t really hungry. I wanted Lorna to stew for a while.

We went through the kitchen entrance, and I had two slices of toast with butter while standing next to two women who were peeling an impossibly large pile of potatoes. They didn’t talk to me, I didn’t talk to them.

Ms. Pedersen remained silent during my meal; not hurried, but not noticeably pleased to have to watch me eat. After a good ten minutes had passed, I asked to be taken to Lorna.

The isolation area was clean, brightly lit. The doors were solid metal, with a sliding panel covering the eyehole slot. A male guard with a pot belly sat outside the door.

“Half an hour long enough?” Ms. Pedersen asked.

I nodded. “It should be.”

“I promised Lorna extra dessert if she cooperates with you. Years ago, she stabbed another inmate with a fork to get her cobbler.”

“Thanks.”

“We’ve heard about the corpses at the Kork house, of course. Terrible.”

“Does Lorna know about it?”

“Everyone knows about it. See you in a half.”

Ms. Pedersen walked off, her footsteps echoing after her.

The guard stood up and offered a lazy smile. “If she gets frisky, just pound on the door or yell or something. Then I’ll come in and save you.”

Save me? I figured it would have taken me all of four seconds to blind him, break both of his knees, and leave him singing castrato. But since he had the key, I kept that to myself. He opened the cell door.

The smell hit me first, the pungent reek of old body odor. I crinkled my nose and stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind me.

The room was small, perhaps fifteen feet by fifteen, with stark white walls and harsh fluorescent lighting recessed into the ceiling. A stainless steel toilet jutted from the corner, next to a one-valve sink that resembled a drinking fountain.

Lorna Hunt Ellison sat in a lightweight plastic chair, facing me. Her hair was white and Einstein wild, like she’d just French-kissed an electric outlet. Her face looked worn, eroded, but the eyes sparkled like oily blue marbles.

She wore jeans, perhaps a size sixteen, her belly hanging over the waist-band. Her shirt was light blue, big enough to be a painter’s smock. Armpit stains spread down her sides, past her ribs, her small breasts hidden in the folds of the fabric.

“Good morning, Lorna. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Pig.” Her voice came out cracked and squeaky. A witch’s voice.

I sat in the second chair, facing her, our knees almost touching. Lorna scooted her chair backward.

“Got nothing to say to you, pig.”

Charm to match her beauty.

“I just saw Bud. He says hello.”

She hocked up something from deep in her lungs and spat it onto the floor. “He’s not saying dick. He’s unconscious.”

“That’s what the papers say. The truth is, he’s talking up a storm. He’s telling us all kinds of things. Things about you. About your victims.”

Lorna squinted, her oily eyes focusing.

“I didn’t kill none of those folks. You can’t prove nothing.”

I kept quiet. We both knew she had a hand in the killings. But that wasn’t why I came.

The silence stretched. Lorna scratched an armpit and left her hand tucked beneath it. She broke first.

“What’s your name, pig?”

“Lieutenant Daniels. And if you call me a pig again, Grandma, I’m going to grab you by your chicken neck and make you lick the toilet clean.”

Lorna cackled, her eyes crinkling in amusement. “Daniels! I know you! You the one that got little Charles.”

“You did a good job raising that one. He was a real piece of work.”

“Charles was already ruined, ’fore I moved in. Bud thought he was the devil hisself.”

“Is that what you thought?”

She shrugged. “Boy had some problems.”

Which might have been the understatement of the century.

“How about your boy? Caleb? Did he have problems?”

“Caleb was a good boy. Listened to his mama.”

“Where’s Caleb now?”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes stayed on mine. I didn’t see any intelligence there, but I saw cunning. Animal cunning, as if I were staring at a snake, or a rat.

“Did you once have red hair?” I asked.

“No. Used to be brown. Been white since my forties.”

“So Caleb got his red hair from his father?”

“Damn Irish deadbeat. Wasn’t worth his weight in shit.”

“Where’s his father now?”

She smiled, like a naughty child caught in a lie. “Caleb didn’t like his daddy much.”

“Are you telling me Caleb killed his father?”

“I’m not telling you nothing . . .” Her lips were about to form the word pig, but she read my expression and instead said, “Lieutenant.”

“Were you married to his father?”

“Up until his untimely death.”

“Caleb keep in touch with you?”

“Writes me, sometimes.”

“Do you still have his letters?”

“Maybe.”

“Would you like to show them to me?”

“Fuck, no.”

Lorna folded her flabby arms. She had an unhealthy-looking brown growth on her elbow.

“I’ve talked to Ms. Pedersen. She’s authorized me to give you certain things if you cooperate.”

“She thinks I’m going to give up my son for some extra pie? She can kiss my hairy hole.”

A real charmer, this woman. She should send in her application to Who Wants to Marry a Psycho-Bitch?

“When did you and Caleb move in with Bud?”

Another hack. Another spit. “Years ago. When Caleb started the junior high.”

“Did Caleb get along with Charles?”

“Caleb got along with everyone. Such a good boy.”

“For a good boy, he seems to get in trouble a lot.”

“He’s misunderstood.”

“I’m sure he is. Plus, look at the hand he was dealt. Growing up in a house full of psychotic perverts.”

Lorna didn’t like to be called names. I watched her hands form into fists. I kept up the heat.

“You think that’s why he hates you? Because you’re a fat, psychotic pervert?”

“Watch what you say, cop.”

“I’d hate my mother too, if she was retarded gutter trash.”

“I ain’t trash.”

“Have you looked in a mirror the last couple of years?”

“And I ain’t no retard.”

“I read your file, Lorna. And if you were able to read, you’d see the word used several times.”

Lorna seemed too focused on the older insults to process the newer ones.

“I ain’t no retard, and my boy don’t hate me. He loves his mama.”

I leaned in closer, fighting the stench. “Why hasn’t he ever visited you?”

Lorna’s face twisted. “He’s been busy.”

“Busy every day for the last twelve years? Isn’t that how long you’ve been here, Lorna?”

“He sends me letters.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He does.”

“Show me.”

“You want me to show you? Then you gotta do something for me.”

I waited.

“I want to see Bud.”

“No.”

“I want to see his beautiful face again.”

“I’m sure you’ll share the same cauldron in hell.”

I stood up, headed for the door. I needed some fresh air, and I knew Lorna wasn’t going to give me anything else.

“You don’t want Caleb’s letters?”

“I don’t care about his letters. I want to know where he is.”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me. But I do know something, might interest you.”

“All I’m interested in, Lorna, is getting away from you.”

I pounded on the door.

“Let me see my Bud again, and I’ll show you something.”

The door opened. I’d had enough of Lorna for the rest of my life.

“I know where more bodies are buried.”

That stopped me.

“What did you say?”

“If you let me see Bud, I’ll take you to more bodies.” She smiled, showing me tiny sharp teeth. “Lots more.”

Chapter 31

MS. PEDERSEN WAS painfully clear on prisoners’ rights to privacy.

“They have none. They’re prisoners.”

So Lorna Hunt Ellison stayed in isolation, and we raided her footlocker. We found some stinky clothes, a collection of empty candy wrappers, a faded Polaroid of a younger Bud standing in front of his ancient pickup truck, and two letters from Caleb.

I donned a single latex glove and appropriated the picture and the letters. They had no return address on the labels. The postmarks came from Detroit. The first relayed, in some of the worst handwriting ever, that Caleb was sorry he hadn’t written before, because he was busy, but he’d write more often from now on. It was dated eight years ago.

Apparently he’d lied, because the second letter was dated three months ago. According to the chicken scratches, Caleb’s PO had made him get a job and he was working at a car wash, but wouldn’t for very much longer because he was planning on killing the fat prick who ran it.

That didn’t make sense. I checked with Detroit PD, and according to them, Caleb Ellison didn’t currently have a parole officer. So was Caleb lying to his mother? Or did he recently do time under another name? And how could I find that out?

I put thoughts of Caleb on the back burner, threw the letters and the pic into a paper bag that Ms. Pedersen supplied, then used her office phone to call the Indianapolis PD. I talked myself up the chain of command, and eventually got a captain on the other end, a gruff-voiced woman named Carol Mintz.

“Talk fast, I’m busy.”

“You’re following the story in Gary?”

“The whole state is.”

“I’m here at IWP, and just had a heart-to-heart with Lorna Hunt Ellison, who was Bud Kork’s common-law wife. They lived together for more than a decade. She claims to know where more victims are buried, but there’s a catch. She wants to visit Bud.”

“That’s doable. The catch will be keeping the media out. I’m surprised they aren’t camped outside the prison.”

“I don’t think they know the link yet.”

“You want a piece of this?”

“No. But I’m in bed with the Feds on this one, and they’ll be in touch.”

“Great.” She said it like an expletive.

Ms. Pedersen showed me out, and we exchanged good-byes and I consulted the MapQuest directions I’d printed earlier, which would supposedly lead me from Randolph Street to Kellum Drive and the address of Mike Mayer, who supposedly rented the Titanium Pearl Eclipse supposedly seen fleeing Diane Kork’s house.

MapQuest did me proud. I went west on Washington Street, merged onto the expressway, merged off the expressway, and wound up in a pleasant little housing development filled with two-bedroom ranches on green-lawned quarter-acre lots. I parked in Mayer’s driveway and knocked on an aluminum front door.

No answer. Not too surprising, considering Mayer just rented a car in Chicago.

I had a few options. I could break into the house, breaking the law in the process. I could call Captain Mintz back, explain the situation, have the IPD obtain a warrant, and die of old age waiting to be allowed entrance. Or I could assume that in a nice neighborhood like this, Mayer had nice neighbors.

I chose the house on the right first, traversing the well-maintained lawn and knocking on their aluminum door. A young girl answered, maybe ten or eleven, long brown hair and a face full of freckles.

“Is your mom or dad home?”

She nodded, eyes big, and then belted out, “Mom!” with all the force of a foghorn.

Mom looked like an older, pudgier version of the little girl, with just as many freckles.

I showed her my badge, hoping she didn’t look close enough to notice I was from out of state.

“Ma’am, my name is Lieutenant Daniels. Your name is?”

“Linda. Linda Primmer.”

“Linda, can you tell me the last time you saw your neighbor Mike Mayer?” Her forehead crinkled in thought. “Been two or three weeks, it seems. Is Mike okay?”

“We’re not sure. Tell me a little about Mike.”

“Single. Keeps to himself. Kind of a loner. Seems nice enough.” Which was the exact description all neighbors gave of the serial killer living next door.

“Is this Mike Mayer?”

I showed her the Identikit photocopy.

“That sort of looks like him.”

“This may sound unorthodox, but we’re worried Mike might be in some kind of trouble. Did he ever give you a spare key to his house? In case he locked himself out, or to water his plants while on vacation?”

“No. But he did lock himself out once, last year. He came over here to call the locksmith. The locksmith sold both of us a key rock.”

“A key rock?”

Linda stepped past me and onto her front stoop. Next to the door was a holly bush, surrounded by stones. She squatted and picked up a four-inch stone and showed it to me.

It wasn’t a stone at all. It was a plastic replica, and on the bottom there was a slot, hiding a spare house key.

“Mike uses one of these?”

“He bought one. I don’t know if he uses it.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Primmer.”

I gave her a cop nod, letting her know that I was in control and everything was okay, then walked back over to Mike’s house.

Even with a key, it was still unlawful entry. If I found something, and defense counsel knew I’d illegally been in the dwelling, any evidence in the house would be inadmissible.

Or, if Mike Mayer turned out to be innocent, and discovered I entered his house without a warrant, I could be swimming in criminal and civil charges.

Of course, I also had a maniac threatening to kill me, and stopping that from happening was higher on my priority list than avoiding legal action.

Near Mike’s front door, in the dirt by a window well, was a key rock identical to Mrs. Primmer’s.

I thought about it for less than a second, then picked up the rock and opened the door.

I needn’t have worried about illegal entry. Once the smell hit me, probable cause was assured.

There was something dead in the house.

Now I went by the book. I locked the door, returned the key, and dialed 911, explaining that I was a cop following a lead, and I smelled a dead body through the door.

It took four minutes for a squad car to roll up. Two Indy uniforms, a man and a woman, got out of the car. The woman pulled out a notepad and asked me my name.

I showed them ID, explained that the neighbor told me about the key rock, and pointed it out.

They both sniffed the door, and enough residual death odor made entry a no-brainer. They didn’t object to my tagging along.

The air was heavy with decay, and several insects buzzed around us. Blowflies. They laid their eggs in dead flesh.

We found the corpse in the kitchen. And it was ugly.

It sat in a chair, and was recognizable as a male, barely, because a few patches of hair clung to its face. The torso was bloated, the skin on the bare chest split as if sliced open. Maggots squirmed in the wounds, and black and yellow carrion beetles scurried over ruined flesh in tiny roadways. They’d devoured much of the face, the lips, the eyes, the nose.

Blue jeans, stained black with putrefying fluid, hugged the thighs. The feet were bound to the chair legs with wire, which cut to the bone.

The male cop went running for the door, hand over mouth. The female cop, her name tag said Lindy, also put hand to mouth, but stood firm. I held my breath and walked closer.

Cause of death wasn’t easily apparent. I concentrated on the ruin of a face, trying to see past the mottled flesh, past the insect activity, searching for some evidence of trauma. Nothing stood out.

I walked around to the other side of the corpse. The hands were wired together behind the chair. All ten fingers were missing, and a pool of dried blood stained the floor beneath them.

The insects hadn’t eaten the fingers; there were defined cuts along the knuckles. I scanned the floor for digits, not finding any.

That made me wonder again about the cause of death. I took a closer look at the face, still holding my breath, my heart beating faster and faster in an attempt to squeeze some extra oxygen from my blood. I peered inside the mouth, partially obscured by blowfly larva and beetles scuttling over stained teeth, and proved my hunch correct.

Outside on the front porch I sucked in clean air and tried to ignore the Indy cop fertilizing the lawn with his breakfast.

Officer Lindy called for a Crime Scene Unit and the coroner using her lapel mike, and then walked up to me.

“How’d he die? The chest wounds?”

I shook my head. “The rents in the chest occurred after death. Gases were released while he decomposed, and they stretched the skin and broke through. This guy died of suffocation.”

“How?” Her pallor resembled the sidewalk, but I gave her points for trying to learn from the situation. “Killer put a bag over his head?”

“No. Someone jammed his severed fingers down his throat. Probably tried to make him eat them.”

I looked across the lawn, down the street, at all of the middle-class suburban homes. A nice community that would never fully recover from the notoriety once this story got out.

I could have stuck around, kept an eye on the investigation, but there was no point to it. If the killer left evidence, I’d hear about it eventually. I had no doubt the deceased was the unfortunate Mike Mayer. Perhaps he had some connection to the killer, something that provoked his awful death. Or perhaps he was simply murdered for his identity, and tortured just for fun.

Either way, the guy I sought wasn’t in Indianapolis. He was in Chicago.

I gave Officer Lindy my card, then hopped in my car and headed north.

Chapter 32

ICALLED THE hospital on the way back to Chicago, and Bernice put a very groggy Herb on the phone.

“I had a heart attack, Jack.”

I forced a jovial tone.

“Astonishing, considering the peak condition you keep yourself in. Have they scheduled surgery yet?”

“Wednesday. Doctor told me my arteries look like Interstate 90 during rush hour.”

“Look on the bright side. At least you’re not dying of cancer.”

A long pause. My attempts at humor weren’t working.

“Jack . . . if I don’t make it . . .”

“Don’t talk like that, Herb.”

“I’m having a triple bypass.”

“Everyone has a bypass or three these days. It’s like going in for an oil change.”

“An oil change only costs twenty bucks.”

Herb began to cough, and I heard Bernice yell at him to stop coughing or he’d tear his stitches.

“Look, Jack, if . . . if the oil change goes bad, I want you to know that you’re the best cop I know, and I love you like a sister.”

Herb began to sing the chorus of “You’ve Got a Friend” by James Taylor, and Bernice took away the phone.

“He’s taking a lot of morphine, Jack. Don’t mind him.”

“What’s the prognosis?”

“He had more tests. They came back bad. That’s why they’re operating again so soon.”

“Why wasn’t this diagnosed earlier? He just had a colonoscopy.”

“I’m guessing it’s hard to diagnose a heart condition by sticking a camera up your ass.”

I’d never known Bernice to swear. The strain she was under must have been awful.

“I’ll call later.”

I made good time, stopping once for a fast food burger and fries and once for gas and some Yellow Bombers, legal amphetamine pills made with caffeine and synepherine and sold in packets of two. Truckers took them to stay awake. My lack of sleep had caught up with me, and mile after mile of nothing but flat, boring plains did nothing to keep me alert.

I arrived at the station at a quarter after four, heart pounding and palms sweating. I called Hajek, and he’d managed to get Mulrooney’s answering machine back to the lab without losing the messages. Of course, a voice print would only help with a conviction if we caught the guy, and I was no closer to catching him than I was when this case started.

I called up Al at the car rental place and asked if the Titanium Pearl Eclipse had been returned.

“Not sure. Hold on.”

He put me on hold for eight minutes, and by the time he picked up again my blood pressure was so high I could have put out a fire by pricking my finger.

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . nope.”

Justifying manpower in the Chicago Police Department was tricky. We had no evidence of any crime in our district, other than on the videotapes, and no clear-cut connection between those and the rented Titanium Pearl Eclipse. And since the car was rented under an assumed identity, there was a good chance it might not even be returned.

But no stone unturned and all that crap. I scoured the station and threw together six cops and had them meet in my office.

“This is shit detail. Stakeout, teams of two, eight-hour shifts. Can’t interfere with your regular assignments, but I’ll sign off on overtime.”

I explained the target and what to do in case the target was sighted, and let them figure out the details.

Bains would hang me for the overtime, but maybe this would all be over before the paperwork went past his desk. We’d catch the guy, or I’d be killed, and in either case my concerns weren’t monetary.

After dismissing the troops, I called the Gary PD and asked for anything they had on Bud Kork, Charles Kork, Caleb Ellison, Lorna Hunt Ellison, and the daughter Bud claimed was dead. The fax machine whirred, and the info came chugging in. Lots of it.

My phone rang, and the desk sergeant told me there was someone in the lobby asking for me. Holly Frakes, Harry’s fiancée. I’d forgotten we were going shooting, and wondered how I could blow her off.

Then I decided, why the hell not? Maybe firing off a few rounds would help to release tension.

I met Holly downstairs. She wore a fitted tee that had VERSACE embroidered on it, and tight, faded jeans with tears in the knees that were usually bought by women half her age. Red pumps, probably by some obscure designer whom I couldn’t afford, rounded out the ensemble.

“Hi, Jack!” She smiled, apparently happy to see me. I endured a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I love your top. Who is it?”

I glanced down at the poodle fabric sweater I wore. “Her name is Kathleen B. Local designer.”

“You have to take me there.”

I could think of few things I’d prefer less. Holly must have mistook my silence for confusion. “You’re still up for some shooting, right?” She lifted a pink leather satchel. “I brought ordnance.”

“Sure. Range is in the basement. Come on back.”

The desk sergeant nodded at me behind two inches of bulletproof glass, and buzzed us through the security door. I led Holly past a maze of desks, to the rear staircase, and we descended two flights of metal stairs, her heels echoing like hail on a tin roof.

The shooting range occupied the entire basement. It resembled a four-lane bowling alley, though the lanes went back as far as seventy-five feet, while a bowling alley ended at sixty. The rangemaster, a lanky guy in his sixties whom everyone called Wyatt, flashed tobacco-stained teeth at us as we approached. Wyatt had been here almost as long as Bill in Evidence. He was one of the only cops in the city who shot as well as I did, though I didn’t have a cool cowboy nickname.

“Hello, ladies. Qualifying or having fun?”

“Fun.” Holly placed her satchel on Wyatt’s counter and unzipped the top. I doubted anyone else in the world used Louis Vuitton as a gun bag.

“Whatcha got in here?” Wyatt stuck his beak into the bag, then eyed Holly. “May I?”

“Please.”

He removed a pair of impressive automatics; black barrels, slides, and grips, silver butts and trigger guards. Wyatt let out a low whistle.

“McMallin Wolverines. Designed around the classic 1911 Colt. Serious hardware. You compete?”

“Sometimes.”

“Quick draw?”

“Sometimes. You spotted the mods.”

Wyatt turned the guns around in his hands. “Recessed front and rear sights, burr-style hammer, wider trigger, and it looks like a dehorning job. Nice one too.”

“Thanks. The hammer is stock, but I did the sights, trigger, and dehorning myself.”

Dehorning involved rounding every sharp angle on a gun, so it didn’t catch on holsters or clothing. It could improve a draw by several milliseconds.

Wyatt sighted the gun, worked the slide, and ejected the magazine.

“Chambered for nine mil?”

Holly offered a full-wattage smile. “Forty-fives are too big, and I’m just a girl.”

“I noticed. But I’m guessing that doesn’t hold you back much.”

“Not much.”

I unpursed my lips long enough to speak.

“Can we get some headgear, Wyatt, or are you going to fondle her weapons all night?”

My glare cut off any potential wisecracks. Every time I came down here to shoot, Wyatt flirted with me. Every single time, for the last fifteen years. Now he didn’t seem to notice I was even there.

Wyatt grabbed some field glasses and ear protectors off the wall, and Holly handed me a weapon. It was slightly large for my hand. The grip was high but the Pachmary rubber made it comfortable. It was wonderfully balanced, though it had to go two pounds—twice the weight of my .38.

“It’s the officer’s model,” Holly told me. “Five-inch barrel instead of six.” She winked at Wyatt. “Bigger isn’t always better.”

“Amen to that,” he said, handing out the gear.

Holly took out a plastic bag full of shiny brass rounds. Since they weren’t straight from the box, I assumed them to be reloads. Wyatt noticed too.

“You load your own?”

“Lots of gun nuts think the nine-millimeter round lacks the stopping power of a .40 or a .45, but I’ve found that it’s the bullet that makes the difference, not the caliber. I pour my own lead and load my shells to 150 grains. The expansion and penetration can compete with anything out there. Design can make up for weight and velocity.”

I respected weapons. I even got a certain degree of satisfaction from them, as I would from any high-performance tool. But this woman was the Martha Stewart of firearms.

Holly popped her clip and loaded it. When she reached ten bullets, she slapped it in, worked the slide to chamber a round, and dropped it back out to add one more shot to the clip. I pressed the oversized release catch and did the same. We each filled a spare clip as well.

“Silhouettes or bull’s-eyes?”

Holly asked for silhouettes. Wyatt handed us two 25" [.dotmath] 35" targets, each featuring the life-sized torso and head of a man done in black ink. On the chest was a white area the size of a pineapple, with the number five in it. On the head, an orange-sized circle contained a number ten.

Holly and I donned our gear and each walked to a lane and attached the paper to the overhead metal line with spring clips. I pressed a lever and the target moved backward on a pulley system, traveling down the range.

I watched Holly, and she stopped at fifteen yards. I did the same.

The lane floors were covered in a thick layer of sand, and at the end of the range was a pockmarked metal wall, tilted on a forty-five-degree angle. Rounds went through the targets, hit the wall, and ricocheted into the ground, where they buried themselves.

I started with a two-handed grip to get used to the recoil. The first shot surprised me. Not only was the trigger pull less than I expected—it moved like butter—but the recoil was extremely light and the muzzle rise minimal. Must have had a compensator built in.

I squeezed off two more rounds, both eyes open, knees slightly bent, letting the gun teach me how to hold it. The high grip helped steady the weapon, and I put both shots through the sweet spot in the head.

I tried a one-handed grip, angling my body sideways, sighting along my right arm. Three more shots, through the heart.

To be playful, I put the last five in the groin, then looked over at Holly.

As far as I could tell, all eleven of her shots went through the chest. We brought in our targets and traded papers. Not only were all of hers in the chest area, but they were grouped in a space the size of a silver dollar.

Wyatt brought more targets. He appraised Holly’s, then mine, giving us both nods of approval. We gave him our empty clips and he went off to fill them.

This time I sent the silhouette back the full twenty-five yards. I loaded another clip, sighted the target, and fired all ten shots at the head as fast as I could pull the trigger.

When I brought the target back, I saw I’d put all but two rounds through the ten-point circle. The other two went through the neck. It was a damn fine weapon.

I watched Holly fire her last three shots. Her face remained blank, but her eyes were wide and excited. Again, her target had a tight grouping in the chest area. Perhaps even tighter than the previous one.

The woman was good. Very good.

Wyatt returned with two more silhouettes. These were ten-yard targets, half the size of the previous ones. We exchanged our empty clips for full ones and hung the targets.

Holly glanced at me. I wouldn’t call her stare hostile, but it was far from friendly, and the ugliest I’d seen her. She pressed the lever, sending her ten-yard target past the ten-yard mark, all the way to the end of the range. Her eyes stayed on me the entire time.

I did the same with my target, squinting at the distance. It appeared to be about three inches tall.

I aimed, and let out a breath. My hand had the slightest tremor; my veins were still processing those Yellow Bombers I’d taken on the road. I placed my left hand under my wrist to steady it, tried to ignore the pain from the burn, then emptied my clip at the target.

Holly had watched me the entire time, her ugly scowl replaced by an equally unattractive smirk. I pulled in my target. Five to the head, two to the neck, and two outside the body. When Holly saw this, her smirk became a superior grin.

I raised my eyebrows, challenging her to do better.

She stuck with the one-handed grip, sighted the target, and fired so quickly, her finger was a blur.

When she brought her target in, I could see she had once again grouped every single shot in the chest.

Wyatt tapped my shoulder, indicating for me to remove my ear gear. Holly did the same.

“Damn nice shooting, ladies. Damn nice. I were the judge, I’d call it a tie.”

Holly folded her arms. “You think so? I notice she missed a few, that last turn.”

“Jack went for the head. You went for the body. Head is more points. I got the score as even-steven.”

He handed us each a fresh ten-yard silhouette and a clip.

“Let’s try quick draw. Four rounds. Weapons kept at your sides until I give the signal. Nine extra points to the one who gets them all off first. You game?”

I nodded. Holly flashed a dazzling smile and tossed her hair back, which Wyatt took for acquiescence. I shoved in the clip, chambered a round, and pinned up my target, taking it all the way back to the end of the line.

She’s better than I am, I thought. Probably faster too. But the head shot is worth more than the heart shot, and she always goes for the heart. If I can hit three, I’ll win even if she hits all four and outdraws me.

So the smart move would be to take my time, let her shoot fast, and win on score.

But I didn’t want to play it smart. I wanted to prove I was just as fast.

“Weapons at your sides.” Wyatt stood between us, but he was staring at Holly. We each relaxed our arms, barrels pointing at the floor.

“On three. One . . .”

I pushed out a breath, relaxed my shoulder, concentrated on my grip. The gun felt good, natural. But I still had tremors, and I hadn’t slept in over thirty hours.

“Two . . .”

I’d have to shoot one-handed. When you speed draw to a two-handed stance, the free hand meets the gun hand so fast, it throws off the aim before it has a chance to stabilize it, wasting valuable milliseconds.

“Three!”

My arm shot up on its own initiative, my trigger finger flexing fast, the four shots gone in an instant. The noise was deafening without the ear protection, but I still heard well enough to know I’d outdrawn Holly; her last shot went off a fraction of a second after mine.

My elation was short-lived when I noticed my target.

One shot through the head. Three misses.

Holly, as expected, placed all four of hers in the silhouette’s heart.

“Jack receives the nine points for speed, plus a ten-point shot to the head. Nineteen points. Holly hit the heart four times, five points each, for a winning score of twenty points.”

Holly glowed, her face bright as a camera flash.

“Not many people can shoot as fast as I can, Jack. I’m impressed.”

“Speed doesn’t mean anything if the accuracy is poor.”

“I’m sure you’re just having an off day.” Her tone suggested something contrary.

“Yeah. Well. Nice shooting.”

“Nice shooting.”

She came over and hugged me. Just two regular girls, celebrating marks-manship.

I endured the hug, which was tight enough to make me lose my breath. Holly had some serious muscles. I gave her a quick pat on the back, and when she released me she stayed within my personal space, her face so close I could smell her mint gum.

“Want to grab a bite to eat? My treat.”

“I’m sort of in the middle of a case.”

“Really? What kind of case?”

“Homicide.”

“Isn’t Indiana out of your jurisdiction?”

I wondered how she knew, then remembered I’d been a media darling of late.

“I’m not working on the Kork case. I’m working on something parallel.”

“Really? What?”

“Can’t. We cops are sworn to secrecy.” And I was getting uncomfortable with her being so close.

“Come on. Spill. I’ve spent every waking hour with Harry these last few days, and all he talks about is the adventures you two had. I always wanted to be a cop.”

I leaned back an inch or three. “You’re military, right?”

“Semper fi. How did you know?”

“You didn’t learn to shoot like that on a farm in Alabama, and you called your guns ordnance.”

“The lingo is tough to shake. I did a tour, when I was a kid.”

“So why didn’t you join the force? A lot of cops are ex-military.”

She hooded her eyes, as if she was about to share some juicy gossip. “I’ve got a few boo-boos on my record. Nothing major, but enough to keep me from being a law enforcer.”

I took a full step back and met Wyatt at the counter. Holly followed. We returned our gear and I asked for a broom to sweep up our brass.

“I’ll get it.” Wyatt grinned like a schoolboy. “It was a pleasure to witness such a fine competition.”

I felt a buzz in my pocket, and the beeping followed a moment later. I slapped the cell phone to my face.

“Daniels.”

“Lieutenant? This is Raider, Gary PD. Bud Kork woke up about an hour ago. He’s lucid, and talking up a storm. My chief said you’d like to speak to him on a related subject.”

My spirits jumped. “Yes, I would. I appreciate the courtesy call. When can I come?”

“Anytime is fine. You’ve got full access. Way we see it, you’re the one who found the guy.”

“I’ll be there in about an hour. Thanks.”

I pocketed the phone, Holly so close, she was practically wearing my pants. Her eyes shone.

“I heard everything. I want to come with you.”

“No.”

“I’ll stay out of your way. I just want to see him. Come on, I’m a cop junkie.”

“No.”

“I can help.”

“You’re a civilian.”

“A civilian who just kicked your ass on the firing range.”

I was beginning to see why she was with Harry. She was annoying in an eerily similar way.

“No, Holly. Thanks for the offer, but this is police business.”

“But that killer, he’s a man, right? I’m good with men. I can get him to talk to you.”

“Won’t work on this one.” I pictured Kork’s missing male anatomy.

“Please, Jack. Harry’s doing some kind of bachelor party thing tonight. Something to do with midgets.”

McGlade? That bastard told me he didn’t have any other friends.

“His buddies are taking him out?” I kept my tone neutral.

“No. He’s alone. Well, alone with the little people.” Holly tugged on my arm. “Come on. You have to take me along. I can’t spend my last night as a free woman watching infomercials on TV.”

I knew how that felt.

“Sorry, Holly. Can’t do it.”

She was on my heels all the way up the stairs, like a puppy. An irritating, yipping, undaunted puppy.

“Please.”

“No.”

“I’ll just keep you company for the trip. I won’t even get out of the car, Jack.”

“No.”

I walked out of the station and onto the street. The day had cooled down, and the breeze felt nice on my face. I walked around to the back parking lot, Holly still begging me. Perhaps beautiful women didn’t understand the word no.

“Come on, Jack. I’m a licensed private investigator. I can handle myself, and I’ve worked with law enforcement before.”

“We’re not working together, Holly. And this is getting silly.”

It was also making me uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be rude to her when I was standing up at her wedding the next day, but soon she wouldn’t give me much choice.

Holly was quiet for a minute, and I thought I’d finally gotten through. Then I heard the sniffle.

When I turned to look, Holly was all pouty and teary-eyed.

“I don’t have any friends, Jack.”

“Excuse me?”

Her shoulders began shaking.

“My job. I keep crazy hours. I don’t have a single friend. Why do you think I went to that stupid private eye convention? I could give a rat’s ass about the latest surveillance technology. I just wanted to meet people. Harry’s the first man I’ve been with in six years.”

“I’m sorry.” And I meant it from the bottom of my soul.

Holly faced me again, her cheeks glistening.

“Don’t you get lonely, Jack? When was the last time you had a girls’ night out?”

“Interrogating a multiple murderer isn’t a girls’ night out.”

“But it’s better than being alone. I’ve been alone my whole crummy life. My dad died when I was a kid, and we moved around a lot. I never had friends.”

The thought of someone so attractive being without friends was ridiculous, and I almost sneered. Holly read my thoughts.

“I wasn’t like this back then. I was very fat, and had some skin problems, and big old buck teeth. It wasn’t until my twenties that I lost the weight, went to a dentist, and had some work done. A lot of work done.” Holly put her hands on either side of her breasts. “These won’t be paid for until I’m too old to appreciate them.”

She wiped her hand across her eyes, and I had a surprising thought. If I could put my jealousy aside, I might like this woman. I knew how hard it was to lose a father at a young age. Plus, the fact that she’d had plastic surgery made her seem more human, less Charlie’s Angel. Though her taste in men was seriously flawed, Holly was strong, competent, funny, a great dresser, and had an energy that you didn’t see very often.

I wondered if I wasn’t falling victim to her charisma the same way everyone else seemed to. Then I wondered why I always overanalyzed everything. I hadn’t had a female friend since, well, high school. Here was one trying to make an effort. Would it hurt to bend a little? To maybe have someone to talk to?

It’s been a long time since I had someone to talk to.

Holly backed up, arms folded across her chest. “I’m sorry, Jack. Overreacting. Pre-wedding jitters, I guess. It’s been a tough week. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

My inner cop told me to shake hands and walk away. But I’ll be damned if I didn’t say, “You can come.”

“I can?” Again she lit up, and again I was subjected to a firm hug.

But this one I didn’t mind as much.

When she finally released me, we hopped into my Nova, and for the second time that day I headed for Indiana.

Chapter 33

HARRY TOLD ME about what he did, when you two were partners. He feels bad about it.”

I replied with a snort. Holly and I had already talked about fashion (consensus: Fashion is good), guns (consensus: Guns are good), and parents (consensus: Parents are good if you still had them, but hers were dead and I only had my comatose mother), and we’d finally worked our way around to men.

Holly wholeheartedly agreed I’d screwed up my chances with Latham, and I made a heroic effort to convince her to do the same with McGlade.

“He’s changed, Jack. Loyalty is actually one of his most endearing qualities.”

“It wasn’t back then.”

“He was younger, ambitious. Now he recognizes that friendship is more important than a career. He considers you a good friend, Jack.”

I snorted again. With good friends like McGlade, having serial killers hunting me was almost welcome.

Holly reached for another french fry. We’d stopped at the McDonald’s oasis on the Skyway. I’d polished off my burger and fries a while ago. Holly had bought a Happy Meal, and divided her time between picking at her food and playing with the included toy, some kind of movie tie-in figurine.

The fry disappeared in three bites. Holly chewed slowly. “It’s been years. Why do you still hate Harry so much?”

“I don’t hate him. Let’s just say my life hasn’t been enriched by his involvement.”

“He helped you with the Gingerbread Man case.”

“Reluctantly.”

“And with the case you had last year, that guy who was killing prostitutes.”

“In both cases he wanted something.”

“Isn’t that why you agreed to stand up at our wedding?”

Oops. “He told you that?”

“He said you wanted to get your character off the TV show, and you wouldn’t be his best man until he agreed.”

I shifted in my seat. It was getting dark, so I switched on the headlights. The Gary exit was coming up.

“He’s the one who got me on that damn TV show. It’s jeopardizing my job.”

“Maybe he would have gotten you off the show if you just asked.”

I made a noncommittal grunt.

“He’s really sweet, Jack. I wish you could see that.”

“Yeah. He should be a plush toy.”

Holly dug back into the bag, and found one of the pickles she’d taken off her burger. She put it into her mouth, a gesture that struck me as odd.

“Why’d you take the pickle off if you like them?”

“I hate them.”

“Then why’d you eat it?”

“Waste not, want not. Right?”

“I guess.”

Neither of us talked for a moment. I refused to feel guilty about anything to do with McGlade, even if I was starting to like his girlfriend.

“Tell me about this Bill Kork guy.”

“Bud. His name’s Bud. He was Charles Kork’s—the Gingerbread Man’s— father. You saw the bodies on the news?”

Holly crinkled up her nose. “Yeah. What kind of sicko would bury people in his basement?”

“The same kind who bathes in his own urine, sticks needles in his groin, and whips himself with a scourge.”

Holly made a face and shoved my shoulder. “That’s not true.”

“It’s true. He also emasculated himself.”

She mouthed the word emasculated, and then said, “He cut his own dick off?”

I nodded. “He lost his luggage, and both carry-ons.”

“That’s gross.”

“Apparently he was punishing himself for his evil deeds. Some kind of warped Christian thing.”

“Remind me not to attend that church.”

I took the Gary exit, trying to remember if the hospital was north or south. I chose north.

Holly liberated her last french fry, sniffed it, and popped it into her mouth. “I don’t know anyone that gross, but we had some killer in Detroit a few years ago. He was peeling people.”

I tensed. “Really?”

“Some serial killer whack-job. He was cutting people up and pulling off their skin. You didn’t see it on the news?”

“I try not to watch the news. Too depressing. They catch the guy?”

“No. Killed three people, then disappeared. Cops called it some kind of organized crime thing. Pretty terrible way to die, don’t you think? Getting skinned?”

I thought about the Mulrooney video. “Yeah. Pretty terrible.”

I knew I made the correct turn, because there were over a dozen news vans, each with that big antenna/dish thing on its roof, parked along the street. The hospital had cleared the media out of the parking lot. I found a handicapped space and pulled my siren out of the glove compartment, sticking it on the roof so I wouldn’t be towed.

Holly got out with me.

“I thought you were waiting in the car.”

“Let me see the guy. Please, Jack? I’ll stay quiet. I just want to look in his eyes.”

“This isn’t the zoo, Holly. We’re not visiting the monkey house.”

“I’m good with men. I really am. If you want him to talk, maybe I can help.”

As with Harry, arguing with Holly was an exercise in futility. We went back and forth for thirty seconds, and I realized the only way I’d get her to stay in the car would be if I handcuffed her. Which I considered, but physical restraints weren’t a good way to begin a friendship.

“Don’t say a word. You can observe, but not interfere.”

Holly mimed zipping her mouth closed.

There were cops in the lobby, including the uniform I’d met who’d previously stood guard over Kork. He gave me a passing nod, then glued his eyes to Holly. The other cops did the same, without giving me a passing nod. If this were a cartoon, their tongues would have unrolled out of their mouths and onto the floor, red-carpet style.

The Feebies, Mutt and Jeff, were thankfully nowhere to be found. Perhaps they were grilling Lorna Hunt Ellison. Or perhaps they were engaged in a sweaty ménage à trois with Vicky, the ViCAT computer. Wherever they were, I thanked the universe I didn’t have to deal with them along with everything else.

Kork’s room was being guarded by two more cops, who’d been expecting me. They weren’t expecting Holly, but when she smiled they all talked at once, introducing themselves and pledging their allegiance.

I left them to their flirting and went in to visit the monster.

Bud Kork eyed me when I entered, his eyes saggy and bloodshot, his complexion sallow. If he recognized me, he didn’t show it.

Then Holly walked in. Penis be damned, Bud caught a breath and stared wide-eyed.

Perhaps it was the Versace tee. I needed to get one of those.

“Mr. Kork? Do you remember me? I’m Lieutenant Daniels. I dropped by your house the other day, and you showed me your root cellar.”

He nodded, his gaze still fixed on Holly. She moved toward the bed, her hand extended, and Kork flinched hard enough to make the frame squeak.

“Holly Frakes. Nice to meet you, Mr. Kork.”

Bud reached for her hand as if it were a rattlesnake. He managed a quick, limp handshake, which he retracted immediately.

“How are they treating you?” I asked.

“They . . . they won’t give me any lemon for my water. I keep asking, but I don’t get any lemon.”

He stuck a finger into his mouth and gnawed on a cuticle, his gaze flitting back and forth between me and Holly.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

As I spoke this, Holly went out into the hallway. I imagined the cops tripping over themselves searching for a lemon.

I pulled up a plastic chair and sat next to the bed.

“Do you know why you’re here, Bud?”

“To be punished. Because I’ve been bad.”

He seemed appropriately sad when he said it. Then his face creased in a wicked grin and he began to giggle.

“What’s funny, Bud?”

“ ‘Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you, and cast out your name as evil.’ Luke 6:22.”

His whole body shook, as if he were having a seizure. The Parkinson’s. It subsided before I could call the nurse, and Bud again burst into laughter.

“Indiana has the death penalty. They’ll kill me by lethal injection.”

“That amuses you?”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“You’ve killed a lot of people, Bud.”

He bit at his hangnail and pulled. Blood smeared across his lips, bringing color to their liverlike pallor.

“I should be tortured to death.” He giggled again. “Lethal injection is too good for me.”

He sucked on his finger, tongue lapping at the blood. I kept my expression neutral.

“I saw Lorna earlier today.”

Bud frowned around his finger. “She never visits me.”

“She’s in prison, Bud.”

“She helped me, with the sinners. Liked to do the flogging. Sweet, sweet Lorna.”

He hummed a song, off tune, suckling his bleeding digit.

I had no doubts Bud Kork was insane. But there was more to it than that. Sitting this close to him, I felt a deep sense of revulsion—the same kind of feeling I had when I watched a nature program on TV that showed a spider catching a fly. Bud Kork radiated a very real feeling of harm, of fear and decay and death.

Talking to him made me want to take a hot shower and brush my teeth until my gums hurt.

“Would you like to see Lorna again, Bud?”

“Yes. My sweet love. So good with the repentant. So eager to make them confess their sins.”

I lowered my voice, so he had to strain to hear me.

“I can arrange it, Bud. For you to see her.” I figured it would happen anyway, once Lorna cut her deal. Bud didn’t have to know it didn’t come from me. “But I need you to tell me something first.”

He stared at me, slurping on his finger, a line of pink drool rolling down his chin.

“I need you to tell me where Caleb is.”

Bud began to cackle. “ ‘You are of your father the devil, and your will is to do your father’s desires.’ John 8:44.”

“You treated Caleb as your son?”

“Caleb was the devil, like Charles was the devil. But not the devil of my flesh. A devil conceived in light.”

I leaned closer, though I had to force myself to do so.

“Where is Caleb?”

Bud opened his mouth to speak, then his yellow eyes darted behind me, to Holly.

“I found a lemon for you, Bud.” She offered him a wedge of the fruit.

Bud snatched it in a gnarled fist, then squeezed it onto his bloody hangnail and rubbed it in, gasping and shuddering.

“Freaky,” Holly said, eyes wide.

I reached for the lemon, then thought better of it; Bud was grinding it into his open cut, and the pulp was turning orange with blood. Instead, I tapped his shoulder.

“Where’s Caleb, Bud?”

He ignored me, focusing on Holly.

“ ‘How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, my angel of the morning.’ Isaiah 14:12.”

Holly found another chair and pulled it over to Kork’s bed. She straddled it and leaned on the back, resting her chin on her forearms, her eyes bright and alive.

“I hear you like needles, Bud.”

He nodded at her, gasping.

“Look what I found in the gift shop.”

She held up an emergency sewing kit: three mini spools of thread, a thimble, and eight sewing needles.

“Holly.” I gave her a look. “Remember what we talked about in the car.”

She kept her eyes on Bud. “Lieutenant Daniels asked you a question, Bud. Where’s Caleb?”

He eyed the needles like a starving man staring at a menu. “I . . . I don’t know where Caleb is.”

Holly opened the pack, pulled out a needle. Examined it.

“Where does he live?”

“Different places.”

“Which places?”

“Indiana. Michigan. Illinois.”

Holly parted her lips and placed the needle between them. Bud was panting in a manner that could only be described as sexual. The lemon was dropped, forgotten.

I’d lost control of the interrogation. I shook Bud’s shoulder.

“Where is Caleb now?” I asked.

Bud remained transfixed on the needle in Holly’s mouth. “Illinois.”

“Where in Illinois?”

“I don’t know.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“I don’t know.”

Holly pouted, and slowly pulled the needle out of her mouth, letting it linger on her tongue before she put it back in the kit.

“If you want this, Bud, you have to give us more than that.”

Bud swallowed, an audible gulp that the stretching silence amplified.

“Talk to Steve.”

“Steve who?”

“Caleb’s friend. Steve Jensen. He’d know.”

I’d heard that name recently, and couldn’t remember where. Steve Jensen. Steve Jensen. Steve . . .

And then I had it. I shook Bud again, harder.

“Do you know where Steve is, Bud?”

“No.”

“How does Caleb know Steve?”

“Friends for years. Very close.” He looked at Holly, then back at me. “Had the devil in him. Like Caleb. And Charles.”

“Have you spoken to Steve lately?”

Bud jackknifed into a sitting position, making me and Holly rear back. He pointed his bloody finger at her.

“ ‘Get behind me, Satan! You are a hindrance to me; for you are not on the side of God, but of men!’ ”

Holly winked at him. “Matthew 16:23.”Then she tossed Bud the sewing kit.

Laughing, hysterical, Bud fumbled with the kit and removed a needle. He pinched it between trembling fingers and hiked up his hospital gown, exposing parts that should have remained unexposed.

I stood up and turned away, anxious to leave.

Holly said, “Freaky! Look at what he’s doing, Jack!”

I made the mistake of a backward glance. Bud was causing some real damage, jabbing and poking, tears streaming down his face, little rivulets of blood cascading down his ruined thighs.

I reached back to take the needle away from him, but Holly caught my arm. Her grip was iron.

“Let him do it. He’s a child killer.”

Bud was sobbing now, mumbling something about angels. Perhaps it was a prayer. I tore my eyes away and pressed the call button for the nurse.

Holly pulled a face, obviously disappointed. I twisted out of her grip and walked past.

“Let’s go.”

The cops parted for us. I kept my pace brisk enough that Holly was forced to jog to catch up.

“Are you pissed at me, Jack?”

I didn’t answer.

“Come on. The guy was scum. Besides, he was doing it to himself.”

“He’s insane, Holly.”

“So?”

I stopped, faced her.

“My job is to protect and serve. Even the ones who don’t deserve it.”

She put her hands on her hips, oozing attitude.

“Shit, Jack, why so tense? You PMS-ing?”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you trolling for vampires? Riding the dry weave burrito? Red river canoeing?”

I blinked, unsure of how to respond. If Holly were a man, I would have smacked her. Is this how women talked to each other? Were all of those commercials with girls trading tampons in the locker room based on fact?

“No,” I managed.

“Is it a postmenopausal thing? Change of life came early?”

Crass. Insensitive. Obnoxious. Ignorant. It was like talking to Harry McGlade. Two peas in a pod. No wonder they found each other.

I spoke through my teeth. “I’m not postmenopausal, Holly. This has nothing to do with my ovaries. What you did in there was wrong.”

“Fine. I apologize for coming with you and getting your suspect to spill his guts.”

Now she stormed off, and I had to run to catch up. Classic McGlade tactic. Start out abusive, and when resistance is met, act petulant.

I grabbed her arm, which was like grabbing a steel cable.

“Look, Holly, I’m the cop. Got it?”

Something flashed across her face, the same hostility I’d glimpsed on the firing range. The scowl disappeared fast, so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined it. She smiled, broad enough to show her dental work.

“You’re right, Jack. I’m sorry. I was out of bounds back there. I thought we were doing that good cop/bad cop thing.”

In a way, she was right. Though Herb wouldn’t have been so ruthless, he and I would have played the situation very much the same way. I didn’t like her approach, but she did get results.

“Come on, Jack. Forgive me?”

I didn’t see much of a choice. I could stay angry, and the drive home would be uncomfortable, the wedding even more so.

“Fine. But next time, listen to me.”

I endured another hug. Who knew friendship was so much damn work?

Back in the car, Holly asked the obvious.

“Who’s Caleb?”

“It’s a current case I’m working on.”

“Want to share details?”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“No problem. I understand.”

The silence lasted almost ten whole seconds.

“Who’s Steve Jensen?”

“Holly . . .”

“Come on, Jack. It’s not like I’m going to go flapping my mouth off on CNN.”

Ouch.

“Holly, don’t take this the wrong way, but you and I aren’t partners.”

“Where is your partner?”

I hesitated. “He’s unavailable at the moment.”

“Do you two discuss cases?”

“Of course.”

“Two heads are better than one, right? And didn’t I do good with Bud?”

“This isn’t about that.”

Holly furrowed her eyebrows. “Why don’t you like me, Jack?”

“I like you, Holly.”

“Why don’t you trust me?”

“It’s not in my nature to trust anyone.”

“You trust Harry.”

“Not really.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes.

“When I got out of the Corps, I was pretty reckless for a few years. Ran with a tough crowd. Got involved in a car theft ring. I did it for the excitement, at first. Then I got in over my head. Cops picked me up and offered me a deal. Do time or rat on my friends.”

I was uncomfortable with her opening up like this.

“I squealed, Jack. I squealed long and loud. I don’t blame you for not trusting me.”

She didn’t get all teary-eyed again, but she looked like a kicked puppy.

I knew I was being manipulated. But friendship was a two-way street, right?

“Four days ago a man named Steve Jensen died in a transient hotel in my district. I was busy with this case, so I transferred the call to Mason and Check.”

“How does Jensen fit in with this?”

I pressed the gas down, easing the car up past eighty.

“I’m about to find out.”

Chapter 34

ON THE WAY back to Chicago, Detective Maggie Mason filled me in on the Jensen homicide.

“Stabbed over thirty times. Found in the Benson Hotel for Men on Congress, in a room rented to his name.”

“How long had he been living there?”

“Nineteen days. It’s a pay-per-week hotel, more rats than tenants. Landlord came by to collect rent, found the corpse.”

“Anything?”

“Nothing. Door-to-doored the whole building, wasted three days interviewing Sterno bums and crackheads. No leads.”

“Autopsy?”

“Still waiting.”

The cell phone got crackly, and Mason asked if I was still there.

“You view the body?” I asked.

“Yeah. Nasty.”

“Impressions?”

“Went beyond a crime of opportunity or anger. This was a deliberate attempt to inflict pain.”

“Defense wounds?”

“Ligature marks on the wrists. He was tied to a chair.”

I thought of Mike Mayer in Indianapolis.

“Did he still have his fingers?”

“I think so. I didn’t notice them missing.”

“How are the walls at the Benson?”

“Tissue paper. You can read a book through them.”

“Why didn’t his screaming attract attention?”

“Sorry, Lieut. I forgot to mention the hooks.”

“Hooks?”

“The victim had a mouth full of fishhooks. Lips, tongue, throat, all torn to hell and stuck together. Must have been a hundred of them in there. He couldn’t have opened his mouth with a car jack.”

Nice. And an obvious nod to the Gingerbread Man case. I’ll never forget what Charles Kork did with fishhooks. “Trace?”

“Nothing leading. Scraped his fingernails. Found a black hair. There was some kind of white crust on the wounds, got a sample of that. Rogers at the lab is getting back to me.”

“Prints?”

“Ran them locally. Nothing. Going through the National Fingerprint Database, but you know how long that takes.”

“Check Jensen in the NCIC?”

“Lots of arrests. Drugs. Banging. Battery. Classic repeat offender—until a few years ago.”

“What happened then?”

“Don’t know. Guy seemed to just drop off the face of the earth.”

That sounded a lot like Caleb Ellison.

I thanked Mason, then got on the horn to county. Max Hughes wasn’t in, but the M.E., Phil Blasky, was.

“Good evening, Jack. I heard about Herb. How’s he doing?”

“Stable, last I heard. You burning the midnight oil?”

“Paperwork. Just got a memo, telling me that efforts are being made by the county to reduce the amount of paperwork. The memo came with a twenty-six-page report I have to fill out, in triplicate. I’m not a fan of irony.”

“Have you taken a look at Steve Jensen, transient hotel death from five days ago?”

“Mackerel man? He’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

“Mackerel man?”

“A joke one of the attendants made. Mouth full of hooks. Guy obviously took the bait. I’m not a fan of humor either.”

“Then why did you call him Mackerel Man?”

“I try to fit in.”

Strange bunch, coroners.

“Any chance you can tear yourself away from that interesting report and do a prelim for me?”

“When do you need it?”

I checked the dashboard. Coming up on nine o’clock.

“An hour?”

“I’ll check my tackle box for my hook remover. Could use some fresh coffee, you got any.”

“See you at ten.”

I hung up, then plugged my phone into the cigarette lighter to charge it.

“Are we going to the morgue?”

“No. I’m going to the morgue. Note my use of the singular, rather than the plural.”

“I’m free.”

“And I’m not. I’m working.”

“Come on, Jack. I can’t go home now. It’s probably wall-to-wall naked midgets.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why should it? Little people need love too.”

“I meant that Harry’s cheating on you.”

“We’re not married yet. But just because it doesn’t bother me doesn’t mean I want to see it.” She placed her hand on my arm. “Let me go in, Jack. It will be like my bachelorette party.”

“Viewing a dead body?”

“I’ve seen bodies before.”

“And it’s something you’re eager to do again?”

“Not really. But if you don’t let me come with you, I’ll keep you up all night asking a bazillion questions about what I missed.”

“Holly . . . it’s against the law for a civilian to enter the county morgue.”

“I won’t tell anyone. Cross my fingers.”

She did, indeed, cross her fingers. I sighed.

“Don’t talk, don’t touch anything, and don’t let the M.E. know you’re not a cop.”

She hugged me, and I almost swerved off the road.

“Holly, if we’re going to be friends, we need to talk about this hugging thing.”

We didn’t talk about the hugging thing. Instead, the conversation shifted to tae kwon do.

“I’m working on my fourth dan. My pyonson keut chireugi are getting there. I busted a finger last year, breaking boards.”

That impressed the hell out of me. Pyonson keut were thrusting strikes using the fingertips. If Holly could break boards using her fingers, she was way ahead of me.

“I’m better at kagi than chireugi.” Though, if I were being honest with myself, my leg strength and flexibility weren’t what they used to be.

“Where do you train?”

I couldn’t remember the last time I set foot on the mat. “I haven’t trained in a while. I should probably get back into it.”

“It would be fun to spar with you.”

Maybe, if I equated bleeding with fun. Holly had two inches, more experience, and about fifteen pounds on me. And from what I could observe, that extra fifteen pounds was all muscle. She’d kick my ass.

Instead I said, “Yeah. That would be fun.”

We stopped at a chain donut shop to pick up donuts and coffee for Phil. I also got a coffee. Holly got a frozen mochaccino with extra chocolate, and three glazed donuts.

“Old habits die hard. I’ll do a thousand extra sit-ups tomorrow.”

The county morgue was in Chicago’s medical district, on Harrison. I pulled into the circular driveway behind the two-story building and parked in a spot designated for hearses and ambulances. Before we got out of the car, I had a heart-to-heart with Holly.

“Morgues aren’t very pleasant. Do you have a weak stomach?”

“I haven’t thrown up in years.”

I hoped she was telling the truth. I’d hate to see those donuts again.

“Try to stay professional, and if you do need to hurl, don’t hurl on a corpse. Phil hates that.”

“Got it.”

We went in.

After I signed the check-in book for myself and Holly, the attendant took us back through the loading station and into the cooler. It smelled like a butcher shop, which essentially is what it was; racks and racks of refrigerated meat. They were operating at capacity, and over two hundred bodies lay on metal shelves, warehouse-style. Some leaked fluids. Some seemed frozen in bizarre poses. Some looked like they might open their eyes and start talking.

Holly took it all in, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“This is pretty freaky.”

“Shhhh. Act professional.”

“Check out that guy. He’s hung like an elephant.”

“Holly—”

“Jesus, Jack, look at it. You’re single. Grab a knife and take it home.”

Phil Blasky poked his head out of the autopsy room, and I elbowed Holly in the ribs to shut her up.

“Hi, Phil.”

“Hello, Jack. Who’s your friend?”

Holly waltzed over to him, hand outstretched. “Detective Holly Frakes. I’m a cop. Really.”

I tried not to wince. Phil glanced at her hand, then glanced at his own, covered by a bloody latex glove.

Holly noticed this and patted him on the shoulder instead of shaking.

“Nice to meet you, Phil. I hear people are dying to get into this place.”

Ouch. But Phil seemed just as entranced with Holly as everyone else she met, and he even offered a weak chuckle.

“A pleasure to meet you too, Detective. I’ve found out some interesting things, if you’ll step into my office.”

We followed Phil into the back room, where the body of Steve Jensen lay naked on a metal table, a block propping up his head. Beneath him was a small puddle of what I called people juice; not blood, but a pink, semiclear fluid that looked like the stuff at the bottom of the package when you bought a steak at the supermarket.

Phil hadn’t made the Y-incision on Jensen yet, or sawed open the skull, but the body had been washed down.

Jensen had been a trim man, muscular, with straight brown hair and tattoos covering both arms, the motif running to guns, skulls, and naked women with devil horns.

“Average.” Holly frowned. She was looking at his joint.

Phil missed it. “As you can see by the condition of the body, the body bears over thirty stab wounds of various sizes and depths. I can safely assume that the inquest jury will rule out suicide.”

He chuckled again. The second chuckle I’d heard in the ten years I’d known him.

The only place to set the coffee and donuts was on a medical tray, next to some bloody implements. I hoped the cardboard box was thick and nothing leaked through.

“What’s wrong with his mouth?” Holly asked.

Jensen’s cheeks were sucked in, as if he were about to blow us a kiss. His lips were shredded and resembled hamburger.

Holly bent down for a closer view. “Looks like he’s in serious need of some Chapstick.”

Phil grabbed onto the lower lip and pulled, revealing half a dozen brass fishhooks, skewering Jensen’s mouth closed. He picked up a scalpel and wedged it between the teeth, levering the mouth open, tearing the lips even further. He positioned the head so the overhead light could penetrate the mouth, and then used a water squirt pen that hung from the ceiling on a spiral hose to spray out the excess blood.

It wasn’t pretty. Jensen had a puckered appearance because his tongue and inner cheeks were hooked together.

“He was alive at the time.” Holly pointed. “See the bruises on his face? Someone shoved hooks in his mouth, then slapped him around to get them stuck.”

Blasky put his hand on the victim’s neck.

“I can feel some bumps in the throat. He probably swallowed, or inhaled, hooks as well.”

I finally spoke up. “What’s the cause of death, Phil?”

“This wound right here.” Blasky tapped a two-inch puncture on Jensen’s chest. “Thin-bladed knife, slipped between the ribs and ruptured the heart. Won’t know what exactly went wrong until I crack the chest.”

“He was tortured.” Holly swallowed, then walked over to the corpse’s legs and peered at a stab wound. “These cuts have salt rubbed into them.”

Phil frowned. “Kind of silly, to interrogate a man with fishhooks in his mouth. How was he supposed to talk?”

“He wasn’t supposed to talk,” I said. “He was supposed to hurt.”

“He hurt, all right. I ran a blood sample and did an enzyme immunoassay. His histamine levels were off the charts. This man died in agony.”

“Why do some of the stab wounds look different?”

“It appears that two weapons were used, a thin, double-edged blade and a thicker one with a serrated back.”

The hunting knife that Benedict’s attacker left behind had a serrated back.

“Must have gotten bored with the little knife, gotten something bigger,” Holly said.

“Can you tell by the angle if the perp is right-handed or left-handed?” I asked.

Phil picked up a stainless steel protractor and worked out some angles.

“The big blade was wielded by a lefty. The smaller blade, by someone right-handed.”

Holly nodded. “So the killer had a knife in each hand.”

“Then how could he rub the salt in?” I shook my head. “No. I have a different theory.”

“We’re all ears, Lieutenant.”

I frowned. “I think we’ve got more than one killer.”

Chapter 35

I’D BEEN NURTURING that theory since early this morning. All evidence pointed toward a meticulous guy with a blond beard, yet a sloppy redhead was the one who attacked Herb. I hadn’t been able to reconcile it. But if there were two killers at work, everything fit.

The Gingerbread Man’s partner had found a replacement.

Holly gave me a funny look. “Are you sure?”

“That’s how it looks. One of them is probably Caleb Ellison.”

“And the other one?”

I chewed on my other lip. “I don’t know.” I added, “Yet.”

Phil Blasky picked up his coffee and took a sip, making happy smacking sounds.

“You ladies are welcome to stay for the autopsy. There’s donuts.”

That didn’t hold a lot of appeal for me, though Holly seemed thrilled at the prospect. I stared down at Jensen’s body, puzzling why he died, wondering what his link to Caleb Ellison was, and found myself focusing on his tattoos.

In the middle of his biceps, slathered with hell imagery and the machine guns, there was a small piece of skin missing, the size of a quarter. Unlike the other wounds, this appeared to be a slice, rather than a stab.

I looked lower, and a similar patch of skin had been cut from his forearm. The other arm had three similar marks, on the back of the hand, the triceps, and the shoulder.

Someone cut off a few of his tattoos. And I had an inkling why.

“Do you have an extra pair of gloves, Phil?”

“There’s a box under the cart.”

I pulled out a pair and tugged them on. Holly did the same, though without much enthusiasm.

“We’re not doing a cavity search, right?” she asked.

I ignored her, picking up Jensen’s cold right hand and spreading out the fingers, which felt like stiff rubber. I peered at the webbing, and his palm, then worked up the underside of the arm until I got to the armpit. Not finding what I sought, I did the same with the left arm. Then I scrutinized behind the ears, and the back of the neck.

“Can we turn him over?”

Phil nodded, munching on a donut. His chin had strawberry jelly on it—I hoped to God it was strawberry jelly.

“On three,” I told Holly. “One, two, three.”

I pulled. She pushed. Jensen tilted up onto his side and flopped toward me, momentum taking him off the edge of the metal table. The headrest went flying. I had to push my hip against his clammy, naked hip to keep him from falling onto the floor, splotching my Kathleen B top with people juice. How many damn outfits could I ruin this week?

Holly tugged on his arm, sliding Jensen back into position.

The tattoo was over his right buttock. Homemade, black ink, three letters: DDD.

“Son of a bitch.” Holly rubbed a gloved finger over the ink. “This guy’s a Disciple.”

“I haven’t heard of that gang.”

“They’re from my town. The triple D boys. Detroit Devil Disciples. Operate on the East side, maybe a hundred strong. They run drugs, guns, a string of crack whores. Represent for Folks.”

“And you know them because . . . ?”

She offered a small, private smile. “Let’s just say I’ve crossed paths with them a few times.”

I stared at the mark. Someone had cut off the others, and missed this one because it had been in an unobtrusive spot. Removing tattoos was symbolic, like stripping a gang-banger of his colors. Either his own gang did it because he betrayed them, or a rival gang did it to disrespect him.

There was also a third possibility: to keep Jensen’s identity hidden.

Mason’s search for Jensen in the National Crime Information Center records revealed a criminal record, until only a few years ago. The same for Caleb Ellison. It was highly doubtful they’d suddenly gone straight. Changing identities seemed a much better prospect.

“I have a few contacts in Detroit.” Holly stripped off her gloves and pulled a flip phone out of her front pocket. “Want me to see what I can figure out?”

At this point, I needed all the help I could get. “Be my guest.”

Holly trotted off, phone in hand. I pulled off my gloves and bellied up to the big slop sink, where I spent five minutes trying to get the stain out of my blouse.

“Jack! I got something!”

Holly had poked her head into the autopsy room.

“What?”

“Steve Jensen is using another name. I described him to the guy I talked to, and he pinned down an alias. A quick look at his record, and we got a list of associates, one of them named Caleb.”

“Caleb Ellison?”

“No. Caleb’s using an alias too. The guy you’re looking for is a redhead, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Caleb’s last known address is here in Chicago.”

I hurried over to Holly, the stain forgotten.

“What’s the address?”

Holly shook her head. “I want to go with you.”

“Holly, dammit, this is police business.”

“I got the information, I want to come with you.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

I felt eyes on the back of my neck. Blasky was staring at us, munching on a cruller. I took Holly into the cooler with me.

“Who did you call in the Detroit police to get this information?”

She played coy. “Who said I called the Detroit police? I’m a private investigator, remember? I have plenty of contacts.”

I pushed past her, walking out of the cooler, into the loading room. I could call the gang unit in Detroit, possibly get the same info Holly did, but I had no clue who to talk to, and no idea how long it would take.

“Jack . . .” Holly caught up, tugged on my sleeve. “Don’t be pissed. I just want to be a part of this.”

“You’re a civilian, Holly. I could lose my badge just for bringing you into the morgue.”

She made a pouty face.

“Come on, Jack. All I do is spy on cheating husbands, take pictures of fat guys trying to cheat insurance companies, and chase losers who jump bail. This is something real. Something important. Do you know how many times I heard Harry tell the story about the time he helped you nail Charles Kork?”

I ignored her, signing out, leaving the morgue.

“I have his address, Jack. I can back you up.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Holly. I need a warrant, cops on all the exits, the Feds want a piece; you being there could ruin the bust.”

“Fine. I’ll get him myself.”

She took off across the parking lot, walking at a brisk pace.

“Dammit, Holly! Don’t make me arrest you!”

She kept walking, but offered her opinion of my authority with a single finger.

I jogged up to her, grabbed her shoulder, and she spun around in a blur, spreading her feet in a tiger stance—her hands in underhanded fists, one foot in front of the other, heel off the ground as if cocked to go off. Without even thinking, I stepped back and fell into a back stance, my rear foot planted behind me, both arms parallel to my front thigh.

I tensed for her attack, but it didn’t come.

“You want to do this on pavement?” I said.

“I want to come with you.”

“You can’t. The last time a civilian came with me on a bust, it became a weekly TV series.”

The parking lot was dark, and I couldn’t read her eyes.

“Your choice, Jack. We do it together, or I do it alone.”

“Or I arrest you for withholding evidence and obstruction of justice.”

“You think you can? I’m bigger, younger, more experienced, and have a farther reach.”

“And if you lay a finger on me, you go to jail. That would mess up your wedding plans, wouldn’t it? Think, Holly. This isn’t the way.”

I hoped she’d back down, because she was right; I probably couldn’t beat her sparring. Which meant I’d have to shoot her.

Seconds ticked by. The night air cooled the sweat that had broken out on the back of my neck. I kept my muscles rigid, tense, fighting the adrenaline surge.

“He lives in Ravenswood,” Holly said.

“Where in Ravenswood?”

She came at me, bringing her rear foot up. I lifted my arms to block, but Holly didn’t kick. She ran past.

Holly reached the car five steps ahead of me, throwing open the door and grabbing her Vuitton carry-all. I managed to get my fingers around one handle of the bag, and Holly gripped my wrist and dropped to a knee, twisting my arm out at an angle and forcing my elbow to lock. I released the bag.

“I’ll call you when I get there.” She smiled and winked.

I swung my free fist around, but she shoved me back, onto my ass, and then sprinted down the street. By the time I got to my feet she’d ducked behind a building and disappeared.

This was what I got for trying to have friends.

I considered my options. I could call in the cavalry, but Holly was too smart to get picked up by a squad car. I could go home and let fate take its course; after all, I’d tried my best to stop her. Or I could head for Ravenswood and hope she would call.

Naturally, I headed for Ravenswood.

Chapter 36

JACK IS COMING. Alex knows.

An anticipatory smile creeps onto Alex’s face.

This is working out better than expected.

The smell from the basement wafts up through the floor. Alex ignores it, deciding what to do next.

The apartment is a mess. There are things to fix, things to do before Jack’s arrival.

This trap must be carefully set for it to work.

“Where shall I hide?”

Alex has seen the TV show, knows all about the time Charles hid in Jack’s closet and almost killed her.

There’s a closet in the living room that will be just perfect.

“In the closet. Second time’s a charm.”

The man enters the closet, knife in hand.

Chapter 37

IPARKED NEXT to a hydrant on Lincoln Avenue, just north of Montrose. Ravenswood covered about three hundred square blocks, and like many other Chicago neighborhoods was undergoing some extreme gentrification. Lured by affordable housing, rehabbers had been buying like crazy and slowly increasing the property value by rebuilding, remodeling, and repainting. The liquor stores and chop shops of years past were being replaced by Starbucks and Panera Bread franchises.

If Caleb Ellison resided in Ravenswood, he had thousands of houses, apartments, lofts, and condos to hide in.

Before I could dwell on how this case spiraled out of control, my cell rang.

“Hi, Jack. You alone?”

“Dammit, Holly. Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“On Lincoln and Montrose.”

“You’re close. I’m on Bell Avenue and Argyle. I’m going into the house.”

“Holly, don’t . . .”

CLICK.

I jammed the car into gear and did a U-turn, racing east down Montrose, and then hanging an immediate left on Bell. Argyle was eight or nine blocks up. The area was dark, residential, all houses and apartments. Eighty-year-old oak and maple trees lined the sidewalks, parked cars lined the streets.

I got to the corner ninety seconds after receiving the call, and double-parked parallel to a Saab. I hopped out of the car and did a slow 360-degree look around.

No Holly.

I checked my cell phone to see if the caller ID had picked up her number, but she’d blocked it.

She was going to ruin this bust. Or even worse, she was going to get herself killed. And she was probably within a hundred yards. That is, if she’d been telling the truth. How could she possibly think . . .

Three cars ahead of me was a sedan, the driver’s-side mirror missing.

I tugged out my .38 and approached the car. Though the street wasn’t well lit, I could tell that the paint job was dark gray—Titanium Pearl. A glance at the rear confirmed it was the Eclipse.

I did another scan of the area, looking for Holly. The Eclipse was parked in front of a large Victorian apartment building, yellow brick, with a walk-in courtyard. It didn’t seem like a place a serial killer would live. Too many tenants, too hard to come and go without being seen.

Next to the Victorian was a two-story red neo-gothic building, with spires on the roof. Definitely more private, but every single light in the house was on, and curtains were open on both floors.

Across the street was a three-flat. The top apartment had several lights on. The middle apartment was completely dark, and a large For Rent sign hung in the window. The basement window had a single light burning.

That seemed the best bet. I approached cautiously, listening for anything out of the ordinary. The house had a black iron fence around the perimeter, and the gate had been pushed inward. I walked alongside the building, into the backyard, and saw the broken basement window.

This was the house. And since a crime, breaking and entering, was in progress, I was legally entitled to enter the establishment. Holly’s illegal entry had saved me the trouble of needing a warrant.

I considered calling for backup, decided to check it out first, and got on all fours, climbing backward through the ground-level window.

I’d smelled so much death in the last few days I should have been used to it, but the stench down there practically knocked me over. Worse than Packer’s house in Indianapolis. Worse than Bud Kork’s root cellar.

To my left, illuminated by a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, I saw the source of the odor.

Three corpses, seated around a card table. Clothesline bound them to their chairs. Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s face was still recognizable, frozen in a bloated, agonized scream. Below the neck, his rib cage had been broken open, and his own hands shoved inside the chest cavity, up to the wrist.

To his left, I recognized Diane Kork from the injuries received on the video. She’d since been dressed in a push-up half-bra, which left her blackening nipples exposed. Her head tilted back, the slash on her neck yawning open like a bucket. A big bouquet of silk flowers—daisies—were shoved into the wound.

Next to Diane was a third corpse, a man with glasses and a beard. He looked the freshest, but also had the most mutilation. His abdomen was sliced open from his groin to his breastbone, and his organs had been pulled out and placed on a silver platter on the table in front of him, like a Thanksgiving turkey. In his hands were eating utensils, a knife and fork. Atop the fork was something brown and roundish. It took me a moment to realize what it was—a kidney. Some other organ was crammed into his mouth, ballooning out his cheeks.

Besides the smell of rot was the gag-inducing odor of urine and feces, and for the first time since being a rookie I contaminated a crime scene, bending over and throwing up between my feet.

I recovered quickly enough, freeing my cell phone, calling 911 and requesting assistance. Then I looked past the decaying dinner party, sighting the staircase. I moved fast, not bothering to be silent, taking the stairs two at a time, anxious to get some fresh air.

They led to the kitchen. I came through the door in a crouch, my gun pointed forward. I checked left, then right, straining to hear some kind of movement.

The house seemed silent.

The kitchen hadn’t been cleaned in weeks; fast food wrappers and pizza boxes stacked on the counters, the sink overflowing with beer bottles, the floor sticky with stains and spills.

I went through the kitchen, into a living room, which was also a disaster. Besides the empty food boxes and cans, almost every surface of the room was stacked with pornography. Magazines, videos, and DVDs, littering the table, the sofa, the easy chair, and the floor. Nasty porn too. I glimpsed a few titles: Latex Bondage Torture. Pain Sluts. House ofAgony. Seymore Blood’s Human Pincushion.

A television rested in the corner of the room, next to a closed closet door. A camcorder perched on top of the TV. Even at the distance, I could make out the large letters RCA on the side of it.

The room opened into a hallway, and I moved quick but cautious, leading with my gun, staying low. My finger rested on the trigger, but I was aware of the pressure, aware that Holly was someplace in the apartment.

Four doorways down the hall, all open.

“Caleb Ellison! This is the police! Come out with your hands over your head!”

“Jack!”

Holly, from one of the rooms.

“Holly, where are you?”

“Back bedroom!”

Someone came into the hall. I dropped to a knee and sighted on the head. It was Holly. I pointed my gun at the ceiling, blowing out a breath.

“Dammit, Holly, you scared the crap out of me.”

Holly didn’t answer. In an unbelievably quick move her hand shot up and she fired three shots in my direction.

I dropped, facedown, hugging the carpet, getting my gun out in front of me—Holly running at me, still firing—but not at me, over my head—four and five and six shots—and me turning to see the pudgy redheaded man coming up behind me, the knife falling from his hand, the closet door still swinging from when he leaped out, Holly’s bullets hitting his chest again and again, blood erupting like fireworks, until he fell at my feet with his tongue hanging out and his eyes wide and empty.

Holly stood next to me, wisps of smoke rising from the barrel of her 9mm. She grinned.

“Thirty points.”

I didn’t understand what she meant, but then I remembered the shooting range earlier that day. Six rounds in the chest, five points each.

“Give me the gun, Holly.”

I held out my left hand. My right was still curled around my .38, which was currently pointed at her belly.

“I just saved your life, Jack.”

“I know. Protocol. Backup will be here any minute.”

She nodded, handing me her weapon butt-first.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. You?”

“You check out the party in this freak’s basement? One more and he’d have enough for bridge.”

I tucked Holly’s piece into the back of my pants and got to my feet. I could hear the sirens approaching.

“How much trouble am I in, Jack?”

“I don’t know. You broke the law, but saved my life. And probably saved the taxpayers millions of dollars in an expensive trial.”

I gazed back at Caleb Ellison, whom I could ID from his mug shot. Like Steve Jensen, he had a fair share of tattoos slathering his arms, several of them the triple D symbol. His chest looked like he’d spilled a plate of spaghetti on it. There was no need to check for a pulse.

“But I’ll be out by tomorrow, right? The wedding is at noon, and I haven’t picked up a dress yet. Which is fine with Harry, because he wants us both to get married in the nude.”

Not an image I needed in my head.

“I don’t know, Holly. It depends on if the state’s attorney wants to press charges. Either way, it’s going to be a late night.”

“How about if I give you the gun and you say you killed him?”

I shook my head.

“What if I gave you five bucks?”

Which was such an absurd thing to say, I began to laugh. Holly laughed too, and we kept laughing right up until the CPD kicked in the front door.

Chapter 38

FIRST ONE’S BY those bushes.”

Lorna Hunt Ellison extends both arms and points. Her wrists are cuffed together under the sleeves of her Day-Glo orange prison jumpsuit. The elastic is tight around her middle, and the legs are too long, but the color reminds her of the hunting jacket Bud used to have, the one he used for deer season, and Lorna likes that memory. She and Bud had gone hunting dozens of times, and Lorna was the one who usually brought the game down—Bud couldn’t shoot for shit. He loved dressing it, though. Bleeding the carcass, stripping off the hide, butchering the meat. Sometimes he couldn’t even wait for her to cook it before having a little taste for himself.

Bud.

She’ll see him again. Very soon.

One of the FBI guys walks up to the tree she’s pointing at.

“Right here?”

Lorna spits. “Looks about right.”

She’s leaning up against the squad car, looking for the spray-painted rock. This should be the right place. She wrote the directions down. Rosser Park, in Liverpool, the second dirt road off of Oregon Street, heading east toward the lake. Take the road until it stops. But she doesn’t see any rocks, painted or otherwise.

Lorna walks away from the car and takes a few steps onto the grass. She’d insisted they remove the leg irons, or she wasn’t showing them where any damn bodies were, guaran-fucking-teed. They listened to her. What harm could an old lady do, right?

The pig with the rifle—the one who is supposed to be pointing it at her the whole time—is scratching his nuts, the rifle butt-first on the ground. Two more cops, holding shovels, are standing next to that FBI asswipe, poking them at the dirt, trying to decide where to start digging.

“Right there!” Lorna shouts. “About four or five feet down.”

She looks to her right. No rock. To her left. The black sedan the Feds drove is parked there. One of the Feds is standing beside it, talking to some fatty sheriff.

Lorna looks beyond the car, to the lake. The area is mostly open: ankle-high wild grass, a few saplings, and those bushes she pointed at. The weather is cool, in the high fifties. No activity, no fishermen or joggers. Too early in the morning.

Everything is perfect, if she can just find that damn rock.

The fatty sheriff walks over, eyeing Lorna like she’s something he stepped in.

“After this, you’re taking me to see Bud, right? Blessed Mercy Hospital in Gary?”

He scowls at her. “That’s the deal. I didn’t make it, though. I don’t deal with scum.”

“You probably don’t deal with much. An ass that fat, you probably ride a desk all day.”

His eyes get dark and mean. “Watch your mouth, bitch.”

Lorna spots it: a small gray boulder about a foot high, surrounded by dry grass and fewer than five yards away. There’s a big red X on it.

“I apologize, Sheriff. You mind if I stretch my legs a little? I haven’t been out in the open in twelve years.”

He grunts.

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

She walks slowly, without apparent direction. When she reaches the rock she stretches, then bends down to tie her shoe.

The gun is there, in an old plastic zipper bag. It’s a derringer—a small, two-shot weapon that Doc Holliday always had up his sleeve in old Western shows.

She removes the gun from the bag and cocks the hammer. The overall length of the pistol is less than four inches, and she can comfortably conceal it in the palm of her large hand.

“Hey, Lorna! You copping a squat over there?”

Laughter from the men. Lorna stands up and gives them the finger, then heads back to the group. There are four cops and two Feds, and the derringer only has two rounds.

But two is all she’ll need.

She walks up to the pig with the rifle, holds out her wrists to him.

“Can you take these off? They hurt.”

He snickers at her, and before he can finish she shoots him twice in the left eye.

The sound is like a firecracker, two sharp bangs, and before the pig even has a chance to fall over, Lorna is dropping the derringer and picking up the rifle, a Remington 7400 auto loader with an eight-shot magazine. She kneels behind the squad car, balancing the muzzle on the hood, and aims at the closest body— the fat sheriff.

The rifle is awkward to fire with her hands cuffed, but she manages to put one between his eyes while he just stands there, looking confused. Dumb-ass desk jockey.

Several people are returning fire, the car getting peppered with bullets. Lorna ignores them. She swings over to the FBI idiot, a tall guy in a gray suit, and shoots him twice in the chest while he struggles to remove his own gun from his holster.

The near threats removed, Lorna turns her sights onto the group by the bush, thirty yards away.

In a gunfight, the longest gun usually wins. The two pigs and the remaining Fed are too far away to hit her. Plus, they have no cover, except for the leafless, sad-looking bush they’d been digging next to.

Lorna had gone varmint hunting too many times to count. She could drop a possum from a hundred feet away.

These men were closer, and lots bigger than possums.

Lorna drops the first cop with one in the head. The second cop hits the dirt, trying to crawl into the hole they’d been digging. The Fed ducks behind the bush, which makes Lorna laugh out loud.

She shoots the cop in the neck, and then shoots the FBI idiot in the arm.

“Toss the gun!” she yells.

He throws his pistol aside and places both hands on his head.

“Stand up!”

He stands. It’s like an FBI version of Simon Says.

Lorna aims, exhaling as she squeezes the trigger.

The agent’s knee explodes in a spectacular fashion.

“I said, stand up! Or the next one is between your ears!”

Lorna truly enjoys watching the man struggle to get up, falling over twice, and finally managing to support himself on one leg.

She thinks about going for the other knee, but drills him through the groin instead.

Again he falls.

Lorna drops the rifle and kneels next to the first pig she killed, the one who took off her leg irons. He has handcuff keys in his pants pocket. She spends a moment freeing her wrists, and then pulls the cop’s sidearm—a Sig Sauer 9mm—from his holster.

“You still alive, Mr. FBI man? Lorna will be with you in just a sec.”

Lorna scans the horizon, doesn’t see another living soul. The fresh air smells wonderful. Like freedom. She walks casually over to the bush, past the dead pig in the hole, over to the Fed who is on his back, grabbing his crotch with both hands and breathing like he’s in labor.

“Ain’t no bodies out here, Mr. FBI man. I was playing with you. Pretty sneaky, wussn’t it?”

His face is soaked with sweat, but he seems more angry than afraid.

“Don’t I scare you, Mr. FBI man? You Feds are tougher than I’d’ve guessed.”

She brings up the Sig, thumbs off the safety, and shoots him in one shoulder, then the other.

There’s fear on his face now. Fear and pain and some craziness too.

“You Feds are something else. You come and visit us—me, and Bud, and people like us—and you talk about trying to understand why we do what we do. Like we’re some animals you’re studying on some nature show on TV.”

She squats down next to the Fed, a big ugly smile on her face.

“This’s what happens when you play with animals, Mr. FBI man. You get bit.”

He cries out, and she fires the gun and stares, curious, as the back of his head decorates the grass behind him.

Lorna doesn’t know how much time she has before someone comes, so she moves fast. First, she pats down the Fed and finds his car keys. Next, she strips out of the orange jumpsuit and hurries over to the sheriff, pleased to see there’s very little blood on his clothes.

She strips him, struggling with the pants, which keep getting stuck on his big feet. It takes almost five minutes, and Lorna curses at herself for taking off her own clothes before she took off his, because she’s freezing by the time she’s done.

Lorna dresses quickly. His shirt is too big, and the pants are too long and tight at the hips, but after she tucks this in and tucks that in and puts on the sheriff department jacket and snap-brim hat, she takes a look at herself in the rearview and is pleased by the transformation.

Next, Lorna gathers up four more guns—she can’t find the one the Fed threw into the grass—and a pair of reflective sunglasses. She brings it all into the dark sedan and starts the engine.

Blessed Mercy Hospital is less than ten miles away. Lorna puts the car into gear and hits the gas. It’s the first time she’s driven in over a decade, and it’s almost as exciting as shooting all of those pigs.

Lorna fiddles with the car radio, and finds a station that plays country. She hums along to an old Hank Williams tune.

The hospital is a mess of activity. There’re media folk around, all over the roads, and Lorna drives past them and into the parking lot. She leaves the car by the ER entrance, counting seven police cars before she goes inside.

There’s a handful of pigs in the lobby. Two of them eye her. She walks past, ignoring them, trying to imitate the cop swagger she’s seen so many times. The nurses’ station is hopping, and Lorna lets out a shrill whistle to get a little girly’s attention.

“Where’s Kork?”

The nurse gives Lorna a foul look. “Down the hall, to the left. Room 118.”

Lorna tips her hat, slightly large for her head, and walks into the ICU. There are two cops guarding Bud’s room. One is asleep in a chair. The other gives Lorna a lazy glance.

Lorna removes the hand from her pocket, the hand holding the Sig, and jams it up into the cop’s armpit. She pulls the trigger three times, but only two bullets fire. The cop flops over, and Lorna glances at the gun and sees the barrel is all gunked up with blood and little bits of stuff. She drops the weapon and reaches for another, a .45 AMC tucked into her belt, which she levels on the sleeping cop’s head just as he opens his eyes.

Lorna’s knuckles are the last thing he sees. She fires once, then steps into the room.

Bud is sitting up in bed, a goofy grin on his face.

“Hello, my love.”

“Hello, Bud.”

She tosses him a gun from her other pocket, then fishes out the handcuff keys she got off that cop at Rosser Park. Handcuff keys are universal, and she unlocks Bud’s thin wrist.

Bud shoots at someone in the hall, and Lorna knows that cops’ll be all over the place soon. She aims at the window and puts three rounds through it, then uses her foot to kick the spiderwebbed glass onto the lawn.

“We gotta go.”

Bud fires again, and Lorna drags him over to the window and shoves him through. She follows him out and looks around, trying to get her bearings. The parking lot is fifty yards to the right.

They run for it.

Neither Lorna nor Bud are in the best physical condition, but fear is a powerful motivator, and they make it to the car in under ten seconds. From first shot fired until now, less than a minute has passed.

Lorna expects the parking lot to be swarming with pigs, but the two cops she sees are running inside the ER. They probably think she’s still in Bud’s room.

“Keep your head down, Bud.”

Lorna pulls out of the parking lot, forcing herself to drive slow and careful and not attract attention. She drives past all the reporters, turns on the road to the interstate, and merges onto the expressway.

“I knew you’d come for me, Lorna.”

She reaches down, patting his bald head.

“Family takes care of its own, Bud. We help each other.” She wrinkles her brow, trying to remember what to do next.

“We gotta ditch the car, get you some clothes.”

“And then what?”

“Then we got a score to settle in Chicago. Against that bitch cop who took away our Charles.”

She presses in the car’s cigarette lighter.

“I want her alive, Lorna. She’s a sinner, and needs to be taught the error of her ways before we send her to meet her Maker.”

“We’ll teach her, all right, Bud. She’s gonna repent all of her sins. By the time we’re through, she’ll be repentin’ other people’s sins.”

The cigarette lighter pops out. She hands it to Bud, the end glowing orange.

“Here you go, baby. Play with this while I think.”

There’s a sizzle, and a squeal, and a smell like bacon frying.

Lorna smiles.

It’s good to have her Bud back.

Chapter 39

I WAS QUESTIONED for over six hours.

I’d forewarned Holly that the fastest way to get through it was to tell the truth. Which is what I did. It meant disclosing I’d taken a civilian to Indiana to interrogate a suspect, and then snuck her into the Cook County morgue— neither of which were recommended police procedure.

But stopping a serial killer still counted for something in the eyes of the state’s attorney, and Caleb Ellison was indeed a killer.

Besides the grisly tableau in his basement, Caleb had almost twenty snuff videos, many of them duplicates of Charles Kork’s collection, but some of them new. Caleb had been smarter than Kork—he’d kept his face out of the picture— but not by much; weapons he’d used in the movies were discovered in his apartment. The camcorder seemed to be a match. Caleb also had a collection of Polaroid snapshots of posed murder victims, one more revolting than the next.

Another interesting bit of evidence was discovered in his bedroom—a cache of Michigan driver’s license templates, and the equipment and software to create fake IDs, including an algorithm program that generated accurate driver’s license ID numbers based on name and date of birth.

Checking his database uncovered several aliases for Caleb Ellison and for the recently deceased Steve Jensen. Background checks on these aliases revealed criminal records; their paper trails had ended several years ago because they’d committed their recent crimes and done their time under false names. We still had no idea what had dissolved their partnership, or what prompted Ellison to kill Jensen so horribly. But psychos really didn’t need much provocation.

The Crime Scene Unit, and the Feebies, had practically moved into Caleb’s apartment, continuing to gather evidence and build a case against a corpse.

I was finally cut loose at four in the morning, without charges filed against me.

Even at that late hour, the media had camped outside the station, and in a rare moment of lucidity I gave a decent statement.

“The Chicago Police Department is a meticulous, highly tuned crime-fighting machine, unlike how it’s portrayed on certain television shows. Stopping Caleb Ellison was the result of the hard work and dedication of dozens of officers, from the superintendent on down.”

Maybe that would score me some brownie points.

Once home, I unplugged my phone, fended off a cat attack, took a long shower, slapped on some burn cream, tugged one of Latham’s old T-shirts over my head, and crawled into bed.

I was exhausted, but unable to relax. Sleep mocked my attempts, keeping me awake with thoughts of Caleb’s basement, of my mother, whom I hadn’t visited in a few days, of Herb, of Harry’s wedding, which I had to get ready for in just a few hours, of Holly, who was still being questioned as far as I knew, and still hadn’t bought a wedding dress.

I managed about ten winks out of a possible forty, and at nine a.m. I got up to face the day. It began with a call to Herb, who was being prepped for his bypass surgery.

“I saw it on the news this morning. You’re catching psychos without me. I’m obsolete.”

“Sorry, Herb. Next time I’ll wait until you’re feeling better before I do my job.”

“I appreciate it.”

“How was my sound bite? Did I look okay?”

“Thin. You looked too thin. Have you been eating okay?”

Bless that man.

“Thanks, Herb. Have yourself a good operation. Don’t give the doctor any trouble.”

“I’ve got it easy, compared to you. Aren’t you standing up at that idiot McGlade’s wedding today?”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Can you swing by the hospital and pick up the gift I made for him? I haven’t wrapped it yet. It’s still in the bedpan.”

I laughed, then realized I hadn’t gotten McGlade a gift myself. The ceremony was at noon, at the Busse Woods forest preserve in the suburb of Elk Grove. Maybe I had time to pick up something on the way.

I bid good-bye to Herb, rushed through a shower, and spent all the time I saved on the shower staring dumbly at my closet, wondering what the hell to wear. A formal gown? Not to a forest preserve. Slacks and a blouse? Not dressy enough. I didn’t own a clown outfit, so that was out, and finally decided on a Bob Mackie brocade suit, pink, with a white blouse. The skirt was knee length, the jacket had shoulder pads and a rounded collar, and I never wore it to work because it was, well, pink.

I matched it with a strappy pair of DKNY two-inch heels with an open toe, but had no nylons without runs in them. I used some scissors to get a good leg from two separate pairs, and held them on with a garter belt that Latham had bought me during the inevitable “naughty underwear” phase of our relationship. I didn’t expect to have as much fun wearing it this time.

I kept the makeup fast and light, refreshed the cat’s food and water, and rushed out the door, almost running into my weirdo neighbor, Lucy Walnut from the Sanitation Department. She was wearing the same crusty uniform I’d seen her in the last few times. Perhaps she slept in it.

Before I had a chance to ask why she was standing in front of my apartment, she bent down and picked up a flower arrangement that had been resting between her feet.

“This is for you.”

Taking flowers from creepy ex-cons set off all kinds of warning bells. Walnut must have sensed it, because she shook her head.

“It’s not from me. Got delivered to your place last night. You weren’t home, the florist guy asked me to hold it till you got back.”

I took the flowers, a vase full of roses, carnations, violets, mums, and baby’s breath.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Whatever.”

She trudged back to her apartment, and I brought the arrangement inside.

It had a small card, and the envelope had been torn open. Walnut? I could knock on her door and yell “J’accuse!” but didn’t see the point. Instead, I took it out and read the message.

I still love you too. Let’s talk. Latham.

I’ll admit to a very unfeminine whoop, and maybe a few fist pumps in the air. I won’t admit to grabbing Mr. Friskers and dancing around the kitchen with him, giving him kisses on his nose. I won’t ever admit to that.

I immediately called Latham, and got his answering machine. I thanked him for the flowers, and invited him to come over tonight. My cell was almost out of juice, so I turned the power off. I’d recharge it in my car.

Energized for the first time in weeks, I practically ran to my Nova and pointed it northwest, taking the Kennedy expressway to Route 53, and exiting on Higgins Road at the giant mega-mall known as Woodfield. With almost 300 stores, I was bound to find one that had a wedding gift.

Or so I thought.

If I’d been buying just for Harry, I would have gone to a toy store and bought action figures, or some kind of toy that expelled slime. If I’d been buying for only Holly, I could have gotten some sort of designer accessory. But what would be appropriate for them as a couple?

I considered bedding. First silk sheets, then rubber sheets. Since I didn’t know their bed size, I passed.

Then I looked at towels, televisions, easy chairs, the complete Planet of the Apes series on DVD, a lamp shaped like an ostrich, his and hers golf clubs, and a large stone that you could plug into the wall and watch water trickle over the edge, which was guaranteed to relax you, though it almost put me into shock when I saw how much it cost.

I left Woodfield at a quarter to twelve and went off in search of the universal gift, booze. Luckily there was a liquor store nearby, and I blew two bills on a bottle of bubbly and managed to make it to the forest preserve with a full minute to spare.

Busse Woods occupied a good portion—over ten square miles—of Elk Grove, which did indeed have real live elk running around in it. I followed the crude map Harry had scribbled on a beverage napkin at Mon Ami Gabi a few days earlier, taking the second entrance off Higgins. It was like being transported into another world.

Chicago had many parks, and those parks had trees, but even the densest concentration of foliage still felt like it was in the middle of a city. After turning down the twisty, thin road, the woods swallowed my car up. The forest canopy was so thick in certain parts, I couldn’t see the sky. I felt like I’d driven into the movie Deliverance.

I took the road into the thicket for nearly a mile, finally ending up at a tiny clearing with a small eight-space parking lot, two weather-beaten picnic tables, and a rusty garbage barrel. Two other cars were already there, Harry’s familiar ’67 Mustang and a Volkswagen Jetta. Standing beside one of the tables were three men.

I parked next to the Jetta, checked my makeup, forced on a fake smile, and went to meet the boys.

Phin wore the same charcoal suit as the other day, but had switched the blue shirt for dark gray. His black cowboy boots were polished, and this was the first time I’d ever seen Phin in a tie. He looked good. Since Phin didn’t own a car, especially not a Jetta, I assumed he took a cab here.

The man next to him—the judge or reverend or justice of the peace or ship’s captain or whoever McGlade had conned into overseeing this happy union—was a short man in his sixties sporting a white beard and a corduroy blazer with patches on the elbows. Hadn’t seen those in a while.

And Harry . . . Harry had crammed himself into a tuxedo, one of those new styles that had a large black button instead of a bow tie. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were so bloodshot, it looked like he’d poured ketchup in them.

“Hey, Jackie.” McGlade gave me a half-assed wave.

“Holly’s not here yet?”

He shook his head. “She’s running late. Didn’t get out of the police station until this morning, then ran out to find a dress. Heard you had some night last night.”

“You too. How was your bachelor party?”

He winced. “Those little people sure can drink.”

Phin raised an eyebrow. “Little people?”

“Harry spent some quality time with a midget stripper,” I explained.

McGlade held up four fingers. “Four of them. Every single Willy Wonka fantasy I’ve ever had came true last night.”

Phin raised his eyebrow even higher. “You had sex with a midget stripper?” Harry again held up four fingers. “Four of them.”

“How was it?”

“It was short.”

Both Phin and Harry began to laugh.

The guy in the antique suit walked over and held out his hand.

“Reverend Antwerp Skeezix, pleased to meet you.”

I shook his hand. “Antwerp Skeezix?”

“That’s my Martian name.”

Harry whispered in my ear. “I had a little trouble getting someone to marry us on such short notice, and I found him on the Internet.”

“I’m an ordained Martianology minister,” said Antwerp Skeezix. “Harry and Holly are going to be married in the Church of Martianism. Blorg willing.”

“Is this legal?” I asked Harry.

He shrugged.

Phin played it straight. “I bet the honeymoon cost a fortune.”

“One does not need a rocket ship to visit Mars,” said Reverend Antwerp Skeezix. “Mars is a state of mental awareness, and can be reached with a carefully controlled combination of psychotropic drugs.”

“I bet,” I said.

“Go stand over there, Spaceboy.” McGlade pointed to the garbage can. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

“Blorg is good.” The reverend waddled off.

Phin tapped Harry on the chest. “Are you sure Holly will go for that? Being married by Timothy Leary’s stupid cousin?”

“I have no idea. I don’t even know if she’ll show up. I just want something to make my head quit pounding.”

“I’ve got a gun in the car,” I suggested.

Our witty banter was interrupted by the approach of a taxi. Holly got out of the back, wearing a simple white sleeveless cocktail dress—silk, above the knee, and low cut. White pumps. Her hair up and her makeup perfect. She looked stunning.

The relief on Harry’s face was almost comical. He practically ran to meet her, and after some hugging and kissing they joined us, McGlade’s smile big enough for three people.

“Okay, let’s get this party started. Hey! E.T.! Get your ass over there by those trees.”

Antwerp obediently trotted to where McGlade was pointing. Holly gave me a big hug, and then Phin a big hug. After the hugfest ended, I sidled up to her and we walked to the marriage spot Harry had picked out, between two giant pine trees.

“Everything go okay?” I nudged Holly.

“No charges pressed yet. They took my gun, though. Any chance I’ll get it back? That’s a pricey piece of hardware.”

“If you fill out all the release papers correctly, you should get it back a little after Y3K.”

“Shit. If I’d known that, I would have beat him to death with my bra.”

Harry played dictator, telling us where and how to stand, putting me at his side and Phin at Holly’s side.

“So what do you think, babe?”

“It’s beautiful, Harry. Just perfect. And you look so handsome. Isn’t he handsome, Jack?”

Actually, he looked like Danny DeVito’s interpretation of the Penguin in that Batman movie.

“Handsome,” I said.

Reverend Antwerp Skeezix cleared his throat. “Shall we begin?”

Harry nodded, and Antwerp undid his pants. McGlade grabbed his wrists.

“Hold on there, Starman. We decided to keep our clothes on.”

Antwerp frowned. “No nudity?”

“No nudity.”

The reverend cast a long, sad look at Holly, then zipped up.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, under the eyes of Blorg the Almighty the Second, son of Blorg the Almighty the First, son of Merv the Invincible, to bear witness to the joining of two lives.”

I watched Holly’s face. It stayed serious, even at the mention of the Invincible Merv.

“Do you, Holly Frakes, take Harrison Harold McGlade, to be your lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, until death do you part?”

“I do.”

And damned if she didn’t look happy saying it.

“Do you, Harrison McGlade, take Holly Frakes, to be your lawfully wedded wife, for richer or for—”

“I do,” McGlade interrupted.

“Do you have the rings?”

Harry shook his head. “No rings. Tonight we’re both going out and getting our nipples pierced.”

Reverend Antwerp stared at Holly’s chest and was momentarily at a loss for words, until McGlade kicked him.

“Okay then, by the powers invested in me, by the state of Illinois, and by the planet Mars, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

McGlade and Holly kissed. Phin and I exchanged a glance like, “That was weird,” and then there was more hugging, including a hug from Reverend Antwerp that a less liberated woman would call a grope.

Then we gathered around one of the rotten picnic tables, Phin and I signed some witness papers, and McGlade gave Antwerp fifty bucks and told him to take off.

“I was hoping for a glass of champagne,” the reverend said.

“Go hope for it somewhere else.”

Antwerp, looking confused, walked back to his car.

“Hurry!” McGlade said. “There’s a wascally wabbit stowing away on your spaceship!”

“Oh, dear!” Antwerp hurried.

Holly dug into Harry’s car, coming out with a large cooler. She set it on the lawn and removed two bottles of champagne, an open carton of orange juice, some plastic cups, and two packages of bologna.

“Harry, this is all you packed for lunch?”

“Ah, shit. I forgot the raspberry Zingers. Sorry, babe. Maybe we can grab a bite somewhere local. In fact, I think I’ve got a take-out menu.”

Harry pulled something out of his pocket. He handed it to Holly, and she squealed.

“Paris! Harry, we’re going to Paris!”

“Plane leaves tonight, cupcake. Which will give us plenty of time to get loaded beforehand. Mix the mimosas, Phin! I’ll pass out the bologna.”

Phin opened the champagne and poured.

The first toast was to Harry and Holly, may they live happily ever after.

The second toast was to Holly, may she stay out of prison.

The third toast was to Phin, whom Harry called his new best friend.

When McGlade raised his glass the fourth time, I was in his sights.

“To the best cop I’ve ever met, a woman who is twice the man I’ll ever be. Jack Daniels.”

The alcohol must have hit him pretty quick, because he was slurring. It must have hit me as well, because McGlade’s words touched me, and when I reached over to pat his shoulder, everything got blurry.

“Something’s wrong.” Phin shook his head, like a dog drying off. He backed away from the table and dropped to his knees.

I stared at Holly. She was staring hard at her plastic glass. Then her eyes rolled up into her head and she fell to the ground.

McGlade reached for her and he also fell over.

Drugged. We’d been drugged.

My thoughts were all scrambled, like a drunken dream, but I knew I had to call for help. My cell phone was in my car. I tried to walk to it, but I couldn’t feel my legs, and every step I took, my car got farther away.

“Jack . . .”

Phin held out a hand to me, then collapsed face-first onto the ground.

I kept walking, but I forgot where I was going. The car. But why? What was so important about the car?

Sleep. That’s what I needed to do. I needed to sleep.

I fell to my knees. Then to my butt.

This spot looked comfortable. Nice and grassy and comfortable. I could sleep here, no problem.

I laid my head on my arm and curled up my legs.

So nice to finally sleep.

When I closed my eyes, it was to the sound of someone laughing.

Chapter 40

HEY, LADY, YOU okay?”

I’d been having a disturbing dream, where I was tied to a chair at a dinner table and everyone around me was a rotting corpse. When I tried to pull off my ropes, I realized I was dead too, and my blackening flesh began to slide off my bones like BBQ ribs.

Opening my eyes, I stared up at a cop with a funny hat. I read his badge. Park District Ranger.

I startled, wondering how he got into my bedroom. Then I realized my bedroom didn’t have trees in it, and my bed wasn’t made of grass. I sat up. The action made me dizzy, and provoked an unhappy reaction in my stomach.

The ranger grinned at me. “Celebrating a little too much, huh?”

“Where am I?” My voice sounded strange, far away.

“Busse Woods. I’m going to check your friend.”

I watched him walk over to a woman lying on the ground a few yards away. Holly.

I touched my temple, which had begun to throb, and looked around. Spotted a cooler on a picnic table, a bottle of champagne next to it, a carton of OJ, two packages of bologna . . .

The wedding.

A nice surge of adrenaline helped cut through the fog, and I remembered toasting to Harry and Holly, and then realizing we’d all been drugged.

I craned my head around, searching for Harry and Phin.

They weren’t there.

I saw Harry’s car in the lot, along with mine. My watch told me it was a little after six o’clock. I’d been out for over five hours.

The ranger was having some difficulty rousing Holly.

“Is she alive?”

“Pulse is strong, but she won’t wake up.”

I felt like curling up and going back to sleep myself. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation; more like a fever dream that accompanies the flu.

I managed to get to my feet and began to walk to my car, a little unsteady, but better with every step.

My cell phone was plugged into the cigarette lighter. I needed to call Harry, to find out where he was.

The message light blinked at me. I dialed my voice mail.

“Jack, it’s Captain Bains. Lorna Hunt Ellison escaped from custody this morning, and then grabbed Bud Kork at Mercy Hospital. Six cops, two Feds dead. A few miles away the Indiana Highway Patrol found an abandoned FBI vehicle. No sign of either perp. It might be a long shot, but there’s a chance they could be headed your way. Stay on your toes.”

Yeah. Some long shot.

I wondered how they found me. Tailed me from my apartment? Possible. I was so high from Latham’s call, I could have had a dozen Abrams tanks following me and wouldn’t have noticed.

But if Lorna and Bud were after me, why’d they let me go?

Another adrenaline spike, which made my hands shake.

They took Phin and Harry.

I tried to reason it out. Lorna escaped, went to get Bud, and then came to Chicago. They followed me here from my apartment, and probably watched the ceremony from the forest. Then one of them snuck into Harry’s car and doctored the orange juice we used for the mimosas. The drug was probably Rohypnol, or GHB, or some other easily obtainable tranq currently popular on the nightclub date-rape scene. Odorless, colorless, and a tiny amount could take effect within ten minutes and knock out a bull.

Bud must have assumed Holly was a cop, my partner. They might have also assumed Phin was my boyfriend.

They wanted to hurt us by hurting our men.

But how did they find my apartment? And how did they find tranquilizers so quickly after escaping?

And how did Lorna, who had the IQ of a tennis ball, escape from prison and rescue Bud?

Apparently I’d misjudged her.

“What’s going on?” The ranger had awoken Holly, who appeared to be panicked. “Where’s Harry?”

“Take it easy, miss.”

“Jack? What happened, Jack?”

I gave my head a brisk shake, but the fuzzies clung to me. I managed to get over to Holly without falling on my face.

“We were drugged, Holly. Bud Kork escaped, with his girlfriend. I think they’ve got Phin and Harry.”

Holly stared at me, her mouth hanging open.

“My husband . . .” she whispered.

I reached down and squeezed her shoulder.

“We’ll find them, Holly. I promise.”

“But will they still be alive when we do?”

Chapter 41

PHINEAS TROUTT OPENS his eyes. His vision feels lopsided, off center, and his shoulders hurt. He’s in a chair, but when he tries to move his arms and legs, they don’t respond.

He takes in the scene. It’s a warehouse of some sort, concrete floors and thirty-foot ceilings, row after row of empty aluminum racks. The windows are boarded up, but there’s a light on somewhere behind him, illuminating a decade’s worth of dust in swirling motes.

Phin does a body inventory checklist, flexing his toes, legs, fingers, arms, neck, and jaw. Nothing seems damaged. But his legs are bound to the chair legs, and his hands are bound behind his back.

He jerks himself to the side, trying to get the chair to tilt or move. It’s secured to the ground somehow. He pulls on his arms, hard, and feels wire bite into his wrists.

This isn’t a good situation.

Phin closes his eyes, which helps him push away the panic. How did he get here?

The last thing he remembers is the forest preserve, toasting to the newly married couple.

Someone had drugged them.

Okay, but why?

Phin has enemies, probably more than his share. But no one knew he was going to that wedding. And during the cab ride to Busse Woods, Phin kept a careful eye on the rearview mirror, a subconscious paranoia that served him well in the past. He hadn’t been followed . . .

That left Jack, Harry, and Holly. Jack was a cop, Harry and Holly private investigators. They undoubtedly had enemies too. Phin might have gotten caught up in someone else’s revenge scheme.

A sound, a low rumble, comes from behind him. Phin can’t turn far enough to see. It comes again, louder.

Snoring.

“Hey! Wake up!”

“I’m awake. I’m awake.”

More snoring.

“Goddammit, McGlade, wake up!”

“Huh? What’s happening?”

“We were drugged at your wedding.”

“I got drunk at my wedding? There’s a shocker.”

“Drugged, McGlade. We were drugged.”

“Is that you, Jim?”

“It’s Phin. Wake up and tell me what you see.”

A long pause. Phin wonders if the moron fell asleep again.

“I’m in a chair, tied up. Looks like some kind of factory or warehouse. There’s a cargo docking bay off to my right, but the door is closed.”

“What else?”

“We gotta get out of here, Phin. If I don’t get this tuxedo returned by tonight, they’re charging me for another full day.”

“Concentrate, Harry. What else is around you?”

“There’s some kind of office in the corner. Door closed, no lights. On my left . . . holy shit!”

“What is it?”

“This has got to be some kind of bad dream.”

McGlade yelled in pain.

“Harry? You okay?”

“I bit my tongue to see if I’m dreaming. I don’t think I am. Or maybe I bit my tongue in my sleep . . .”

“You’re not asleep, Harry. Tell me what you see.”

“I think my tongue’s bleeding.”

“Harry!”

“Okay. I see a long steel table. Got a bunch of equipment on it. And some stuff, new in boxes.”

Phin doesn’t like the sound of that.

“What kind of stuff?”

“A blowtorch. A power drill. A set of vise-grip pliers. And a chain saw.”

This has gone from bad to worse.

“Maybe they’re building a birdhouse,” McGlade said.

“I doubt that.”

“There’s also a big bottle of ammonia, and some paper towels. Spring cleaning?”

“The ammonia is to wake us up when we pass out from pain.”

“Oh. That makes sense. CAN ANYONE FUCKING HELP ME! HEY! HELP! GET ME OUT OF HERE! ”

McGlade screams for several minutes.

“You’re wasting your breath, Harry. No one’s going to hear us.”

McGlade continues to scream anyway.

Phin tunes him out. He wonders where Jack and Holly are. Were they taken as well? Are they at another location?

Are they already dead?

He has no idea how long he’s been out. A few hours? A day? He rubs his chin against his shoulder, feels some facial stubble, but not much. Less than twelve hours.

Harry stops yelling. Phin listens to him grunt and struggle for a while. The sounds eventually stop.

“Man, I’m thirsty.” This from McGlade. “You thirsty, Phin?”

“Don’t think about it.”

“I am thinking about it. How can I not think about it? If I try not to think about something, I think about it even more because I have to think about it to try not to.”

Time ticks away. A plane passes overhead, low and loud. Either taking off or landing. Phin guesses they’re in the northwest suburbs, someplace near O’Hare. Elk Grove has a large industrial section, not far from Busse Woods.

“I gotta pee.”

Phin squeezes his eyes shut. Being tortured to death is going to be bad enough. Being tortured to death alongside this idiot is even worse.

“It’s like someone’s turning a vise on my kidneys.”

“Let’s not talk for a while, okay?”

McGlade is blessedly silent for a few minutes. Phin concentrates on relaxing his shoulders; they’re beginning to cramp up. The wire is tight enough on his wrists to make his fingers tingle. It’s a heavy gauge, about the width of a coat hanger but more pliable. He pumps his fists several times to get blood into his hands.

“If I die in a rented tuxedo, how long to you think they’ll keep charging my credit card?”

Phin rolls his eyes. “Christ, McGlade. Does it matter? You won’t have to pay it.”

“Yeah, but my wife will. If they don’t find my body, she’ll keep getting charged every month. It could run into millions of dollars.” McGlade doesn’t speak for a moment, then says, “I hope she’s okay. Jack too. You think they’re okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe they got away. Maybe they’re on their way to rescue us.”

“Maybe.”

“And maybe they’re bringing cool, refreshing beverages. And a toilet.”

This guy used to be Jack’s partner? Phin can’t understand how she let him live for this long.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, McGlade, but I can’t understand what the hell Holly sees in you.”

“I dunno. Love is blind.”

“Apparently it’s also deaf. And learning disabled.”

“Maybe Holly loves me because I’ve got so many layers. Like a big, sexy onion. I’m an enigma, wrapped in a mystery.”

“You’re an enigma, wrapped in an idiot. Layers? Harry, I’ve only met you twice, and you’re about as deep as a spilled beer.”

“You’re just jealous. Holly and I have something special. We have trust, and loyalty, and commitment.”

“Commitment? What commitment? You cheated on her four times last night.”

“They were midgets. If you add them together it only counts as twice.”

Phin doesn’t answer. This conversation is pointless. They need to think of some way to get out of here. He didn’t undergo months of chemotherapy to suffer and die in this abandoned warehouse.

But much as Phin pulls and stretches and strains, he can’t free himself.

There’s nothing they can do but wait.

Chapter 42

MY STOMACH HURT. I didn’t know if it was an effect of the tranquilizers, or the fact that I was burning up to do something but didn’t have anything I could do.

The Elk Grove police were called, but they really didn’t have much to do either. Our statements were taken. A few pictures were snapped. I explained to a nearly catatonic Holly what I suspected was going on with Bud and Lorna.

“So what now?” she asked. “We just wait around for them to contact us?”

“I’m going into the office, calling Indiana. Maybe they have some sort of idea where they’d go. Got someplace to go?”

“I’m going to stick around. Maybe something will turn up here.”

I looked at the twelve Elk Grove cops, standing around talking sports. Nothing was going to turn up here.

“Call me if you need me, Holly.”

She reached out to hug me, but it was stiff and mechanical; all of her life force had been drained from her. I explained to the uniforms I was leaving, and when nobody protested I hopped in my Nova and headed back to Chicago.

I spent most of the trip on the phone with the hospital, trying to ascertain Herb’s condition. First he was still in the OR, then he was in Recovery, then there were some kind of complications and they weren’t sure where he was. I asked for Bernice, but she couldn’t be located. By the time I got to the district house I was on my way to a total nervous breakdown, a feeling exacerbated by the two men waiting for me in my office.

“Hello, Lieutenant. We heard from the Elk Grove Police Department that you’d be here.”

“I’m really not in the mood right now, guys.”

Agent Dailey made a face that almost looked sympathetic. “We understand how you must be feeling.”

“I doubt it.”

“We lost two good men in Rosser Park when Lorna Hunt Ellison escaped custody,” Agent Coursey said. “They were friends of ours.”

“I’m sorry.”

Coursey looked at his shoes, which was the most emotion I’d ever seen from him.

“It should have been us. We were assigned to accompany Lorna. But when you cracked the Caleb Ellison case, we were ordered back to Chicago.”

“In a way, you saved our lives, Lieutenant.”

That was a karma debt I really didn’t need.

“Gentlemen, I feel bad for your loss, but I’d really like to be alone right now.”

“We’d like to help.”

“I prefer doing this myself.”

“Kidnapping is a Federal offense, Lieutenant. This is technically our jurisdiction.”

I shot venom out of my eyes. “Do you really want to play fucking jurisdiction games?”

“No,” Agent Dailey said. “We really want to help.”

I collapsed in my chair. I had no fight left in me.

“Fine.” I closed my eyes, tried to rein in some semblance of control. “What have you got?”

“We’ve created a new profile, with Vicky, of Lorna Hunt Ellison.”

“A new profile. Great. Does it happen to mention where she’s holding my friends?”

“Probably someplace close to Busse Woods, or perhaps in the woods themselves. We had a chance to interview Lorna before her escape. She’s a DO offender, impulsive, erratic, very low intelligence. Bud Kork has similar characteristics, plus he’s delusional and psychotic. They couldn’t have planned very far ahead.”

That had been my assessment. Luring victims to your house in the boonies and burying them in your basement, though horrible, wasn’t the work of a criminal mastermind. But escaping from prison, rescuing Bud, then grabbing Harry and Phin took some real intelligence. A DO—disorganized personality type—couldn’t muster that. It didn’t make sense.

“How did Lorna escape? Give me details.”

They ran it down for me.

“We recovered the derringer, and a plastic bag we believed it had been wrapped in. Lorna could have planted it there years ago.”

I didn’t like it.

“Then why wait until now to use it? She’s been locked up for twelve years. Why didn’t she pull this stunt a long time ago?”

Both Coursey and Dailey shrugged at the same time. It was eerie.

“She might have been waiting for the right moment,” said Coursey.

“Or she’d forgotten about it until now,” said Dailey.

“Or”—I reached for the phone—“somebody planted it for her.”

I caught Ms. Pedersen, the assistant superintendent for Indiana Women’s Prison, on her way out the door.

“This is a terrible time for us, Lieutenant. I feel partially responsible. I knew Lorna was capable of violence, but didn’t think she could pull off something like this.”

“None of us did. This isn’t your fault.”

“I appreciate that.” And it sounded like she did. “Can I do anything to help?”

“When I visited you the other day, I asked about Lorna’s visitors. You said she had none. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“How about phone calls? Prisoners are allowed calls, right?”

“Of course.”

“Do you keep records?”

“No. But I can talk to the guards. They’d remember if Lorna had received any calls for the last few days. Can I call you back?”

I gave her my number.

“What if Lorna had help?” I told the Feebies.

“You think she was coached?”

“Maybe someone planted the gun, and gave her instructions on how to grab Bud and kidnap Harry and Phin. The same someone who supplied her with the roofies, or whatever drug they used.”

“Caleb Ellison?” Dailey asked. “He was obviously an organized personality. Sending the videotapes, leaving no evidence—”

“You saw his house, right?”

They each nodded three times. I almost looked up, trying to see the puppeteer.

“It was a mess,” I continued. “Garbage and porn all over. And look at the sloppy way he broke into my partner’s house. How would you profile that?”

“That’s typical disorganized behavior. Clearly Caleb manifested both O and DO traits.”

Maybe, but something bothered me. Some nagging little doubt that made me think I was missing the bigger picture. I gave the Crime Lab a call, surprised that Officer Hajek was still in this late.

“Hi, Lieut, I was hoping you’d call. Get my messages?”

Only now I noticed the voice-mail light on my phone, blinking on and off. Some detective I was.

“What’s up, Scott?”

“Got some results back. That burned bag you brought me? Analyzed the contents. Mostly clothing, and some glass and plastic fragments. I think they were toiletries: toothpaste, deodorant, hair spray, face cream, cosmetics.”

“Cosmetics? You mean makeup?”

“Yeah. Which goes along with the burned hair sample you gave me. There were traces of spirit gum on it. I think it was a fake beard.”

I pictured the Identikit photocopy; a man with a blond beard.

“So it was part of a disguise kit?”

“It could have been. And that bullet casing you found . . .”

My phone beeped. Call waiting. I told Scott to hold on.

“Lieutenant Daniels? It’s Ms. Pedersen. Lorna received three calls over the last week.”

“Do you know who they came from?”

“No. But the guard I talked to said it was a woman, Midwestern accent.”

“Thanks.” I switched back to Hajek. “Tell me about the bullet.”

“Nine millimeter.”

“Anything off it?”

“Nothing. But I did get something off that message machine I took from the University of Chicago. I digitized the tape and ran it through a filter, did a few comparisons.”

“And you found out it’s a woman’s voice.”

“How did you know that? That was my big surprise.”

A woman had called Lorna, so it made sense a woman left the messages on Mulrooney’s machine. The fake beard could have made a woman look like a man. With the sunglasses, and the hood, it would have been easy to fool the desk sergeant downstairs. And Al the car rental guy—when he greeted me, he didn’t have his glasses on. He couldn’t see a damn thing. Al had also mentioned the man who’d rented the Titanium Pearl Eclipse had a cold.

But it wasn’t a cold. It was a way to hide a feminine voice, by coughing and speaking low.

I asked Hajek to hold on, digging into the pile of papers next to my fax machine, the ones I’d gotten the other day from the Gary Police Department. Dozens of pages on the Kork family. Criminal records and tax records and utility bills and school records and there it was—a death certificate for Bud’s daughter, Alexandra.

“Scott? I need you to do two things for me. Is the Caleb Ellison evidence there yet?”

“Came in this morning.”

“Caleb’s computer?”

“Rogers is working on that right now, one room over.”

“Connect me with him. In the meantime, get your hands on the gun used to kill Ellison.”

“You got it.” He transferred the call, and I crossed my fingers, hoping I was wrong.

“This is Rogers.”

“Dan, it’s Jack Daniels. Are you in Ellison’s database?”

“As we speak. It’s filled with both the real names and the made-up names. Not a smart way to make fake IDs. We’ll probably get a few dozen arrests out of this.”

“Check a name for me. Alexandra Kork.”

I heard fingers tap-tap-tap on a keyboard, Rogers humming softly to himself.

“Got it. Made a Detroit driver’s license, a bunch of years back.”

“What’s the new name?”

I held my breath.

“Frakes,” he said. “Holly Frakes.”

Son of a bitch. Harry’s new bride was the killer. It all made sense, in hindsight. I couldn’t believe I’d been so easily duped.

“Put me back on with Hajek.”

“He’s standing right next to me. Here.”

“Lieut? I’ve got an empty nine-millimeter shell from Caleb Ellison’s house. It’s a match.”

I thanked him and hung up the phone.

“Bud Kork’s daughter is going by the name Holly Frakes,” I told the Feebies.

“Where is she?”

“Still in Elk Grove, I think. She called my cell but blocked the number. Can you guys access my call records?”

Dailey looked at Coursey. “Not only that, we can use satellites to triangulate the signal.”

“It’ll take a little while to set up.”

“How long?”

“An hour, if we move.”

“We might not have an hour. If Harry and Phin are somewhere near Busse Woods, she could be with them right now.”

Chapter 43

ALEX KORK, WHO now uses the name Holly Frakes, pulls Harry’s Mustang into the warehouse parking lot. She discovered the place a few days ago, and it’s one of the reasons she insisted on getting married at that stupid forest preserve. Though Alex is a strong girl, hauling a two-hundred-pound man around is hard work, and takes a long time. Privacy is essential.

Here she has plenty of privacy.

This entire area, for several square miles, is industrial. Factories, warehouses, and shipping yards. This building is currently between tenants. And since it’s Sunday night, there isn’t a single person anywhere near here.

It’s the perfect place to kill someone slowly.

Alex gets out and opens the garage door. She pulls the car inside the loading dock, parks, and closes the door behind her.

This next part is going to be fun.

“Holly? Holly! Holy shit, it’s you! Thank God you’re here, baby! I have to piss so bad the change in my pockets is floating.”

Alex approaches Harry and Phin, both still securely wired to the heavy frame metal chairs. They’re back to back, a few feet apart, and the chairs have been bolted to docking anchors in the concrete floor.

No way of escape, no matter how hard they struggle.

“Hi, Harry.”

Alex sits on his lap and grinds on him, playfully. She curls a finger in his hair and twists a lock.

“Quit screwing around, Holly. Grab those pliers off the table and untwist these wires.”

“Pliers? Sure.” Alex giggles. “Just a second.”

She leaves Harry’s lap and circles the table, smiling at all the wonderful toys.

“How did you find us, Holly?” Phin tries to turn his head around to see, but can’t.

“Easy. I just followed my heart. Nothing could keep me from the man I love. My precious husband.” Alex picks up a tool. “How about this one, dear?”

“What are those? Tin snips? Yeah, that oughta work. Bring them around to my hands, baby.”

“Or how about this one?” Alex picks up something older, something she knows very well.

“What the hell is that? A hairbrush? Can’t you do that later?”

“It’s not a hairbrush, Harry. Not anymore. Instead of bristles, it has rusty nails sticking through the end. Father used it on me, when I was bad.”

McGlade makes a face. “You’re not making sense, Holly.”

Moment of truth time. Alex gets close. She wants to gaze into his eyes when she tells him.

“My father’s name is Bud Kork.”

“I thought your last name was Frakes.”

“Kork, Harry. Doesn’t the name sound familiar?”

“Kork? Yeah, Charles Kork was that psycho that I . . .”

McGlade stops talking. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His eyes become comically wide.

“That psycho was my older brother, Harry. The only man I ever loved.”

Harry’s face twists from confusion to mirth.

“This is a joke, right? You’re getting me back for that time I accidentally used the rear entrance. I told you, baby. It was dark. I was working by feel.”

“Why do you think I always turned out the lights when we had sex, Harry?”

McGlade doesn’t answer.

“Scars, Harry. Along my back. I had a lot of plastic surgery, but it still doesn’t look right. Want to see?”

“Not really. Scars freak me out.”

Alex plants her feet, rears back, and slams the hairbrush onto McGlade’s thigh. The nails penetrate a good inch, anchoring themselves into bone.

McGlade screams like a train whistle.

Alex basks in his pain, his fear. It’s like sunlight on her face. That single scream is worth all of the time she invested, all of the gropes she endured. To finally have this man all to herself, for her to enjoy, is simply delicious.

As McGlade sobs, Alex walks over to Phin. His eyes are cold, emotionless.

He’s going to be fun to break.

“What’s the matter, Phin?” Alex pouts. She caresses his chin and runs her hand over the back of his head. “Don’t you like me anymore?”

“I was wondering why you married McGlade. Now it makes perfect sense.”

Alex brings her face to within inches of his.

“I married him for revenge.”

“You married him because you’re out of your fucking mind.”

The smile leaves her face. Alex steps back, centers herself, and finger-strikes Phin in the abdomen. The blow forces air out of Phin’s lungs, and he grunts in pain.

“You had a hand in it too. You helped Jack and Harry find my brother. I’m going to make you pay for that, Phin.”

“I want a divorce!” screams Harry McGlade.

Alex gives Phin a kiss on his forehead, then turns her attention back to Harry.

“You have to remind me, my dear husband. What are you again? Left-handed, or right-handed?”

Harry spits on her.

“I’m glad I made you sign that prenup, you crazy psycho bitch!”

“I think you’re a righty. Let’s start with that one, then.”

She lowers the tin snips to the fingers on McGlade’s right hand. Puts the pincers around his middle finger.

“Don’t worry, Harry. You won’t bleed to death. That’s why I bought the blowtorch.”

Snip.

Harry’s screams are like candy.

Chapter 44

THE DOOR GAVE on my third kick, and I twisted my ankle badly enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Special Agent Dailey and Special Agent Coursey waited in the hallway, citing statutes about breaking and entering, illegal search and seizure, speaking without raising my hand, etc.

I didn’t think Harry would mind, considering I was trying to save his life.

McGlade used to live in Hyde Park, in a little rat hole apartment. Since hitting it big with Fatal Autonomy, he’d moved to a penthouse on the GC—the Gold Coast. Heated garage. Twenty-four-hour doorman. And a damn good front door, which I hurt myself getting through.

The condo dripped opulence, which isn’t to say it was attractive or tasteful. Harry decorated like a child-king rules a country—with enthusiasm, but no intelligence.

The carpet was deep, expensive. While the furniture all screamed wealth, the styles were confused. An art deco table breakfront. A colonial dining room set. Art nouveau chairs and a rococo sofa. And beanbags. Lots of multicolored beanbags.

The walls displayed pricey-looking paintings and drawings: oils, watercolors, acrylics, pencils. Some postmodern, some minimalist, some classical. The only common theme was their subject: naked women.

A plasma TV was the centerpiece of the most hi-tech entertainment center I’d ever seen, boasting stacks upon stacks of blinking stereo and video equipment. It was like Harry had gone into a Sharper Image store and said, “I’ll take everything.”

The place was clean, to the point of fastidiousness. Unusual for Harry. I’d had the unfortunate displeasure of visiting his last apartment, which was like a landfill, only roomier.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Holly/Alex had spent some time here. I doubted she’d left any clues; Holly was too smart for that. But I had no other leads, and I had to do something. Waiting around my office for another videotape to arrive wasn’t in my game plan.

The kitchen was larger than my whole apartment. Copper pots hanging from a rack on the ceiling. A center island with a six-burner stove and a grill. A microwave large enough to defrost a whole pig.

“You find anything?”

One of the Feebies, calling from the hallway.

“Some pictures,” I yelled. “Hoover in a cocktail dress.”

The kitchen let out into a hallway. I limped into the bedroom first. A king-sized bed dominated the room, dead-center. On the right side of the bed was a control panel. I had no desire to find out what it controlled.

The next room was all shelves containing videos and DVDs, many of them still unopened in their plastic wrappers. The room after that was a spare bedroom, which looked unused. Lastly, at the end of the hall was a closed door that had a plaque on it that said Spy Room.

The spy room contained electrical gadgetry, and a lot of it. Infrared cameras. Listening devices. Night-vision goggles. A biohazard suit. Plus a large collection of remote control cars, helicopters, and airplanes.

I had no idea McGlade was such a techno-geek.

“Lieutenant Daniels! The police are here.”

I followed the voice back out into the hall, and indeed four of Chicago’s finest were surrounding the Feebies.

Which made sense. If Harry loved electronics this much, he probably had a silent burglar alarm. I hadn’t seen the arming panel when I came in, but I hadn’t been looking for it.

We coddled the cops, who were willing to overlook the criminal breaking and entering but still had to file a report in case Mr. McGlade wanted to press charges. I also arranged for the door to be fixed, so no one could walk in and steal all of Harry’s goodies. And he had lots of goodies.

“Are either of you car buffs?” I asked the Feebies in the elevator going down.

“I know a few things,” said Dailey. Or maybe it was Coursey.

“How much is a 1967 Mustang worth?”

“Depends on the mileage, the condition, and the model.”

“Assume everything is mint or rebuilt.”

“Maybe forty or fifty thousand. If a lot of custom work had been done on it, maybe more.”

Harry loved his car. He’s had it for as long as I’ve known him. If he pimped out his condo like that, he would have also pimped out his ride. And if he pimped out his ride, he’d want to protect it.

Back in my humble Nova, I radioed in a stolen vehicle—Harry’s Mustang. Then I gave my location and requested for any nearby squad cars equipped with LoJack tracking equipment to give me a holler if they got a ping.

Chicago adopted LoJack a few years ago. The LoJack company sold transmitters that were hidden in cars. If a car was stolen, a police report automatically activated the transmitter, which emitted a silent radio signal, revealing its location using global positioning satellites.

LoJack helped us locate stolen cars. I was betting Harry had one in his Mustang, and I was also betting that Holly had taken his car rather than a cab, which meant we might be able to track her right to Harry and Phin’s location.

Lots of betting involved with this plan.

“Roger, Lieutenant. This is car 88, just received confirm on LoJack, have the vehicle moving north on La Salle, just passing Adams. Over.”

Sometimes betting pays off.

“What’s your twenty, car 88?”

“South on Columbus, east ofRandolph.”

I was on La Salle and North Avenue, about two miles away.

“Car 88, maintain pursuit but do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. We don’t want to spook her.”

I kicked my car into gear and headed south on La Salle, hoping the Feebies had the good sense to turn on their scanner and follow at an inconspicuous pace. Which, knowing them, was hoping a lot.

“Suspect is at Washington, continuing north on La Salle.”

I stopped at a red light on Division, squelching the urge to blow through it and set a new land speed record. Holly would recognize my car. I needed to remain calm and focused, keeping a safe distance.

Arresting her was the wrong move. Holly wouldn’t give up Phin and Harry’s location, even with physical persuasion. Though I was having a hard time reconciling the calculating murderer with the woman I’d spent most of yesterday with, I knew Holly would die before telling me where they were. She was too competitive, her desire to win too strong. She wouldn’t take losing well.

The smarter move was to follow her and hope she led us to my friends. Which should work . . . unless they were already dead and in her trunk.

“This is car 88. We’re west on Van Buren, turning north onto La Salle.”

“Keep your distance, car 88. I don’t want her spooked.”

“Roger that.”

The light changed. I stayed the course, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. In the rearview, I noticed the Feebies’ sedan, stuck to my bumper as if I were towing them.

“Dailey, Coursey, if you’re on this frequency, loosen up the tail. You’re crawling up my muffler.”

They must have heard me, because they pulled back to almost half a car length.

“Suspect just passed Wacker Drive, continuing on present course.”

I was coming up on West Chicago Avenue. Less than ten blocks away from Holly. I turned left on Chicago. I’d try to flank her by running parallel on Dearborn, two blocks over.

“Suspect has stopped at the corner ofLa Salle and Kinzie.”

I passed Clark, and pulled up to a fire hydrant on Chicago and Dearborn to wait.

“This is car 88. We’re still on La Salle, coming up on Washington. Suspect is still on Kinzie.”

A honk, behind me. Then several more. I looked in the mirror, and saw the Feebies were parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. This didn’t go over well with the long line of commuters forming behind them.

“We’re approaching Wacker Drive. Suspect is still stopped on Kinzie, one block ahead. Please advise.”

“Hold position. Wait for her to move.”

More honking, along with several colorful suggestions that perhaps the Feds might move their car. I watched in the rearview as a motorist actually stepped out of his vehicle and walked up to the Feebies, in a manner that made the vintage newsreels of a ranting Hitler seem genteel.

“Suspect is still holding at Kinzie, please advise.”

Shit.

“Approach with caution, 88. If suspect is still in the car, pass her without stopping.”

“Roger that.”

Now Dailey was out of the car, showing the angry motorist his ID. The motorist responded by showing Dailey one of his fingers.

“We’re approaching Kinzie, and see a black Ford Mustang parked alongside the street. No driver. Over.”

Double shit.

I pulled out into traffic, made a U-turn, and headed back to La Salle. This time I floored it, wincing from the pain in my right ankle, which had swollen enough to break my shoe strap. I blew the light on La Salle, jerked the wheel hard to the left to avoid a collision, and raced toward Holly, nine blocks to go.

“You’re looking for a white woman, mid-thirties, long black hair, a hundred and thirty pounds, very attractive. She might be wearing a white dress, but she’s probably in street clothes. She has ID in the name of Holly Frakes.”

Eight blocks. A green light, and I sailed through, easing the car up to forty-five.

“No one within sight matches that description. My partner will search on foot. Over.”

Seven blocks. I chanced a quick look in my mirror and saw I’d lost the Feebies. Maybe they’d been torn apart by angry motorists.

“Awaiting okay to approach the Mustang, over.”

“Hold, 88. I’ll be right there.”

I flew past Ohio street, then had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a bus that pulled in front of me. My ankle screamed at my decision, but the rest of my body was grateful not to have died. I swung into oncoming traffic, passed the CTA, and slowed down when I got to Hubbard, keeping my eyes open for Holly.

I didn’t see her, but I saw Harry’s Mustang parked along Kinzie. I pulled in behind it and limped over. When I looked inside, I understood why Holly had fled.

“Dammit, McGlade!”

Harry, in all of his disposable income wisdom, liked gadgets so much he not only purchased a LoJack, he also had a police scanner, mounted under his dash.

Holly had heard our entire radio conversation.

Triple shit with pink sugar on top.

I turned a full circle, my gaze drifting upward to the sky, cursing my failure. If I’d only maintained radio silence. Hell, if I’d only looked a little closer at Holly during the time I’d spent with her. Of course she was a killer. I should have known it from the start. Who else would have married McGlade?

Stupid, annoying, obnoxious, repulsive Harry McGlade.

God, I hoped he was okay.

Chapter 45

PHINEAS TROUTT WIPES his nose on his shoulder. The blood has slowed to a trickle.

He’s not sure how long ago Holly left. An hour, maybe ninety minutes. She worked on McGlade for what seemed like an eternity, until the poor son of a bitch passed out.

Phin lives in a seedy part of Chicago. He’s met pushers and bangers and hookers and pimps and johns and murderers, but he’s never seen anything as cold-blooded as Holly. She isn’t human.

For his part, McGlade had been pretty stoic through the ordeal. He screamed, for sure, but there was no begging or pleading.

There will be, though. Nobody can take that kind of agony for an extended period.

Phin wonders if McGlade has gone into shock. Might not be a bad thing. At least he’d be beyond the pain.

“How you doing, Harry?”

McGlade moans. “Got any aspirin?”

“Other pair of pants.”

“Nuts.”

Phin has to ask. His imagination has been running wild. “How’s the hand, Harry?”

“Doesn’t hurt much, because there’s not much left to hurt. Hope my screaming didn’t disturb you.”

“Actually, you interrupted my nap. Try to keep it down next time.”

“I’ll try. Sorry about that.”

He admires Harry’s guts. His respect for the private eye goes up a few notches.

“The hand the worst of it?”

“This damn rusty nail thing in my leg hurts worse. Dirty as hell. I can feel the tetanus, surging through my veins. Though I guess dying of tetanus might not be a bad thing right about now.”

Phin understands pain. He understands it more than most people. When there’s nothing else to focus on, pain can become all-consuming. Crippling. The psychological aspects of it are just as bad as the neurological effects.

If he keeps Harry talking, maybe the pain won’t be so bad.

“So your full name is Harrison Harold McGlade?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents named you Harry Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s pretty funny, don’t you think?”

“This from a guy named Phineas Troutt.”

McGlade’s voice is getting weaker. Phin can hear the strain.

“At least I don’t have to piss anymore,” McGlade says. “When she cut off my thumb, I wet my pants.”

Phin has to grin at that.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry Harry.”

“All you dry pants guys say that.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing. There’s ammonia in urine. Maybe you disinfected that rusty nail puncture.”

“Didn’t reach. I was pointing in the other direction.”

A minute passes.

“I can see my fingers,” Harry says.

“How’s that?”

“They’re on the floor in front of me. Think a doctor can reattach them?”

To burned flesh? Phin doubts it. But he says, “Sure.”

“Assuming we get out of here.”

“I’m working on it.”

Listening to a man having his fingers removed and the stumps cauterized with a blowtorch can galvanize a person into action. Damage to himself be damned, Phin begins to twist his wrists in their binding. The wire is thin, and bites into his flesh.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks. “Using your psychic powers to call the other members of the Justice League?”

“I’m going to break this wire.”

“It’s too strong. You’ll cut your hands off first.”

“Either way I’ll be free.”

“Good plan. If it doesn’t work, I’ve got a plan too.”

Phin winces. He can feel the blood start to leak down his palms.

“What’s your plan?”

“When she comes back, I’m going to swallow my own tongue and choke to death.”

“Good plan.”

“Yeah. That’ll show the bitch.”

Phin continues to twist. Back and forth. Back and forth. The wire cuts like a blade, but it’s loosening just a little.

That, or it’s in so deep, it just seems like it’s looser.

“GODDAMMIT!” McGlade’s scream scares the hell out of Phin. “GET AWAY FROM THAT, YOU SON OF A BITCH!”

“Harry? You okay?”

“YOU BASTARD! I’LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND ROAST YOU!”

It sounds like McGlade is losing it.

“Harry, what’s up? Who are you screaming at?”

“Goddamn rat. Ran off with one of my fingers.”

Phin isn’t sure how to reply to that.

“My middle finger, I think.”

“I’m sorry, Harry.”

“That was my favorite finger.”

“Maybe we can get it back.”

“Ah shit. I can see it, in the corner, holding it up.”

Phin starts to laugh.

“The rat is giving you the finger?”

“Kiss my ass, Phin. It’s not funny.”

Phin uses the laughter to twist even harder, his thick wrists bending the wire millimeter by millimeter.

“What’s it doing now, Harry? Using your finger to pick its nose?”

“It’s eating it. Corn on the cob style.”

Back and forth. Back and forth. Flesh is stronger than steel, Phin thinks. Determination is stronger than steel. Pain is temporary. Don’t stop. Don’t stop . . .

“Uh-oh.”

Phin hears the dripping sound, feels the hot liquid pour down his fingertips.

The wire has gone in too deep and severed something important. A vein. Or maybe an artery.

There are about ten pints of blood in a human body. When more than four pints are lost, the situation becomes critical. Shock ensues, and then death.

Phin knows this, and wonders how to proceed.

Either I’ll make it, or I won’t, he thinks.

Not seeing any choice, Phin resumes twisting.

Chapter 46

MORE COPS WERE called, and a four-block search of the area conducted. There was no sign of Holly.

I went through the motions, but I knew she wouldn’t be found. Especially since she now knew we were after her.

What a disaster.

The Feebies were sympathetic. They promised to keep trying her cell phone to get a fix on her position. I didn’t hold out much hope for that either. Anyone who watched TV knew that cell phones could be traced, and Holly had more knowledge than most. She wouldn’t use her phone again.

I got back to my apartment a little after ten, and was surprised to see Latham sitting on my sofa.

My happiness was short-lived. Next to Latham, holding a semiautomatic to his head, was Bud Kork.

I reached for my holster and stopped cold when I felt the gun press against the side of my head.

“Hands up, pig.”

Lorna. She’d been hiding behind my door.

I lifted my hands above my head, watching as her pudgy fingers tugged out my Colt. Using one hand, she released the catch and opened the cylinder. After shaking the bullets onto the floor, she tossed the gun aside.

“We’ve been waiting all night for you. Your boyfriend was kind enough to let us in.”

I glanced at Latham, precious Latham, dressed in a suit and tie, a bouquet of roses on the floor at his feet. His red hair was shorter than I’d ever seen it, almost a buzz cut. His green eyes, so sparkly and full of life, looked tired and dull. One of them bulged, black and swollen, and a nasty gash on his forehead left a trail of dried blood along the side of his face.

“I let myself in with my key,” he said. “I wanted to surprise you.” Latham offered me a weak smile. “Surprise.”

Lorna reached behind her and slammed the door, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Sit on the sofa, pig. We’re gonna have us some fun.”

I stole a glance at my burglar alarm. I hadn’t punched in the disengage code. If the alarm went off, the police would be here within three minutes.

But the panel was dark, no blinking light. Latham. He knew the code too. They must have made him deactivate it.

If I lived through this, I really had to get the hell out of this apartment.

I limped to the sofa, sitting down next to Latham. The warmth of his body next to mine should have felt good, but instead I only felt emptiness.

Lorna waddled up to me, keeping the gun on my head. She wore red sweat-pants, so small her legs looked like cellulite sausages. Her top was equally tight, a T-shirt that had a faded INDIANA DUNES graphic on the front, distorted by her small breasts and belly rolls.

“So Bud and me, we spent a long time thinking ’bout what we wanted to do to you, while we drove up here. Bud, tell her how upset I was when I heard ’bout little Caleb on the radio.”

“We heard it on the radio,” Bud said. “Lorna was upset.”

Lorna’s face became the dictionary definition of hate. “You murdering pig.”

I watched her finger tremble on the trigger. She was holding an automatic, looked like a .45. A big gun. I winced.

“It wasn’t me. Alexandra killed him.”

“Horse pucky!” Spit flecked off Lorna’s liver-colored lips. “You did it, you liar! Tell her, Bud!”

“Alexandra is an angel. The helper and defender of mankind. It’s what her name means. She’s the one that helped Lorna.”

Bud’s gun hand was shaking, from the Parkinson’s. He sat on the other side of Latham, too far away from me to make a grab for it. He held a 9mm, looked like a Glock. The hammer was cocked back. One little muscle twitch and Latham was dead, and Bud was a twitcher.

Lorna came closer. I could see the blood caked under her fingernails.

“Any more lies, pig, and we’ll cut out your lying tongue.”

I snuck a quick glance at Latham. His hand brushed against mine. I wanted to grab on to it, hold it tight. But keeping both hands free was the smarter move.

Poor Latham. If I hadn’t ever called him, he wouldn’t be here facing this.

“Where was I?” Lorna stuck out her tongue and chewed on it, her face scrunched up in thought. “Bud, where was I?”

“We heard about little Caleb on the radio.”

“Right. Poor baby. He loved his mama so much, and you killed him. So I’m driving and thinking how to make you pay. And Bud’s in the kitchen, with the stove.”

“The kitchen?” Latham asked. I gave him a subtle elbow and a look that said, Don’t antagonize the dumb animals.

“We was driving one of those recreational camper vehicles,” Lorna said. “Got it on the highway.”

Bud added, “That’s where we got the clothes.”

I looked at Bud again. He had on a loose pair of jeans and a bulky red sweater with a big green Christmas tree stitched onto the front. I could guess what happened to the poor owners of the camper.

“So Bud’s doing what he does with the burner, yellin’ and cryin’ and punishing himself to cleanse his sin, and I realized that’s what we’re gonna do to you.”

Bud touched his chest. “Burns hurt. Hurt real bad.”

I pictured Bud’s gnarled flesh under the sweater, and figured he knows of what he speaks.

“So let’s the four of us go on into the kitchen. We got something on the stove we think you’re gonna like, pig.”

That was my cue to get up. I did, followed by Latham and Bud, who kept the shaky gun pressed to Latham’s temple.

What a crummy end to my career. To be killed by the Ma and Pa Kettle of crime.

Our merry troupe walked into the kitchen, and I could smell something cooking. I followed my nose to a pot of vegetable oil, bubbling away on the stove top.

Lorna grinned at me, showing her discolored baby-sized teeth. “Hot oil’s a bad burn, cuz it sticks to you.”

“I done it before.” Bud nodded his head, his chicken neck wiggling. “Bad burn.”

Lorna cackled. “And we gonna pour it on your little piggy head. Make us some bacon.”

Bud also laughed, which quickly became a deep, chesty cough.

I decided that having boiling oil poured on my head wasn’t in my best interest. I’d take a few bullets before I let that happen.

“Fine.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact. “I’ll do it myself.”

I limped over to the pot, reaching for the handle, but before I took two steps Lorna got in front of me.

“No need to rush this, pig. You go sit yourself down. Relax a bit.”

I took a step back, kitty litter crunching underfoot. Mr. Friskers had made yet another mess of my kitchen. Where was he, anyway?

I saw the slightest movement, in my peripheral vision. The cat. Perched atop the refrigerator, in pouncing position.

He was eyeing Lorna.

“I’ll be doing the pouring honors.”

Lorna stole a quick glance behind her, looking for the oil. Before she could grab it, ten pounds of screeching, clawing feline leaped from the fridge and launched itself at her face.

I dove to the side, skidding across the kitty-littered linoleum, Lorna screaming, Mr. Friskers screaming, Bud yelling, Lorna dropping the gun and trying to pull the cat off her face, Latham reaching down for me, his hand touching mine.

“Run!” I yelled at him. “Get help!”

Bud turned to us, aimed at Latham.

His shot was high, burying itself into the ceiling. Latham held my eyes for just a second, a second that told me he’d be right back, promised me he’d be right back, and then he dashed out of the kitchen.

“GET THE CAT! GET IT OFF ME!”

Lorna’s screaming was so shrill, she sounded like a police siren.

I tried to get to my feet, gasping at the pain in my ankle. Bud fired again at Latham, who kept low as he ran out the front door.

Safe. He was safe.

But I wasn’t. Bud peered down at me and wrapped his fingers in my hair, pressing the gun against my left eye.

“BUD! HELP ME! GET THE CAT!”

Bud looked at Lorna, then at me, then at Lorna, then at me. He eventually removed the gun from my face and aimed at Lorna. His hand jittered and shook, and Lorna spun like a dervish, Mr. Friskers sticking to her face like Velcro.

“HELP ME, BUD!”

Bud fired the gun at Mr. Friskers.

The bullet caught Lorna in the exact center of the N in DUNES on her stolen T-shirt.

Her wailing stopped mid-yelp, and she pitched forward onto the floor.

Mr. Friskers, the ride over, hopped off her head and trotted out of the kitchen.

Something between a sob and a scream escaped Bud’s mouth. He swung the gun at me, his fist shaking so badly, I was sure it would go off.

“Save her! Save her!”

I crawled to Lorna. The exit wound in her back left an indentation the size of a cereal bowl under her shirt, which quickly filled with blood. Blood also spread out under her in a rapidly widening pool.

I grabbed a towel hanging from the refrigerator handle and pressed it against her wound. With my free hand, I searched the flab of her neck for a pulse.

I found it for three erratic beats, and then it stopped.

“Save her!”

I stared up at Bud.

“She’s dead.”

Bud opened and closed his mouth, like a fish trying to breathe air. The gun remained pointed, more or less, at me.

He whispered, “She’s not dead.”

“You killed her, Bud.”

“No, no, no, no . . .”

“She loved you, and you shot her . . .”

“An accident. I tried to help her.”

I held out my hand.

“Give me the gun, Bud.”

For the briefest instant I thought he would, but then his eyebrows creased in anger.

“NO! You’re a harlot! A liar! A devil! You controlled that cat, made her attack my Lorna!”

“Did I make you pull the trigger, Bud? You’re the one that pulled the trigger.” I stared at him, hard. “You’ve sinned, Bud.”

Bud’s face lost color, and though he was looking at me, his eyes seemed to be focused on something else, something beyond me.

“I’ve . . . sinned.”

“You’re a sinner, Bud. And you must atone for your sins. Give me the gun.”

“I . . . need punishment.”

“Yes you do, Bud. I’m a police officer. I can punish you.”

“Punish me?”

“Thou shalt not kill, Bud. You’ve committed a terrible sin. But we can make it right. Let me have the gun.”

“I can make it right.”

Bud turned, facing the stove. I glanced around for Lorna’s gun, but couldn’t find where it had skidded off to.

“O my God,” Bud began his contrition. “I am heartily sorry for having offended You, and I detest all my sins . . .”

“Bud, don’t—”

I crawled backward like a crab, inching my way out of the kitchen, not wanting to watch but unable to turn away as Bud Kork plunged his hand into a boiling pot of hot oil.

His scream was inhuman.

I flipped onto my front and was using the doorway to get to my feet, just in time to see Latham walk through my front door, Holly at his side.

Chapter 47

ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, I was getting real sick of the Kork family.

Holly pressed her gun, the Wolverine, tight under Latham’s jaw, hard enough to force his chin up. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt, and heavy construction boots—the same boots she’d worn while shooting at me in Diane Kork’s burning house.

“Hello, Jack.” Her smile was dazzling, without a hint of the sickness that it hid. “Look who I found running down the hallway, pounding on people’s doors. He even asked me for help. Isn’t that ironic?”

Holly closed the front door using her foot. Behind me, Bud whimpered like a kicked dog.

“This is Latham, right? You described him to me in the car. You were right. He’s adorable.”

Latham’s eyes, so full of hope and promise a minute ago, had gone back to being blank and dead.

“Handcuffs,” Holly said.

“In the bedroom.”

“Let’s go get them.”

Holly kept her free hand on Latham’s arm, and the three of us walked into the kitchen.

When Holly saw the mess, she began to laugh.

“Looks like I missed the party.”

She gave Lorna a contemptuous kick, then turned her attention to Bud, who was curled up on the floor in a fetal position, shivering and cradling his burned hand. It was lobster red, pocked with blisters, puffed out to about twice the normal size.

“Hello, Father.”

“Alex . . . my baby . . .”

Again I scanned the floor. Both Bud’s gun and Lorna’s gun were around here someplace.

I spotted his Glock, on the floor next to the stove. Holly spotted it too. She pulled Latham over, moved the Wolverine from his chin to his belly, and did a quick bunny-dip, scooping up Bud’s gun with her free hand. She pointed that gun at me.

“Want to see how good I am left-handed?”

“Not really.”

“Then head for the bedroom.”

My handcuffs were on the nightstand, next to the bed. Holly spent a moment standing in the doorway, taking everything in.

“That’s the closet my brother hid in?”

“Yeah.”

She stared at it, almost reverentially, then ordered me to cuff Latham’s hands behind his back and step away.

“I’m sorry,” I told him.

His lips were a tight, thin line. “I’m getting used to it.”

“That’s right.” Holly nudged Latham. “You were alone with my brother for a while.”

Latham raised an eyebrow. “Your brother?”

“This is the Gingerbread Man’s sister,” I said. “The guy in the kitchen is her father.”

Latham stared at Holly. “You folks are in some serious need of family counseling.”

Holly’s lips formed a pout.

“Are you saying you didn’t like my brother?”

“He kept drooling on himself and trying to grab my ass.”

Holly apparently didn’t think that was funny, and cracked Latham on the back of the head with the butt of her Wolverine. He fell to his knees.

I sprung forward to help him, and got the Glock shoved in my face.

“Stay cool, Jack. We’re just getting started.”

Though I put on a brave front, staring down the barrel of a gun scared the crap out of me. It hadn’t happened that many times in my career, but each time it did, the feeling was the same.

I felt a hot spot, like a laser beam, where the gun was aimed. I knew what guns could do. The damage they caused. The death they brought. Staring at something so deadly made my heart race and my throat constrict and my palms sweat and my knees turn to mush.

All she needed to do was exert a few pounds of pressure on that trigger, and I no longer existed.

It was kind of like the feeling you get after narrowly avoiding a car accident. That sick, hollow feeling of dread, knowing what might have happened.

Except with a gun, what might have happened might still happen.

“Where’s Harry and Phin?” I managed to say.

“Funny you should ask. That’s where we’re going. I have a whole week of festivities planned.”

“They’re still alive?”

Holly smiled her seductive smile.

“Jack, look how cute you are, all full of hope. Yes, they’re still alive. I plan on keeping all of you alive for as long as possible. As you can imagine, I put a lot of work into this whole production. I want to enjoy the fruits of my labors.”

I eyed the Jewel bag, containing the Kork videotapes and files, sitting next to my TV.

It also contained Kork’s hunting knife, which I’d checked out of evidence.

Holly caught my furtive glance.

“Something interesting in the bag, Jack? Let’s see.”

She turned both guns on me and walked over to the bag.

“Videos. Are these the ones Charles and I made?”

I nodded.

“Did you watch them?”

“Yeah.”

“Did they make you hot?”

“They made me sick.”

“That’s because you’re limited, Jack. You don’t allow yourself to see the big picture. Power is a turn-on. Having control over someone’s suffering, over someone’s life and death, is like the best gift in the world. After making one of these videos, Charles and I would have the most mind-blowing sex.”

Yuck. Yuck yuck yuck. Having sex after murdering people was bad enough, but sex with your brother?

“That’s even more disgusting than having sex with McGlade.”

“There you go, Jack. Getting all judgmental. You’ve met Father. Can you imagine what growing up in that house was like? The abuse that Charles and I had to endure? All we had was each other. It was the purest kind of love in the world.”

Holly got dreamy-eyed.

“What about Caleb?” I said. “You grew up with him too.”

Her face became hard. “Caleb was trash. He had it coming. For the longest time it was just me and Charles. Then Caleb came into the picture. Charles treated Caleb like a brother. Where did that leave me?”

“And Steve Jensen?”

“Caleb was easy to manipulate. Jensen wasn’t. He had to go. You were right, when we were in the morgue. Two people killed Jensen. Me and Caleb. Then I killed Caleb, and I’m going to do the same thing to you, and to everyone who ever hurt Charles. I’m his avenger.”

I didn’t want to play psychoanalyze the psycho, so I changed the subject. “Those videos should be burned.”

“Grab the bag. Then go back into the kitchen.”

She kicked Latham, who was kneeling with his face on the bed. The back of his head was matted with blood.

“Move your ass, loverboy, or I’ll kill you here.”

Latham managed to get to his feet, and he was the first to stagger out of the room. I went second, the Wolverine pressed to my back.

Bud was still curled up on the linoleum, shaking so badly I could feel the vibrations through the floor.

“How do you feel, Father?”

“Hurts . . . hurts bad.”

“But pain is good, right, Father? Pain is cleansing. Isn’t that what you taught us?”

“Washes . . . washes away sin.”

She moved one gun off me, onto him. “And you’ve got a lot of sin to wash away, don’t you, Father?”

“Lots of sin . . . lots . . .”

Holly pulled the trigger, shooting her father in the side. Both Latham and I jumped at the sound. Bud’s eyes snapped open and he let out a low, agonizing moan.

“Gut shot. Supposed to hurt really bad. Does it hurt, Father?”

“Yes . . .” Holly looked at me and stuck the Glock in the front of her jeans. “It’s not really his fault. You should hear the stories about what my grandparents did to him. But that’s not an excuse. Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to have children.”

She turned back to her father. I knew what was coming and couldn’t watch. I squeezed my eyes closed.

“The Lord may forgive you, Father. But I don’t.”

I heard the sizzle, and then the piercing scream as Holly dumped the pot of oil onto her father’s head.

The scream was blessedly short. I opened my eyes. The ruin on the floor that was once Bud had passed out.

“Grab your boyfriend, Jack. It’s time for us to go.”

I held Latham by the elbow. His gait was wobbly, and I was limping, but I managed to get him out the kitchen.

“Where’s your car?”

“On the street in front.”

“Okay, let’s . . .”

Holly paused, staring down at Mr. Friskers’s catnip mouse toy. She smiled. “I didn’t know you had a cat, Jack. I just adore cats.” I bet she adored cats. In the same way she adored human beings. “What’s its name?”

“Mr. Friskers.”

Holly frowned. “What a shitty name. Why’d you name him that?”

“That was his name when I got him.”

“Call him.”

I considered what Holly would do if I said no. “Mr. Friskers! Come here!”

As expected, Mr. Friskers didn’t come here. “What makes him come?”

“Nothing. The cat doesn’t like me.”

“So why do you have it?”

“It’s my mother’s.”

“Your mom is a vegetable, right? Get rid of the damn thing. I’ll even help you. Here kitty, kitty, kitty . . .”

Holly made kissy sounds.

I willed the cat to stay put. The gunfire had probably scared him to death, and he was probably hiding under the couch, or the bed.

“Here he comes. That’s a good kitty.”

Mr. Friskers trotted right up to Holly’s feet. I felt something die in my heart. Nasty as that cat was, I’d gotten used to the damn thing.

“Wow.” Holly reached a hand down to him. “You’re an ugly one, aren’t you?” Mr. Friskers gave her a vicious swat across the back of her hand and bounded away.

I didn’t try to hide my grin. “I think you hurt his feelings.”

Holly lifted her hand, noticing the blood. She licked it away, then raised the gun to my head.

“Find the cat, Jack. He’s coming with us.”

Rather than argue, I dropped the bag, hobbled over to the sofa, got down on all fours, and peered underneath it.

“Is he there?”

“Nothing but a family of dust bunnies and a peanut M&M.”

“Move it, or I’ll turn your boyfriend into a girlfriend.” She pointed the gun at Latham’s crotch, a move that made him noticeably uncomfortable.

I crawled over to the dining room table, and I spotted it.

The .45 Lorna dropped when Bud shot her. I didn’t bother to question how it got eight feet out of the kitchen. Instead, I scrambled for it as fast as I could.

“There he is!” I pointed, stretching out, reaching for the gun, wrapping my hand around the butt and bringing it around to Holly, thumbing off the safety, aiming at her head and squeezing the trigger.

Click.

Empty. Stupid Lorna had run out of bullets. Which was why I freaking hated automatics.

This delighted Holly. “Jack, I wish you could have seen your face when you fired and nothing happened. It was priceless. You would have killed me too. Damn, that was fast. I didn’t even have time to bring my gun up.”

I blew out a deep breath and came very close to crying. “Maybe you can load it with that M&M you found.” I clenched my teeth, determined not to let her see me break down. And then my cat, my mean, stupid, annoying as hell cat, came out from behind the easy chair and touched his head to my hand, demanding to be petted.

I held him close. “Do you have a cat carrier?”

“Closet. On your left.”

Holly went to the closet, took out the small cage, and tossed it to the floor.

“Pack him up. It’s time to go.”

The next few minutes were a blur. I crated Mr. Friskers and the four of us left my apartment, went down the stairs, and climbed into my car. Holly and Latham in the back, me and the cat in the front. I drove.

“Get on the expressway, head for Elk Grove. Anything funny and I kill Latham, then you. You remember how good a shot I am.”

“I remember you missed me at Diane Kork’s house.”

“Missed you? I nicked your ear. That’s what I was aiming at. I didn’t want to kill you, Jack.”

“Why not? You could have killed me a dozen times already. Why haven’t you? Why go through all of this?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.”

I didn’t think I wanted to know the answer.

Chapter 48

PHIN IS LIGHT-HEADED. He figures he’s lost at least two pints of blood, probably more. Even a slight movement in his wrists sends ripples of agony up his arms.

But the wire is bending. He can feel it.

“How you doing, Harry Harry?”

“I’m ecstatic. After all, it’s my wedding day.”

“Don’t feel bad. All marriages start out a little rocky.”

Harry snorts. “When I asked for her hand in marriage, I didn’t expect her to cut mine off.”

Phin grimaces, the wire grinding against exposed tendons. But he’s got almost a full inch of play now. Just a little bit more and he’ll be able to get his hand free.

“What was I thinking, Phin? That a woman like Holly would marry me. She’s beautiful, smart, sexy . . .”

“A lunatic.”

“We all have our little faults. You know what the sad part is? I didn’t even see it coming. I was all caught up in myself, and I never stopped and questioned what was going on.”

“It happens, McGlade. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

“I had no clue. Not one. We talked. We laughed. Even the sex was good. I mean, I’m no porn star, but what I lack in size I make up for in speed.”

Phin offers a weak chuckle. He pulls hard, trying to slide his right hand out of the wire. His wrist is slick with blood, and he’s got his binding almost up to his thumb.

“But it seemed genuine. For that thirty seconds, she really seemed to be enjoying herself.”

“You lasted thirty seconds? What are you, Superman?”

Harry laughs, but it comes out forced. “Okay, maybe I was inflating the numbers a little bit to impress you. But that’s not the point. The point is, I was so wrapped up in myself, I had no idea I was marrying a crazy woman who wanted to kill me.”

Phin grunts in pain. He’s almost there. “Self-delusion is a powerful thing, Harry.”

“Except my self-delusion killed us both.”

“Try to stay positive.”

“I am positive. I’m positive we’re both going to die.”

“We’re not dead yet. And I think I’ve got something to make you feel a little better.”

“Nothing can make me feel better. Except maybe killing that damn rat who ate all of my damn fingers.”

“This will.”

Phin yells, tugging as hard as he can, and his battered wrist pops out of the wire.

He’s free.

Phin brings his hands around and looks at his wrists.

Ugly. Most suicides looked better.

“Phin? Are you okay?”

Phin tugs off his tie, wraps it around his right wrist, and ties a knot using his teeth.

“I got my hands free. I’m working on my legs.”

He takes off his shirt next, winding it around his left wrist, trying to stop the blood. Then he digs into his cowboy boot, and pulls out the Kabar folding knife he keeps strapped to his calf. It’s a seriously tough piece of hardware, with a three-inch serrated steel blade that can cut through a car door.

Phin slips the blade between the wire and his ankle and twists. The heavy gauge wire breaks with a ping sound.

“Phin? How you doing, man? Let me tell you, if you get us out of here, you’ll be my best friend in the whole world.”

Phin switches legs, prying at the wire. “That’s okay, Harry. I’ll help you anyway.”

The second wire snaps free, and Phin gets to his feet. He’s dizzy, but exhilarated. He turns around, looks at Harry.

The poor guy’s hand looks like a well-done filet mignon. “You free?”

“I’m free.”

“Phin, you magnificent bastard! I love you. I’m going to make you a character on Fatal Autonomy. I think Ricky Schroder is looking for work.”

“What the hell does Fatal Autonomy mean, anyway?”

“I dunno. The network thought it sounded cool. How’s my hand look?”

“Like it should have a baked potato right next to it.”

“Hurry up and cut me free. And get this filthy rusty brush out of my leg. I can feel the lockjaw setting in.”

Phin takes a step toward McGlade, then hears a car pull into the docking bay.

Holly’s back.

He goes to the table, looking for a gun. There’s plenty of reloading equipment: scales, empty shells, lead ingots, a bullet mold, even some baton rounds. But no guns.

The garage door opens.

Phin considers facing her head-on. But he’s weak, and woozy, and only armed with a knife. Holly is a martial arts champ and probably armed to the teeth.

Still, he has to try.

“I’m going to try and stop her, Harry.”

“Can you cut me loose first?”

“No time.”

“At least pull out these nails. Phin!”

Phin grips the Kabar in his weakening hand and quickly locates a good place of attack.

“Stay quiet, Harry Harry. This will all work out.”

But the words feel like a lie leaving his mouth.

Chapter 49

ALEX MAKES JACK open the garage door. She’s never been this excited before. She’s killed many people, and has always taken pleasure from the act, but she’s practically giddy with joy at what lies ahead.

Four victims. Plus a cat. Good for a week of entertainment. Possibly two, if she restrains herself a little bit.

“Get the cat,” she orders Jack. Her gun points at Jack’s face. She flinches. The cop doesn’t like guns being pointed at her. That will make what’s coming up very interesting.

“How about the videos?” Jack asked.

Why would Jack be so interested in the videos? Alex keeps the pistol on Jack’s head and digs her hands into the plastic Jewel bag.

There’s a very big surprise at the bottom. Underneath the VHS tapes is a plastic bag containing a hunting knife. Alex holds it up, her pupils dilating.

“Was this my brother’s knife?”

Jack doesn’t answer. But she doesn’t have to. Alex quickly tears away the plastic and grips the weapon in her left hand. There’s still some dried blood clinging to the blade. From the last time Charles used it.

Alex decides the knife will see some further use. Tonight.

She tucks it into her back pocket and yanks Latham out of the car, ordering him and Jack into the warehouse. Everything has succeeded beyond expectation. She tells Jack to close the door behind them, and then parades her and Latham over to Harry and . . .

Phin is gone.

There’s a puddle of blood under his chair, and some loops of wire.

Rage swallows Alex, and she rushes at McGlade and cracks him across the face with the Wolverine. His head rocks back.

“Where is he?!?”

“He went to catch a movie. Said he’d be back later.” Harry grins, his teeth streaked with blood. “Hiya, Jackie. Come to lend me a hand?”

Alex lifts the pistol to hit McGlade again, and notices Jack rushing at her from the side.

Training takes over. Alex pivots on her hips, snaps her leg out, and kicks Jack straight in the chest.

Jack makes an oomph sound and collapses onto the concrete.

Alex turns back to Harry, then looks around the warehouse. She’s only known Phin a short time, but he isn’t the fleeing type. He would have taken Harry with him.

Unless he didn’t have time to.

Which meant he’d only freed himself a few minutes before they arrived.

Alex puts herself in his shoes. He’s injured himself escaping. Probably weak. He may have a knife, or some other hand weapon. There are lots of places to hide, but he’s not thinking about hiding. He wants to get himself into a position to pounce.

Alex spent several years in the Marines. She knew about ambushes. People usually don’t think three-dimensionally. They’ll look around at eye level, but rarely look up high or down low.

Alex glances up, and sees Phin crouching on the top rack of the aluminum shelving unit, alongside the table with all of her equipment.

Had she gone to the table, he could have dropped the fifteen feet down and hurt her. Possibly killed her.

A smart place to attack from. But now that she sees him, he’s simply target practice.

“Hello, handsome.” Alex aims the Wolverine. “Let’s do this the easy way.”

Both Jack and Harry scream the word NO!

Alex fires twice, and the bullets hit home. Phin tumbles through space, spinning and bleeding. He smacks the table, hard, then bounces off and sprawls onto the floor like a dropped rag doll.

Jack begins to cry.

“You see, Jack. This is why I didn’t kill you, or Harry, earlier. Even though I had plenty of chances.”

Alex walks up to the fallen lieutenant, drinking in her misery.

“You never knew my brother. Sure, you exchanged a few words with him. But you didn’t know him. He was something you chased. Hunted. Your prey.”

She turns to Harry, tenderly touches his bruised cheek.

“I could have hunted you the same way, but what’s the satisfaction in that? You were as unknown to me as Charles was to you. So I chose to get to know you. To spend time with you. To fully understand what I intended to destroy. And you got to know me, as well. Don’t you feel betrayed, Harry? Isn’t it so much worse, being killed by someone you love?”

“Love?” Harry shakes his head. “You’re just another notch on my belt, baby. Those midgets last night were twice the woman you are. And no icky scars.”

Alex pats McGlade on his leg, the one with the rusty nail brush sticking in. He howls.

“I owed it to Charles to do it this way. To eat this dish nice and cold. I could have taken you at any time. You too, Jack.”

Alex goes to Latham, pushes him over to the shelving unit.

“Unfortunately for you, cutie, you just got in the way.”

She uses Jack’s keys to uncuff his left hand, pulling his arm through the metal scaffolding before cuffing it again.

Jack is still on the floor, huffing and crying. Pathetic.

Alex goes to the table, sets the Glock and the Wolverine next to her bullet-making equipment.

“So here’s what’s going to happen next. I’m going to give you a chance to save the day, Jack. Isn’t that generous of me? But you’ll have to prove yourself.”

As Alex talks, she loads the guns.

“You’re going to have to prove you’re better than me, Lieutenant Daniels. You think you’re woman enough?”

Alex sticks the Wolverine into the waist of her jeans, then approaches Harry. With one hand, she unbuckles his belt.

“Can’t get enough of the love stick, eh, Mrs. McGlade?”

“I couldn’t even find it half the time.”

“Maybe you would have enjoyed it more if you pretended I was a blood relative.”

Alex tugs off the belt and tosses it in front of Jack.

“Stand up and put that on.”

Jack, her face streaked with tears, slowly stands up and winds the belt around her waist.

Alex presses the gun into Jack’s neck and drags her, by the belt, over to an open area of the warehouse. Using her left hand, she removes the Glock from her jeans and shoves it into Jack’s belt.

Alex puts her lips next to Jack’s ear and whispers, “I’m going to prove, once and for all, I’m better than you are.”

Then she walks backward, slowly, keeping a bead on Jack’s chest.

When she’s forty feet away, she stops, tucking the Wolverine into her waistband.

“You think you’re faster than me, Jack?” Alex smiles. She’s never felt this alive before.

“Draw, whenever you’re ready.”

Chapter 50

ACALM CAME over me. The same calm I felt when I was in Diane Kork’s bathroom, with the house burning down around me. I stared at Holly, perhaps fifteen yards away from me, a dazzling smile creasing her perfect face, and I knew I was going to die.

Holly was better than me. She played me, and Harry, for fools. What she said about getting to know us to hurt us worse was true.

If I’d just been grabbed by her and killed, it would have been bad enough. But coming from someone who I knew, someone I trusted, and not seeing it coming; that was like a gut punch.

And to add injury to insult, she just killed my best friend, and was going to kill the man I loved, and me, and my cat. And even stupid Harry, whom I found myself developing a soft spot for. A very small soft spot, but a soft spot nonetheless.

I looked at Latham, and mouthed “I’m sorry.” He was crying, which made me feel even worse.

In my head, I said good-bye to Herb, and to my mother.

“Come on, Jack!” Latham yelled. “You can do it!”

But staring at Holly, I knew I couldn’t do it. She would put ten rounds into my chest before I even got a shot off. The woman was better than me at everything. She wouldn’t have set this little scenario up if she didn’t think she’d win.

“Anytime, Jack. Or would you prefer I try this with Latham instead?”

My knees were rubber. My mouth went dry. My hands were shaking worse than Bud’s.

I couldn’t win.

Latham said, “You can do it, Jack! I love you!”

I couldn’t win.

Harry said, “Jackie, just drop the bitch so we can go home.”

I couldn’t win.

Holly said, “Or maybe I could play this game with Mr. Friskers. I don’t think he’d be as scared as you look right now.”

I couldn’t win I couldn’t win I couldn’t win.

But goddammit, I could sure as hell try.

I reached for the Glock, tugging it from the belt, bringing it up and at the same time stepping forward—Holly went for the body shot, and a profile is harder to hit—and my arm fully extended and I watched as Holly’s eyes went wide and she grabbed for her gun and fired first, but I wasn’t going to be duped this time by trying to outdraw her, I was going to make sure my shot counted and I took careful aim and felt the wind as her slugs tore the air in front of me and I squeezed the trigger and fired.

Her head snapped back as if on hinges, and she sprawled out onto the concrete floor, her gun skittering off into the darkness.

Cheering, from Latham and Harry. I walked toward Holly, saw the blood streaming down her face, and then limped over to Phin, digging at his neck, feeling for a pulse.

He surprised me by opening his eyes.

“. . . buttons . . .”

The relief I felt was tangible.

“I’m getting an ambulance, Phin. You’re going to be okay.”

“Bullets . . .” he moaned. Then he said buttons again.

But it wasn’t buttons. It was batons.

Batons were specialty bullets, used by police for crowd control. Made of rubber. Non-lethal.

I looked up at the table, saw Holly’s bullet-making equipment.

She wouldn’t have risked killing me so quickly. She had other plans.

I heard Harry and Latham yell just as Holly kicked me from behind.

Chapter 51

THE BLOW KNOCKED me sideways. I rolled with it, tucking in my head and coming up in a kneeling position, my arms up to block.

I saw little flashes of light, and my vision was lopsided, but I was able to see Holly—her face a Halloween mask of blood and rage—move in and attempt another front kick.

Instinct took over. I swiped away the kick with my left forearm, and my right hand formed a fist and I gave her a sharp jab in the inner thigh.

Holly yelled, retreating two steps. That gave me time to get to my feet. I kicked off my heels and adopted a ready stance, left foot behind me, keeping the weight off my injured right ankle.

Holly wiped a sleeve across her eyes. Her forehead was bleeding like mad. Though baton rounds weren’t lethal, they were still like getting pegged with a slingshot. The blood in her eyes was to my advantage, and I used it.

Biting back the pain, I swiveled my hips and brought my left leg forward, aiming the kick at her chest. Holly leaned away, as I expected, and I brought the left foot down and moved forward, going into a round kick with my right foot.

I extended my knee and felt my heel connect with her chin.

The shock of contact made me gasp and see red, but Holly took the worst of it. Both of her feet left the ground and she hit the floor ass-first—not the preferred landing on concrete.

Pressing my advantage, I lunged forward, wanting to get on top of her and strike at her face or throat.

I was too hasty. Holly scissored her legs out and swept my feet out from under me. I also hit the ground hard.

When a fight goes to the floor, the stronger opponent usually wins. Holly wasn’t only stronger, but her Marine training probably made my police academy training look like ballet. I rolled backward, two or three body lengths away, before getting up on my knees.

Holly moved like lightning, and hit like a baseball bat, throwing a roundhouse punch at my face that I barely deflected in time, taking the hit on the left shoulder.

My whole arm went numb.

She followed up with an equally vicious kick to my chest. I bunched up what little pectoral muscles I had, but her big construction boot knocked the wind right out of me and I went skidding backward across the dusty floor on my butt.

I let momentum take my legs up over my head, and rolled to my feet. My lungs tried to take in air, but they weren’t working. It’s a terrifying feeling, not being able to breathe. I’d been hit in the diaphragm before, and knew that in just a few seconds the muscle would stop spasming and allow me some air, but rationality doesn’t mean much in the throes of panic.

Holly sensed my struggle, and came at me with snarling, bleeding fury, taking two running steps and launching herself into a jumping double kick.

I slipped the first kick, but the second caught me under the chin, cracking my lower jaw into my upper jaw, spinning me around like a top.

I would have hit the floor, but instead slammed into the metal shelves, and was able to grab on and keep from falling.

My breath came back, and I gulped it in, began to choke when something got caught in my throat, and spit out a chip from one of my teeth.

My right ankle was pudding. I kept my weight on my left foot and clutched the metal railing.

“I thought you were third dan,” I said through the new gap in my front teeth. “You fight like a yellow belt.”

Holly wiped the blood from her eyes and fell into her cat stance, her palms flat and fingers extended for pyonson keut.

“And that wedding dress made your ass look huge.”

She yelled, “KIYAA!” and struck with her fingertips at my neck. I pivoted my head around and her fingers met the steel bar supporting the giant shelf.

The shelf won.

I executed an elbow strike, cracking her across the cheek. An illegal move, but hey, no refs.

Holly hit her head against the shelving unit, and I grabbed her hair and helped her hit her head two more times. There was no tae kwon do name for that maneuver, but it felt great.

I was going for thirds when her hand grasped my wrist and she dropped all of her weight down to one knee, flipping me onto my back.

Before I could get my hands up, she used the knife edge of her good hand to break my nose.

I’d never had my nose broken before, but I know she did indeed break it because I heard the snap and the pain brought fresh tears to my eyes.

Again, using blind instinct, I rolled away. The rolling intensified the pain and dizziness I felt, and when I came to a stop I titled my head to the side and threw up.

“Jack!” I heard Latham yell, but he seemed very far away. My vision was a kaleidoscopic mess, but I could make out Holly stumbling toward me, looking like Sissy Spacek at the end of Carrie, bloody and murderous and out of her freaking mind.

A foot away from me, still in his cat carrier, was Mr. Friskers.

“Hang on,” I told him.

Holly lunged.

I picked up the carrier and thrust the corner into Holly’s face. She staggered back, and the door popped open. Mr. Friskers hopped out, gave each of us a disappointed look, and ran off into the shadows.

I switched my grip to the carrier handle, got to my knees, and hurled it at her.

She ducked it, and came at me again.

Standing up wasn’t going to happen for me. It looked like I had a small pumpkin growing out of my foot. My nose made even the tiniest movement of my head pure torture.

Holly looked to be faring better. Her right hand was mangled, and she had some visible bumps on her head, but that didn’t seem to slow her down.

“Enough of this bullshit.”

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out the hunting knife. Charles Kork’s knife. The one I’d so cleverly tricked her into bringing along.

How quickly things could go from bad to worse.

I got onto all fours and crawled away as fast as I could. Harry was the closest thing to me, so I headed for him, reaching out my hand for his chair, and then I felt Holly’s iron grip on my bad ankle.

That pain was bad enough. But when she slashed the blade across my thigh, I thought I’d died and gone to Pain Hell.

I twisted around, the pain giving me superhuman strength, kicking out at Holly with my good foot and knocking her off me.

I stretched out my hand, fumbling for Harry’s lap, my fingers locking around the handle of a what looked like a hairbrush, but when I pulled it out McGlade yelped and I saw that instead of bristles it had a dozen nails sticking out of the end.

Holly jumped at me, bringing down the knife.

I let out a war cry, my reptile brain screeching with rage and fear and pain, and my left arm blocked the downward arc of the knife while my right swung the hairbrush with everything I had, digging into Holly’s face, and tearing much of it off.

Holly spun in a semicircle and hit the floor.

I sat there, clutching the brush, breaths coming out in ragged gasps, waiting for her to get up so I could give her a second helping.

She didn’t get up.

“I wet my pants again,” Harry said.

I crawled over to her, not looking at the ruin that was once a gorgeous face, not listening to the gurgling coming out of the hole that was once a beautiful mouth, taking the knife out of her hand, digging around in her pockets until I found my handcuff keys.

Dragging myself across the floor, I uncuffed Latham, who hugged me gently and kissed my fingertips.

“Nice job, Jack. I forgot how exciting life with you was. We’ve been apart for months, and not one person has tried to kill me in all that time.”

“So you’re taking me back?”

“You couldn’t keep me away if you tried.”

“Hey lovebirds!” Harry yelled. “Can you save the kissy face for later and get me the fuck out of here?”

Latham ran off to get help. I stared at Phin, and he gave me a weak thumbs-up.

Returning to Holly, I cuffed her hands behind her back and pulled off her shirt to try to stop some of the massive bleeding coming out of her face. It didn’t help much.

“Use a tourniquet,” McGlade suggested. “Put it around her neck.”

I crawled over to Phin, not wanting to move him in case of a spinal injury. He had two bullet wounds in his left shoulder. Holly hadn’t wanted him to die, probably because she wanted him around for a while to torture.

I slipped off Harry’s belt and tied it around Phin’s arm to slow the bleeding. Then I picked up some tin snips off the table and crawled to Harry, setting him free just as the sirens howled in the distance.

Harry hugged me.

“Thanks, Jackie. I owe you one.”

“Just take me off that damn TV show.”

“Take you off? Do you know what kind of amazing episode this would make? Shit, Jack, we’d hit number one in our time slot.”

“Harry . . .”

“Fine. You’re off.”

The sirens got closer, and Latham came back in, toting my cell phone. He sat beside me, holding me tight. And I began to sob. But it wasn’t from pain, and it wasn’t from shock. It was from pure relief.

A purring sound made me turn around. Mr. Friskers was sitting in McGlade’s lap, a dead rat in his jaws.

“Good kitty,” Harry said. “Good fucking kitty.”

And he continued to pet him until the ambulances arrived.

Chapter 52

WE WERE ALL taken to Alexian Brothers Hospital in Elk Grove. Latham got stitches. I got stitches too. I also had my nose set and packed, which hurt worse than when Holly broke it, and had a cast put on my ankle for a bad sprain. Phin needed five units of blood, but came out of surgery in good shape.

And Harry—I actually felt sorry for Harry. He had to have his ruined right hand amputated.

“Don’t let them do it, Jackie,” he pleaded as they wheeled him into the OR. “That’s half my sex life.”

I patted his shoulder. “You’ll get one of those cool robotic hands, like on James Bond.”

That made his eyes light up.

“I’ll be able to crush cans and shit like that?”

“Yeah.”

“Do women like those things?”

“They’re sexy,” I told him. “You’ll have to fight the women off.”

Alex Kork, whom I knew as Holly Frakes, also needed surgery. She had skin removed from her buttocks, her hips, and her stomach, to try to reconstruct her face. From what I heard, it wouldn’t help much. She’d spend the rest of her life looking like a patchwork quilt.

I also finally got through to Herb, and spoke with an exhausted Bernice.

“Everything went fine. He’s doing great. I’m watching what’s happening on TV. Are you okay?”

I squeezed Latham’s hand.

“Never better.”

“Herb wants to talk to you.”

“He’s awake?”

“He’s still a little dopey. But then, he’s always a little dopey. Here he is.”

“Jack! I’m watching you on TV. It was Harry’s wife all along?”

“Yeah. How’s that for a shocker?”

“Well, at least now it makes sense why someone would marry that moron. For a while there, I thought there was something seriously wrong with the universe.”

“How are you doing?”

“Good. Just like an oil change. You gonna come visit?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Bring donuts.”

Latham and I were discharged at around three in the morning. As expected, my apartment was a full-blown crime scene, infested with cops.

Bud Kork, gut-shot and burned, had died on my kitchen floor next to his common-law wife.

I picked up some essentials and spent the night at Latham’s new condo. With the cat, of course.

“I bought this king-sized bed with you in mind,” he told me.

“Might be a while before I’m ready to break it in.”

“We can take as long as you need.”

Between the two of us we had three black eyes, twenty-three stitches, a nose full of cotton, and a twisted ankle, but we managed to break it in that night.

I fell asleep wrapped up in Latham’s arms, a goofy, chipped-tooth smile on my face.

The next few days were spent playing catch-up. I visited the office and finished my reports, and Captain Bains told me the superintendent was considering a promotion for me. I visited Herb and brought him Cinnabons. I visited Mom and told her everything that happened. I visited Harry, and he showed me his stump and moaned about the tetanus shots he had to get. I visited Phin, who thanked me for a wild weekend. And I visited Alex.

She had two armed guards at her door, and another one that sat inside her room. She lay on top of her sheets, bandages covering most of her body from the many patches of skin they’d harvested trying to reconstruct her face. Her head was swaddled in gauze, mummy-style. Her hand was cuffed to the bed frame. A single blue eye peered out through the cotton, fixing on me when I entered.

“Hello, Jack. Thanks for coming.”

Her voice sounded weak, muffled by her dressings. I sat down in the chair next to her.

“I hear you’ve been cooperating with police. Telling them everything they want to know.”

“Just listening to my lawyers. They want to use an insanity defense, obviously. Poor abused child grows up confused and alone. Some bullshit like that.”

“Do you think you’re insane?”

She shrugged. “What do you think?”

“I think there’s something seriously wrong with you. Maybe you’ll be able to get some help. Professional help.”

“I doubt it. I killed my last four shrinks.”

I leaned forward.

“Why did you want to see me, Alex?”

“You can call me Holly if you want.”

“Why did you want to see me?”

“The doctors, they didn’t want me to see my face yet. But last night I got up and went to the bathroom and took off my bandages in the mirror. I look like someone stapled some raw pork chops to my face.”

If she wanted sympathy, she was preaching to the wrong choir.

“I’ll be scarred for life, Jack.”

“You already were,” I said.

Holly didn’t seem to have anything else to say, so I got up to leave.

“Jack.”

I stopped. Waited.

“You beat me this time. But it isn’t over.”

I gave her a final glance.

“It’s over,” I said, and left the hospital.

That night, in Latham’s bed, I had a strange dream. I was at the shooting range, and no matter how carefully I aimed, I couldn’t hit the silhouette.

But rather than frustrate me, I found it funny as hell. Every time I missed, I laughed like crazy. It was one of the most wonderful dreams I’d ever had.

My cell phone woke me up.

“Ms. Daniels? This is Julie, over at Henderson House.”

Henderson House. The long-term care facility where my mother lived. I checked the clock, saw it was three in the morning.

The fear washed over me like a wave. I’d been expecting the worst for so long, but found myself unable to handle it.

“Is it Mom?” My voice quavered, my eyes filling with tears.

“Yes, it’s your mother. It happened just a few minutes ago. She’s come out of her coma.”

Had I heard correctly?

“Mom’s out of her coma?”

My talking woke Latham up. He hugged me in the darkness.

“Not only is she awake, but she’s completely lucid. Can you come over here, Ms. Daniels? She’s asking for you.”

Epilogue

Several Months Later

THE ALLEY WAS dark, and I shouldn’t have gone in there. It was just plain stupid.

But into the alley I went, following McGlade, gun drawn and moving in a crouch.

“I see something.” Harry had his gun out as well, a much larger gun than mine. “Cover me.”

“No.” I tugged his arm back. “It’s my turn to go first. You cover me.”

“Jack, this is dangerous. Don’t fight me on this.”

Without listening I pushed past McGlade and broke into a run. I stopped in a Weaver stance, legs two feet apart, both arms stretched out in front of me, steadying the gun—

—silhouetted by the street light behind me.

A perfect, easy target.

“Freeze! Police!”

The first shot caught me in the stomach, blood gushing out before me like a fountain.

I fell in slow motion, three more shots ripping into my chest and shoulders, spinning me around, painting the brick walls with blood before I hit the pavement.

I heard Harry yell, and watched him run out to me, firing into the alley as he ran, grabbing me by the collar and dragging me out onto the sidewalk, leaving a smeared trail of red.

“Harry . . .”

“Shh. Jack, don’t talk.”

I looked down at the ruin that was my chest, blood pumping out in a ridiculous amount. McGlade tried to press down on some of the wounds. I cried out in pain.

“I’ve got to get help, Jack.”

He tried to stand up, but I stopped him, grabbing his hand.

“It’s . . . it’s too late, Harry . . . too late.”

“Hold on, Jack.”

A single tear rolled down my face. I put on a brave smile.

“You’ll get the guys. Right?”

“Of course I will, baby. Count on it.”

I blinked a few times.

“Everything’s getting dark, Harry.”

McGlade knelt down, propped my upper body onto his lap, and put his arms around me.

“I’m here, Jack.”

“Harry . . . I . . . I need to tell you something.” I was whispering. “Come close.”

“I’m all ears, Jackie.”

“All . . . all of these years . . .”

McGlade now had tears in his eyes too.

“I’m listening.”

“I . . . love . . . you . . . Harry . . . McGlade . . .”

Harry bent down, and his lips touched mine. When he pulled his head back, my eyes were wide and staring into space.

I was dead.

Harry cried out, lifted his head back, and screamed and screamed and screamed.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . appeared at the bottom of the screen. Then the image froze and faded to black.

My mother clicked off the TV with the remote control, frowning at me.

“That was crap. Pure crap. You never would have gone into the alley like that.”

I shrugged. “At least I won’t be back next season. You want a beer?”

“A beer sounds wonderful. Let’s get good and plowed and order a pizza with extra everything.” She made a kissy sound, and Mr. Friskers bounded into her lap.

“You sure you want everything, Mom?”

Mom smiled, and it was beatific. “Absolutely. I’ve got a lot of eating to catch up on, Jacqueline. I’ve got a lot of life to catch up on.”

She reached for my hand and held it tight. I held it just as tight, never ever wanting to let go.

“You know what, Mom? That makes two of us.”

Acknowledgments

Every book, the list of people I need to thank gets longer . . .

To fellow scribes: Barbara D’Amato, James O. Born, Lee Child, Blake Crouch, Bill Fitzhugh, Jack Kerley, William Kent Krueger, David Morrell, PJ Parrish, and M.J. Rose, for their words, encouragement, and inspiration.

To those in the book biz: Robin Agnew, Augie Alesky, Lorri Amsden, Elizabeth Baldwin, Jim Berlage, Terri Bischoff, Jane Biro, Chris Bowman, Linda Brown, Bonnie Claeson, Diana Cohen, J.B. Dickey, Moni Draper, Tammy Domike, Judy Duhl, Luane Evans, Dorothy Evans, Bill Farley, Beth Fedyn, Dick File, Marilyn Fisher, Holly Frakes, Steven French, Fran Fuller, Sandy Goodrick, Diane Gressman, Maggie Griffin, Joe Guglielmelli, Maryelizabeth Hart, Patrick Heffernan, Jim Huang, Rick Jensen, Steve Jensen, Jen Johnson, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Steve Jurczyk, Bob Kadlec, Richard Katz, Edmund and Jeannie Kaufman, Carolyn Lane, Steve Lukac, Sheldon MacArthur, Bobby McCue, Dana Mee, Laurie Mountjoy, Jim Munchel, Karen Novak, Cynthia Nye, Otto Penzler, Henry “Hank” Perez, Barbara Peters, Sue Petersen, Sarah Pingry, Taryn Schau, Terri Schlichenmeyer, Matt Schwartz, Cindy Smith, Terri Smith, Kathy Sparks, Laura Stanz, Dave Strang, Jim & Gloria Tillez, Barbara Tom, Maria Tovar, Susan Tunis, Chris Van Such, Lauri Ver Schure, Linda Vetter, Janine Wilson, Chris Wolak, and the many others who have helped spread the word—if your name isn’t here, blame the typesetter!

To the publishing folks: Lauren Abramo, Ellen Archer, Alan Ayres, Michael Bourrett, Susie Breck, Anna Campbell, Regina Castillo, Jane Comins, Natalie Fedewa, Nicola Ferguson, Brad Foltz, Miriam Goderich, Jessica Goldman, Laura Grafton, Dick Hill, Amy Hosford, Eileen Hutton, Navorn Johnson, David Lott, Bob Miller, Phil Rose, Will Schwalbe, Michael Snodgrass, Abby Vinyard, Katie Wainwright, Miriam Wenger, Kimberly West, Westchester Book Composition, and Raynel White.

The amazing Leslie Wells.

Jane Dystel, who kicks major booty.

Barry Eisler and Jim Coursey, for their first draft insights.

Family and friends: Laura Konrath, Mike Konrath, Chris Konrath, John Konrath, Talon Konrath, Latham Conger III, George Dailey, Mariel Evans, and Jeff Evans.

And of course, Maria Konrath. I couldn’t write a word without her.

ALSO BY J. A. KONRATH

Bloody Mary
Whiskey Sour

Copyright

Copyright © 2006 Joe Konrath

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2006925772

ISBN 1-4013-0088-X

EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9781401384739

FIRST EDITION

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dirty Martini

A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery

DIRTY MARTINI

J. A. KONRATH

This book is for Jim Coursey, who has been there for me since the beginning. Best friends forever, man!

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Box book

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Acknowledgment

Also By

Praise 01

Praise 02

Praise 03

Excerpt 1

Excerpt 2

Excerpt 3

Copyright

DIRTY MARTINI

2 oz vodka
1 tbsp dry vermouth
2 tbsp olive juice
2 olives

Fill a mixer with all ingredients, including garnish.

Cover and shake hard 3–4 times.

Strain contents into a cocktail glass.

Prologue

NO SECURITY CAMERAS this time, but he still has to be careful. The smaller the store, the more likely he’ll be remembered.

He’s dressed for the part. The mustache is fake. So is the shoulder-length hair. His facial jewelry is all clip-on, including the nose ring and the lip ring, and his combat boots have lifts in them, adding almost three inches to his height. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that he picked up at a thrift shop for a quarter, under a red flannel shirt that cost little more. The long sleeves hide the tube.

When they interview witnesses later, they’ll remember his costume, but not his features.

He picked a good time of day—the store is busy. The woman behind the counter is speaking German with one of the patrons, three people in line behind her. To the left, an old lady is pushing a small cart, scrutinizing some imported canned goods. In the rear of the store, a fat man is picking up a .5-liter bottle of Weihenstephaner beer.

At the deli section, he finds the cooler with the fresh fruit. Pretending as if he’s trying to decide, he eventually picks up a red apple.

He cradles the fruit in his left hand, avoiding the use of his fingertips. Palmed in his right hand, attached to the tube that runs up his sleeve, is the jet injector. It’s four inches long, shaped like a miniature hot glue gun. He touches the orifice to the surface of the apple. Pulls the trigger.

There’s a brief hissing sound, lasting a fraction of a second. He puts the apple back and selects another, repeating the process.

Pssssssstttttt.

After doing four pieces of fruit, some potatoes, and a plastic container of yogurt, the jet injector needs to be armed again—something that will attract attention. He leaves the deli without buying anything, stepping out onto Irving Park Road and into the pedestrian traffic.

Ethnic stores are easy. He’s already done a supermarket in Chinatown, contaminating some star fruit and dried fish, and a Polish butcher shop on the West Side, injecting almost the entire stock of kielbasa. In Wrigleyville he visited a large chain grocery store and made quick work of some apples, pears, and packages of ground beef, mindful to keep his head lowered so the security cameras didn’t get any good facial shots. Just south of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile he paid for admission to the Art Institute and spent thirty minutes in the cafeteria, using his jet injector on practically everything—cartons of milk, juice boxes, fruit, candy bars—and when the clerk turned her head he sprayed a cloud burst into the nozzles of the soda pop machine.

He has two stops left: an all-you-can-eat buffet on Halsted, and another grocery store on the North Side. Then he’s done.

For today.

Tomorrow he has another eight stores picked out, news permitting. The incubation period is anywhere from a few hours to a few days. There’s a chance people will get sick sometime tonight. Paralysis is terrifying, and once it begins, the infected will rush to the hospital. Diagnosis isn’t easy, but the agent will eventually be discovered. Then the alphabets will be notified—the CDC, WHO, FBI, CPD.

If the panic spreads ahead of schedule, he’ll have to move up with the Plan and do the second round in a different way.

It will be interesting to see how things turn out.

He heads down Lincoln, stopping in a fast-food chain. In the bathroom he detaches the injector from the tube, placing it in his pocket. He washes his hands with soap and holds them under the air drier, which is labeled For Your Sanitary Protection. This prompts a smile. When he’s finished, he removes a moistened alcohol towelette and goes over his hands again.

At the counter, he orders a burger and fries, and eats while surreptitiously watching the kids frolic in the indoor playland.

Children’s parks are a cesspool of germs. All that openmouthed coughing and sneezing, all those sticky fingers wiping noses and then touching the slides, the ladders, the bin of a thousand plastic balls, each other. It’s practically a hot zone.

When he finishes eating, he returns to the bathroom, attaches the jet injector to the tube running up his sleeve, and lightly shakes the cylinder strapped to his waist under his shirt.

There’s plenty left.

He arms the injector using the key to torque back the spring, and walks out of the washroom over to the cubby where a dozen pairs of brightly colored kids’ shoes lie in wait. Getting down on one knee, he pretends he’s tying a lace.

Instead, he injects the rubber soles of five different shoes.

A small child pokes him from behind.

“That’s my shoe.”

He smiles at the boy. “I know. It fell on the floor. Here you go.”

The child takes the shoe, switches it to his other hand, and wipes his nose with his palm.

“Thanks,” says the boy.

The man stands up, winks, and heads north on Lincoln to catch the bus to the all-you-can-eat buffet.

Chapter 1

Three Days Later

IS THAT A REAL GUN?” The little girl probably wasn’t much older than five, but I’m not good with children’s ages. She pointed at my shoulder holster, visible as I leaned into my shopping cart to hand a bag of apples to the cashier.

“Yes, it is. I’m a cop.”

“You’re a girl.”

“I am. So are you.”

The child frowned. “I know that.”

I looked around for her mother, but didn’t see anyone nearby who fit the profile.

“Where’s Mommy?” I asked her.

She gave me a very serious face. “Over by the coffee.”

“Let’s go find her.”

I told the teenaged cashier I’d be a moment. He shrugged. The little girl held out her hand. I took it, surprised by how small it felt. When was the last time I’d held a child’s hand?

“Did you ever shoot anyone?” she asked.

From the mouths of babes.

“Only criminals.”

“Did they die?”

“No. I’ve been lucky.”

Her eyebrows crunched up, and she pursed her tiny lips.

“Criminals are bad people.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Shouldn’t they die?”

“Every life is important,” I said. “Even the lives of bad people.”

A woman, thirties, rushed out into the main aisle and searched left, then right, locking onto the girl.

“Melinda! What did I tell you about wandering off!”

She was on us in three steps. Melinda released my hand and pointed at me.

“I’m okay, Mommy. She’s got a gun.”

The mother looked at me and turned a shade of white appropriate for snowmen. I dug into my pocket for my badge case.

“Lieutenant Jack Daniels.” I showed her the gold star and my ID. “You’ve got a cute daughter.”

Her face went from fraught to relieved. “Thanks. Sometimes I think she needs a leash. Do you have kids?”

“No.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. I watched her puzzle out what to say next.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said in my cop voice. Then I went back to my groceries. An elderly man, who’d gotten into the checkout line behind me, gave me a look I usually received from felons I’d busted.

“It’s about goddamn time,” he said.

“Police business,” I told him, flashing my star again. Then I made a show of looking into his cart. “Sir, this lane is for ten items or less. I’m counting thirteen items in your cart, including that hemorrhoid cream. And while hemorrhoids might give you a reason to be nasty, they don’t give you a reason to be in this lane.”

He scowled, used a five-letter word to express his opinion of people with two X chromosomes, and then wheeled his cart away.

Chicago. My kind of town.

I really missed living here.

Shopping in the suburbs was cheaper, less crowded, closer to home, and no one ever called me names. I tried it once, at a three-hundred-thousand-square-foot supermarket that sold forty-seven different varieties of potatoes and had carts with little video monitors that broadcast commercials and spit out coupons. Never again.

You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl.

I finished paying for my ten items or less and then left the grocery store. The weather hung in the mid-sixties, cloudy, cool for June. My car, an aging Chevy Nova that didn’t befit a woman of my stature or my style, was parked just up the street, next to a fire hydrant. I stuck my bags in the trunk, took a big gulp of wonderfully smoggy city air, and then started the beast and headed for the Eisenhower to battle rush hour traffic.

“Four more dead, bringing the death toll up to nine. Hundreds more botulism cases have been confirmed, and a city-wide panic has...”

I switched the radio station to an oldies channel, and let Roger Daltrey serenade me through the stop-and-go.

It took an hour to get to the house. It never took less.

By my rough calculation, I was averaging ten hours a week driving to and from work, so if I retired in ten years, I will have wasted over five thousand hours—two hundred days—in the car.

But, on the bright side, I had a big backyard that demanded to be mowed, trees that needed trimming, a clothes dryer in need of repair, a hole in the driveway, mice in the attic, a loose railing on the stairs, water damage in the basement, and flaking paint in the bedroom.

Lately, my sexual fantasies revolved around once again having a landlord. Looks, age, and hygiene didn’t matter, as long as he had a tool belt and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

Being a homeowner sucked. Though officially, I wasn’t a homeowner. Chicago cops were required to live within the city limits, so the house was in my mother’s name. While far from feeble, Mom had recently had some medical problems, and we decided that it would be best if she moved in with me. She agreed, but insisted we buy a house in the suburbs. “Where it is less hectic,” she’d said.

As far as the city knew, I still had my apartment in Wrigleyville. A dangerous game to play, but I wasn’t the first cop to play it.

I exited the expressway onto Elmhurst Road, drove past several tiny strip malls—or perhaps it was one giant strip mall—and turned down a side street festooned with eighty-year-old oak and elm trees. There weren’t any streetlights, and the cloudy day and abundant foliage made it look like dusk, even though dusk was an hour away. I pulled into the driveway, pressed the garage door opener, pressed it again, pressed it one more time, said some bad words, then got out of the car.

The suburbs smelled different from the city. Woodsy. Secluded. Clean and safe.

I hated the suburbs.

I lugged the groceries to the front door, set them on the porch, reached for my keys, and froze.

The new door I recently had installed—a security door made of reinforced aluminum with the pick-proof dead bolt that I always made sure was locked tight—was yawning wide open.

Chapter 2

COP MODE TOOK OVER. My mother, the apple of my eye who’d guilted me into buying this suburban hell-house, was visiting friends in Florida and wouldn’t be back for another week. Latham, my boyfriend, had a key, but he also had a car, which wasn’t parked in the driveway or on the street.

Several times in my professional past, people had figured out where I lived. Bad people. Which is how I let my mom convince me to move to the middle of a forest preserve.

I set down the bags and opened my purse, removing my .38 Colt Detective Special, using a two-handed grip, elbows bent, barrel pointing skyward. I nudged the door open with my shoulder, holding my breath, trying to listen. The hardwood floor my mother adored squeaked like a tortured squirrel with every step I took. A male voice came from deep inside the bowels of the house.

“Debemos cantar algo más...”

I considered my options. My radio was in the car. Cell phone was in my pocket, but 911 would take a few minutes to respond.

“¡Dios mío!”

From behind. I spun, dropping to one knee, hearing and then feeling my Donna Karan skirt tear, drawing a bead on a chubby Mexican man in a full red and gold mariachi uniform, complete with sombrero and oversized guitar.

“Jack!”

I ascertained that the mariachi wasn’t an immediate threat, turned toward the other voice, and saw Latham standing in the hallway, wearing a tuxedo.

“Jesus!” I said, hissing out a breath.

Latham smiled. “Don’t shoot them until after you’ve heard them play.”

I holstered my gun, Latham came over to help me off my knee, but somehow he wound up on his.

“Latham, what are—”

Guitars began to play, and two more mariachis joined their friend next to the breakfront. Latham dug into his tux jacket, coming out with a jewelry box. His red hair was combed back, but a lock of it curled down his forehead. His green eyes were glinting.

“Jacqueline Daniels, I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my entire life.”

Oh my God.

He was proposing.

I had a huge rip in my skirt. I bet my hair was a mess. Did my makeup look okay? I hadn’t checked it in hours.

“I want you to be my wife. I promise I’ll do everything within my power to make you the happiest woman on the planet. Jacqueline Margaret Daniels, will you marry me?”

He looked so damn cute, his eyes all glassy, a goofy smile on his face, that dumb music playing behind us.

Then he held out the ring, and I started to cry. A solitaire diamond, shining like it had batteries, exactly the kind of ring I’d always dreamed of having.

He took my left hand, went to put the ring on.

I pulled away.

His cute face crumpled.

“I’ve thought it all out, Jack. I know you’ve been burned by marriage before. And I know you just moved here, and you aren’t going to abandon your mother. We have time to work all of that out. I’m not setting a date. I just want...need...the commitment.”

For some insane reason, I thought about the little girl at the supermarket, and how right it felt to hold her hand. What are you thinking, Jack? You’re forty-six years old. You can’t possibly...

My cell phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

“Are you going to get that?” Latham asked.

Shit. I dug the phone out and slapped it to my face.

“Daniels.” I turned to the mariachi band and yelled, “Shhh!”

“This is the superintendent’s office. She’s called an emergency meeting. You need to get to police headquarters immediately.”

The secretary broke the connection. Latham knelt patiently at my feet. To our left, three fat mariachis waited expectantly. I felt like a spotlight had come on and I’d forgotten my lines.

“You have to go,” Latham said.

“Latham—”

“It’s okay. Go ahead.” He smiled, and the smile was so pure, so genuine, it broke my heart.

Then he put the ring back in its little red box, and my heart broke a second time.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” he said. “Do you mind?”

I reached out a hand and touched his freshly shaven cheek.

“Of course I don’t mind. I love you. I just—”

He stood up, kissed me, and the mariachis broke into song. I’d never kissed a guy with a band playing backup music, and I found it incredibly stupidly romantic and more than a little exciting. My hips touched his, and he slipped his hand down the small of my back and pulled me even closer. It had been about a week since I’d had sex, and I moaned a little in my throat, arousal flush ing through me like a drug. Then the lovely guitar strumming was replaced by screams of pain and terror.

My unfriendly cat, Mr. Friskers, had wrapped him self around one of the mariachis’ heads like a face-hugger from the movie Alien . He did this often enough that we kept a loaded squirt gun in the refrigerator. Latham jogged off to get it, and I tried to explain to the mariachis that pulling wasn’t going to work, because the cat just dug in harder.

They tried to pull anyway.

Mariachi blood flowed.

Latham came back with the squirt gun and some paper towels, apologizing profusely in bad Spanish. After the first spritz, Mr. Friskers fell to the floor, hissed at Latham, and then bounded off down the hallway.

The mariachi escaped with both eyes still in their sockets, but his mustache was dangling at an odd angle. His bandmates found this amusing enough to spur them into giggling fits.

“Go save the city,” Latham said, pressing a paper towel to the bleeding singer’s face. “We’ll talk later.”

“Are you sure?”

He winked at me. “Go on. I have to find the rest of this guy’s mustache anyway.”

“Thanks,” I said, though it felt like spoiled milk in my mouth.

“Call me before you get home. I’m cooking dinner. German.”

My favorite kind of food. I felt like a super-jumbo cowardly jerk.

I walked out the door, past the grocery bags I’d left on the porch, and climbed into my car. In the driver’s seat, head buzzing, I stared at the large tear in my skirt but found myself unable to go back into the house to change. I couldn’t face Latham.

He deserved so much better than me.

I pulled out of the driveway, thinking about my rocky relationship with the world’s most adorable accountant, Latham Conger. He was a bit younger, attractive, intelligent, caring, good in bed, and the most patient and forgiving person I’d ever met. In all the fairy princess fantasies I’d die before admitting I had, he perfectly fit the role of Prince Charming.

Unfortunately the fairy princess fantasy didn’t mesh well with the veteran city cop reality.

The Ike got me back into Chicago in an hour and some change.

Police headquarters was located in a sprawling 400,000-square-foot building on Thirty-fifth and Michigan. The lobby, like the exterior, was a mixture of orangish brown and off-white. Lots of tile. Lots of fluorescent light. It reminded me of a hospital.

My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, was pacing the hallway in front of the super’s door. Herb was ten years my senior, and twice my weight, and he sported a walrus mustache and hound dog jowls. Worried wasn’t a look that Herb wore often, but at that moment he looked positively distraught.

“Been in there yet?” I asked.

“Waiting for you. What happened to your skirt?”

I resisted the urge to smooth a hand over the tear.

“It’s the new look. All the kids are doing it. Know what’s going on?”

Herb shook his head, three chins jiggling.

“No. But it’s big.”

“You okay?” I asked. The bags under his eyes seemed darker than normal.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You seem kind of preoccupied.”

“So do you.”

We exchanged a look that promised we’d talk later, and went into the office.

There were three people in the room. Superintendent Terry O’Loughlin—newly appointed by the mayor—was someone whom I hadn’t had a chance to meet yet, but whose reputation was well known. Behind her back, cops called her OTB, one tough broad. She’d forsaken her public appearance dress blues for a red pantsuit that looked like it came off the rack at Sears, and fit about as well. Subtle makeup, brown hair cropped short, and a wedding ring that looked to be cutting off the circulation to her chubby finger.

Captain Bains, my boss, stood next to her desk. Bains resembled a short, fat, unattractive version of Burt Reynolds, down to the jet-black hairpiece that didn’t match the gray in his mustache.

The third man was someone I didn’t know. Tall. Blondish. Sort of geeky looking, but dressed sharp. Before anyone had a chance to say word one, geeky guy was crossing the room toward me, his hand out in front of him.

“Lieutenant Daniels.” His shake was moist but aggressive, and he repeated it with Herb. “I’m Davy Ellis, of Ellis, Dickler, and Scaramouche. Call me Davy.”

“Lawyer?” Herb asked.

“We’re a public relations firm currently working with the city of Chicago to boost the image of the police department.”

I glanced at Bains, who gave me a curt nod but no explanation. What the hell was going on here?

“Lieutenant Daniels.” Superintendent O’Loughlin stood up and extended her hand. She wasn’t much taller standing than sitting. We shook, and her grip was stronger than Davy’s. “I’m glad you’ve finally graced us with your presence. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Car trouble,” I lied. “The pleasure is mine, Superintendent.”

She did the shaking thing with Herb, and then we were instructed to sit. Bains joined us. Davy remained standing.

The super pushed a piece of paper across her desk. “My office received a letter this afternoon, addressed to me.”

Herb and I leaned forward and read.

I am the one spreading the botulism toxin. I’ve visited sixteen places so far. One was a deli on Irving Park. You will agree to pay me two million dollars, or my next target will kill hundreds of people.

This isn’t terrorism. I’m not some dumb Islamic fundamentalist. I’m a venture capitalist. I’m investing in fear and death. Pay me or I’ll branch out.

Take out an ad in the Friday Sun-Times in the personals and say “Chemist—the answer is yes.”

You’ll hear from me soon.

To prove I am who I say I am, this paper has been coated with BT.

Even though I could see the photocopy smudges, I suddenly wanted to distance myself from the paper. Botulism had been the top story for the last two days. The quick and deadly effects of the disease were terrifying.

“There was a powdery residue in the envelope with the letter,” the super said. “The secretary who opened it is at Rush-Presbyterian. She tested positive for botulism toxin. Three other people at the First District came into contact with the letter. So far they’re asymptomatic, but they’re being treated with antitoxin and remain under observation.”

Herb also seemed uncomfortable being so close to the note.

“I heard on the news there are nine dead so far,” he said.

The super’s mouth became a grim line. “The number is actually thirty-two, with over six hundred confirmed cases. We haven’t released the figures. The CDC, WHO, and USAMRIID have been notified, but everyone else is still under the impression that this is a naturally occurring outbreak, not a terrorist act.”

My mind harkened back to the anthrax scares after 9/11. The paranoia. The panic. Having this happen in my city was unfathomable. I thought about the tens of thousands of restaurants, cafés, bakeries, delis, supermarkets, and food stands in Chicago. One person, spreading a deadly toxin, could kill untold numbers before we even caught a lead.

“Has the FBI been contacted?” I asked.

“Yes. The Feds are sending a Hazardous Materials Response Team, which should arrive anytime. I’m sure Homeland Security will have a hand or three in as well.”

The super took a deep breath, then hit me with a stare so intense I had to fight to maintain eye contact.

“You and Sergeant Benedict have been on high-profile cases before, and when this breaks, it will be world news. You’ve had experience with product tampering. You’ve also had experience where the perpetrator contacted the police department.”

I didn’t volunteer that both of those cases were actually the same case, and that the MO was entirely different from this one. Instead I said, “So we’re here to consult?”

“No,” she said. “This case is yours.”

Herb made a tiny gagging sound. I tried to get my head around this. Bains glanced at me like he didn’t believe it either.

“We appreciate the vote of confidence, Superintendent O’Loughlin. But if this is simply because I’m a woman—”

“Spare me the kiss-ass and the righteous indignation, Lieutenant. I didn’t choose you because you’re the best cop in the city, or because you have tits. There were ten people on the list ahead of you. All of them men. The mayor got roasted when he appointed a woman in charge of the CPD. I’m not anxious to commit the same career suicide.”

That’s what I figured. “So why—”

Davy stood behind the super, the smile on his face so wide, it touched his ears.

“Your approval rating is at eighty-three percent,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

Davy sat on the corner of the desk and gave me a friendly Dale Carnegie pat on the shoulder. I could feel his hot, moist palms through the silk of my blouse.

“The people of Chi-Town love you, Lieutenant Jack Daniels. You caught that crazy family last year, that brain tumor guy before that. Plus, the Gingerbread Man. Putting you in charge of this case will counteract some of the negative publicity we’ll receive when the story goes public. You’ll be giving hope to the hopeless.”

Unbelievable. I wasn’t the best qualified to run this case, but they picked me because I could smile pretty for the camera.

“Superintendent O’Loughlin—”

“The decision has been made. You have a blank check on this. Unlimited resources. If you aren’t competent, find people who are.”

The super hit the intercom button, asking the nurse to come in with the botulism toxin vaccines.

I looked at Herb. He was staring into space, either in deep thought, or unable to adequately process the situation.

I could relate. This wasn’t just a bad case. This was a career killer. They hadn’t caught the anthrax terrorist. Had he continued, he could have crippled the nation. And decades earlier, Chicago had been plagued by another tamperer, the Tylenol Killer, who had laced the pain reliever with cyanide. TK had single-handedly and irreversibly changed the face of over-the-counter drugs. Capsules to tablets. Tamper-proof bottles. Blister packs and double-sealed boxes. Seven dead, and billions of dollars in revenue lost. And he’d never been brought to justice.

Catching bad guys required evidence and eyewitnesses. Poisoners were the hardest perps to catch. A single, organized, motivated individual, with a basic knowledge of chemistry, could wreak more havoc on Chicago than all of the crime in the last fifty years combined.

I felt like hiding under the desk. O’Loughlin read my mind.

“Failure isn’t an option, Lieutenant. This is the second-largest police force in the nation. I’ve got 16,538 people under my command. Fewer than one-quarter of them are women. You fuck this up, you fuck it up for me and for every female who has busted her ass to be treated like an equal in this sexist, chauvinist-pig pen. Catch the guy, you’re a hero and we’ll give you a parade. Screw up, and your career is over.”

The nurse came in, toting a little white case.

“And if I refuse?” I asked.

O’Loughlin didn’t blink. “You can pick up your white gloves and whistle down the hall. We’ll start you at the intersection of Congress and Michigan. Make sure you brush up on your traffic signals before you report for work tomorrow at five a.m.”

She grinned, and it was chilling. “If you want to speak with your union rep, I have him on speed dial. Or I could voice your concerns when I have dinner over at his place tonight.”

I looked at Herb again, but he was still spacey. The nurse rolled up the sleeve of my blouse and dabbed my arm with an alcohol pad.

“Okay then,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

Chapter 3

THE SUPER HAD a table brought into her office, and Herb and I made a list of cops that we trusted. We picked from different areas so there wouldn’t be shortage in any particular district. When we were finished, we had a task force of a hundred cops. O’Loughlin added eight secretaries to the group.

“First thing we need to do,” I said, “is close every deli on Irving Park Road.”

“Be discreet,” Davy suggested. “Panic won’t help the situation. This city tends to riot when its sporting teams win a championship. They won’t react well to terrorist threats.”

Herb folded his arms, but his heart didn’t seem into it. “The public needs to know.”

Davy shook his head. “Not a good idea. The tourist business in Chicago is a billion-dollar industry.” Davy held up his fists and began ticking off fingers. “Hotels. Airlines. Taxis. Restaurants. Museums. Shopping. Who would go out to eat if they knew someone was randomly poisoning the city’s food?”

“That’s the point,” I said.

“We’re also talking thousands, tens of thousands, of jobs here. Plus Chicago might never recover from the stigma. Look at Toronto after the SARS scare. Hundreds of millions in lost revenue.”

I didn’t know who I despised more, the homicidal killers or the bean counters. I gave the super my brightest us girls need to stick together smile.

“Second thing we need to do is lose the PR guy.” I jerked my thumb at Davy. “There’s a shark out there, and he doesn’t want to close the beaches.”

The super shrugged. “The mayor wants him here. He stays.”

Herb looked sour. “Are we going to tell the public?”

“I’ll pass along your recommendation to His Honor.”

My turn to look sour. “What about the lawsuits that are going to rain down when the public finds out we knew there was a threat and didn’t tell them?”

“We weigh that against destroying businesses, irrevocably hurting the economy, and yelling fire in a crowded movie theater and the resulting panic it would cause.”

“But there is a fire,” Herb said.

She wouldn’t budge. “There’s already been a lot of media speculation that a tamperer is involved. People are being careful.”

Davy smiled at me like the annoying little brother I never had.

“Not careful enough,” I insisted. “Let’s confirm the rumors. If everyone is on the lookout, maybe he’ll stay in his house and stop poisoning our city.”

Now the super folded her arms. “The decision has been made. We sit on it for now.”

You can’t fight City Hall. I changed gears. “How many other contaminated scenes have we found?”

O’Loughlin picked up one of the folders littering her desk. “None have been verified yet, but there are eleven possibles. The CDC is taking patient histories at area hospitals to pinpoint outbreak epicenters. We’re meeting with them later today.”

“Any evidence from the scenes?” I asked.

“That’s what you’re here for.”

“Have they been closed? Even the possibles?”

“Yes.”

I put Herb in charge of that.

“Also,” I told him, “interview the people exposed so far. The sick, and the families of the deceased. Plus the cops and the mail carrier who handled the letter.”

The super raised her eyebrow in a question.

“Sometimes big crimes are committed to cover up smaller crimes. Maybe the Chemist had a specific target, and the rest of this is all smoke and mirrors.”

“I’ll need more cops,” Herb said.

“Retirees,” I said. “Put them back on limited duty.”

The super nodded, then took a phone call.

The extortion letter had gone on ahead to the crime lab, and I dug out my cell and spoke briefly with my guy there, Scott Hajek. He’d confirmed botulism in the envelope and on the letter through the wonder of mass spectrometry. Postmark came from the post office around the corner, mailed yesterday. Stamp and seal on the envelope both self-adhesive, so no saliva. Eleven prints found on the envelope and paper. The letter had been printed on an inkjet, using Arial Black font, available on almost every computer made after 1994. No hairs or fibers or business cards revealing the Chemist’s address had yet been found, but Hajek was still on it.

“Priors,” Captain Bains said. He’d been silent for so long, I’d forgotten he was there. “I can get a team searching for anyone in our system with a past record of poisoning, product tampering, or extortion.”

“Keep it open to women,” I said.

O’Loughlin cut off her phone conversation in mid-sentence and gave me the eyebrow.

“Poisoners tend to be women,” I said. “It’s a crime that doesn’t involve physical aggression or personal contact.”

“How about the botulism itself?” Herb asked. “Any way to trace that?”

“Maybe I can help with that.”

I looked over my shoulder, and in walked...a hottie.

While I appreciated a good-looking guy as much as any woman, my days of getting dreamy-eyed and giggly were thirty years behind me.

This man, however, made me feel sixteen again.

He was gorgeous. Early thirties, tall, broad shoulders and narrow hips, a Marlboro profile, and piercing blue eyes that were otherworldly. His suit wasn’t as expensive as Davy’s, but he filled it out a lot better. It was as if God had taken half of Bra. Pitt’s genes, mixed them with half of Sean Connery’s, and added more muscles and thicker hair.

“Special Agent Rick Reilly, HMRT.”

He did a round of hand-shaking. When his fingers touched mine I felt a shock, then spent the next few seconds wondering if I’d imagined it or not.

“Clostridium botulinum is a bacteria that occurs naturally in the soil throughout North America,” Rick said. He had a rich baritone, with just a hint of Southern lilt. “It produces a toxin that has the honor of being the most poisonous substance in the world. A single gram could effectively kill a million people. Symptoms of food-borne illness can begin as early as two hours after exposure, or may be delayed for as long as two weeks.”

“What are the symptoms?” Herb asked.

Rick sat on the super’s desk, facing me and Herb. His crotch was just below eye level, and the very fact that I was even thinking about it meant my mind wasn’t in the game. I refused to look.

“Let’s say you ate some contaminated seafood. It doesn’t matter if it came straight from the freezer, or the microwave. Heat and cold might kill the bacteria, but the poison they produce is still deadly. The next morning, your mouth might be unusually dry. You might also have some abdominal cramps. Maybe even some vomiting. But no fever. It feels like a hangover. What’s happening is that your bloodstream is circulating the toxin to your neurological junctions, where it binds irreversibly, blocking acetylcholine release.”

“English,” O’Loughlin barked.

“It goes where your nerve endings meet your muscle fibers, and paralyzes them. You can’t walk or move. Your face droops. You get double vision and lose your gag reflex. And eventually, you can no longer breathe.”

I thought about the shots the nurse had administered the hour previously, and wondered if my dry mouth was the result of nerves or the result of a bad batch of vaccine.

“What’s the treatment?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly.

“Antitoxin and ventilation. It can take months to fully recover, and there may always be some residual paralysis. With effective treatment, there’s less than a twenty-five percent loss of life. If treatment is delayed, or if there’s a shortage of adequate equipment, the death toll rises.”

“Can people transfer it to each other?” the super asked.

“Normally, no. Botulism isn’t contagious. But we seem to be dealing with a weaponized form that may have inhalation properties, so if someone has BT on their hands or clothing, cross-contamination is possible. For example...”

He reached over and stroked the back of my hand. I felt another spark.

“...if I had BT on my fingers, I could have transferred a lethal dose to Lieutenan. Daniels. The toxin can enter the body many different ways. The lungs, the stomach, wounds, mucus membranes”—his eyes met mine—“or through sexual contact. The spores will remain on her skin until they’re washed off.”

“Bleach?” I asked.

Rick smiled at me.

“A bubble bath would be fine.”

Then he lowered his eyes, for just a fraction of a second, and eyed the tear in my skirt. I felt my whole body blush.

Thankfully, he hopped off the desk and walked over to the corner of the room, where he’d left his briefcase. He dug around inside and pulled out a syringe, a salt shaker, and a spray bottle.

“I’ve been with the CDC crew all day, and we’ve been trying to imagine a delivery system to contaminate food. A syringe would be able to penetrate food products and offer the highest likelihood of spreading the disease. A squirt bottle, used by someone polishing fruit in the fresh produce aisle, would work, but the toxin doesn’t last too long when exposed to O2. But if the Chemist is using dry spores, which last longer in an oxygenated environment, a salt or pepper shaker would do the trick.”

“Do you know which he’s using?” Herb asked.

“We don’t know yet. We’ve found contaminated food, but no needle holes. And we haven’t seen spores on the outside of food in quantities that would suggest a shaker. He might be soaking food in the toxin at his home, then bringing it to the stores.”

“Where would he get the toxin?” Bains asked. “Can it be ordered online?”

Rick sat on the desk again, his crotch again at eye level. This time I looked. Ay caramba. Rick didn’t lack in that area either.

“The toxin is available for sale at hundreds of locations throughout Illinois,” he said. “Anyone with a few wrinkles will pay big money to get their hands on some.”

“Botox.” Davy smiled, and I noted that he had no smile lines at all.

“Exactly. In small doses, the same toxin that paralyzes your diaphragm can paralyze the tiny muscles in the face that cause frown lines and crow’s-feet. But pharmaceutical Botox sprayed on food wouldn’t cause the kind of epidemic we’re seeing here, and because Botox uses the toxin, not the bacteria, it can’t be cultured. A much easier source of botulism is honey.”

Rick waited for a response. I bit. “Honey?”

“Yes, darling?”

Bains thought this was hilarious. No one else laughed.

“Sorry.” Rick gave me an aw, shucks look that made my hormones gush. “Serious topic, thought some comedy might help. Honey contains botulism spores. That’s why it carries warnings on the label, not to feed to children under the age of one. Their intestinal bacteria aren’t mature enough to handle it.”

“You can culture botulism from honey?” Herb asked. He didn’t look happy.

“It isn’t easy, but it’s possible. Even from pasteurized honey.”

“So there’s no way to trace the bacteria strain?” Herb again.

“Anyone with some basic lab equipment and a few biology books could learn to culture botulism. Weaponizing it would be more difficult, but there’s a wealth of information on the Internet. This particular toxin has been identified as type E. It’s common to this area.”

O’Loughlin grunted, then said, “Botulism cases are monitored by the CDC, right?”

“They keep track of all reported cases, and hospitals are required by law to report them.”

“Is it possible the Chemist contracted botulism at some point? We could track past cases to find him.”

Rick nodded. “Good thinking, but there are fewer than one hundred cases of botulism reported every year in North America, and all have highly detailed patient histories. I’m guessing the Chemist hasn’t been infected with botulism. He’s probably being extremely careful. You don’t develop an immunity to BT, even if you’ve been exposed before.”

“I thought we all got vaccines,” Bains said.

“Those are experimental, and it’s unlikely that the Chemist has access to the vaccines. So far the public sector can’t obtain them.”

“What if he works for the government?” I asked.

“It doesn’t really matter. The only vaccines in production are for type A and type C strains.”

A little alarm went off in my head.

“You said we’re dealing with type E.”

“Correct.”

“So these vaccines won’t protect us from this illness?”

I watched Rick’s confidence slip a notch. “They may offer some protection.”

“Really?”

Rick frowned. “No.”

“How about antibiotics?” Bains asked.

“Works on the bacteria, not the toxin. The toxin is what kills you.”

Herb asked, “How about that antitoxin you mentioned?”

“That can halt advancing symptoms, but can’t reverse them. Once the nerve ending is paralyzed, it’s paralyzed forever. Which is why recovery takes so long—you have to grow new neurological junctions. But right now we’ve got two pharmaceutical companies working nonstop to supply Chicago with more doses. They should be able to provide us with a thousand by the week’s end.”

“We’ve already had three thousand reported cases,” I said, my stomach clenching. “What are we supposed to do?”

Rick looked at O’Loughlin.

“The federal government doesn’t make deals with terrorists,” he said, just as my cell phone buzzed. “But if I were you, I’d give the guy his two million dollars.”

I excused myself and answered the phone.

“Hi, Lieut. Hajek here. We’ve traced a print. It’s strange, though.”

“Cut the drama and spill.”

“Jason Alger, sixty-three years old, lives in Humboldt Park.”

“Record?”

“No. He’s one of ours. CPD, retired. I’d ask if maybe he came into contact with the envelope somehow, maybe visiting the station. But except for the super’s secretary, all of the prints are his, and one is beneath the adhesive stamp. He has to be the one that sent the letter.”

“Good work, Officer.”

I explained the situation to the room, and we were out the door thirty seconds later, off to interview one of our own.

Chapter 4

Four Hours Earlier

HE CALLS HIMSELF the Chemist, but he isn’t a chemist. He isn’t a botanist either, although the extensive greenhouse that takes up his entire backyard makes his neighbors think otherwise.

He’s just a simple government employee, unhappy with the system. But unlike the thousands of other government employees, punching their clocks, hating their lives, he’s devised a way to make the system pay.

The Plan is still in the first phase. He’s been working on it, refining it, modifying it, for six years, three months, and eleven days. Though he is not perfect, the Plan is. In four days, nine hours, and sixteen minutes, it will all be over. He’ll be rich, on a bus to Mexico. And Chicago, along with the entire Midwest, will be permanently crippled.

People will die. Many more than anyone could possibly expect. Thousands more.

The apartment is all set. Has been, for over a week. A baited trap, waiting for the mice. It will make the TV news tonight for sure. Possibly even national. He considers setting the TiVo, but quickly dismisses the thought. He isn’t going to miss anything. They’ll repeat the footage.

The summer air is cool and crisp. It’s night, so activity will be minimal, but he puts on the netting just in case. It’s in a sealed plastic bin next to the greenhouse door. He places it over his head, then reaches for the gloves. They’re made of neoprene, chemical resistant, and he’s careful not to touch the outside of them as he slips them on.

The greenhouse door is locked with an electronic keypad beneath the knob. This high-tech addition was relatively cheap, and circumvents having to mess around with keys while wearing the gloves. It won’t deter someone serious—after all, the greenhouse is made entirely out of glass and plastic—but it will keep the neighborhood kids out.

That kind of attention would be most unwelcome, after the years of planning.

He punches the code and opens the door. The thermometer on the wall reads 102 degrees Fahrenheit. Part of this is due to the gas heaters. Part is due to the towering compost heap in the back, which recently received a particularly large infusion of organic matter.

The Chemist loves being in the greenhouse. An untrained eye would only see the beauty of nature expressed by the ranks and files of growing, thriving plant life. A keener eye would be able to spot the cruelty beneath the veneer.

It’s the cruelty that the Chemist adores.

He checks the hydroponics on a castor oil plant. Castors resemble hemp, but with six leaves rather than five. Next to it is a pallet of short green plants sporting delicate white flowers—lily of the valley. Behind them, oleander, the majestic flowers yawning open in the artifi cial light like pink fireworks. To their right, azaleas, with their startling bloodred buds, surrounded by netting much like his pith helmet, so the bees can’t get to them.

The Chemist steps over a tank of nitrox, navigates around several stacks of fertilizer, past piles of piping and boxes of roofing nails, and approaches a ten-gallon saltwater aquarium. Roaming along the bottom, among the sand and bits of dead coral, are over a dozen brilliantly colored cone snails, none longer than two inches. In the tank behind them, next to the cockroach pen, are fingerling goldfish. He takes the small net off its suction-cup hook, scoops up several feeders, and drops them into the snail tank.

Normally he’d stay to watch the feast, but he has other things to do tonight.

Near the rear of the greenhouse, between the nightshade and the jimsonweed, is his workbench. Assorted beakers, petri dishes, test tubes, flasks, stoppers, swabs, eyedroppers, and a variety of tools are arranged carefully in the six foam-lined drawers. He drags a large plastic garbage can over to his stool, then bends down and lifts a case of premium vodka onto the bench. Removing a fresh bottle by the neck, he holds it over the can and shatters it with a hammer, glass and vodka spilling onto his gloved hands.

He picks through the mess, finds what he wants, and sets it on a place mat atop the bench, next to half a box of shotgun shells. A pair of garden clippers catches his eye, its blades stained with dirt and dried blood.

The Chemist smiles at the memory they invoke.

He picks up the shears and carries them to the large industrial sink, between the refrigerator and the autoclave, near the rear of the green house. He turns on the faucet and scrubs the shears with antibacterial soap. He also scrubs the remaining vomit from the ball-gag and the handcuffs, and then drops all three items into a bucket with a twenty-percent bleach solution.

When everything is rub-a-dub-dub clean, he glances at the clock and decides to head over to police headquarters on Thirty-fifth and Michigan.

He doesn’t want to be late.

Chapter 5

JASON ALGER RECEIVED his pension check at his home on the corner of Cortland Street and Hoyne Avenue, in the heart of a neighborhood known as Buck town. He lived in an unassuming two-story residence with an ample backyard.

When we arrived on the scene, eight members of the Special Response Team—Chicago’s version of SWAT—had already secured the perimeter and were scanning the building with optics. Their vehicle, a souped-up bus known as the Mobile Command Post, was parked on the street alongside several patrol cars.

The head of this SRT, a bull-faced sergeant appropriately named Stryker, was squinting at some fuzzy pink images on a laptop display. He wore the standard tactical gear: black jumpsuit, body armor, riot helmet, radio headset, and a utility belt stuffed with equipment, including a gas mask.

“I’ve got two heat signatures on the first floor, and one on the second,” he said into his comlink. “No movement.”

“Human beings?” I asked.

He didn’t bother looking at me.

“Unconfirmed.”

I watched an SRT member reposition the thermal optics, and another, a woman, sweep the building with a DOX sound cannon—a device that looked like a bullhorn but was actually an ultrasensitive unidirectional microphone. Two others were examining a printout that showed the floor plan of the building.

These guys were fast.

“Stryker,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Has your team been briefed?”

Again, the team leader didn’t so much as glance at me.

“Sixty-three-year-old Caucasian male, considered armed and dangerous, probable location in the rear bedroom on the second floor, no other civilian activity, possible presence of biological agents. Two by two surgical entry, Taser capture takedown.”

“He’s a cop,” I said. “His name is Jason Alger. I just cracked his file—his record on the force is golden. I also spoke to his former commander on the ride over. Alger was a straight shooter, family man, wife passed away six years ago, has a daughter and grandchildren in California. This isn’t in character for him.”

Stryker grunted, or perhaps it was a laugh. “Sometimes good apples get rotten.”

“And sometimes they get thrown away while they’re still good. Take it slow in there. Something isn’t right.”

“That’s the only time we get called.”

“Yeah. Well, good luck, Sergeant.”

“Luck is for the unprepared.”

I took a step back before the testosterone surging off his body caused me to grow a mustache. Special Agent Rick Reilly sidled up behind me, so close I could feel his body heat.

Or maybe that was my imagination.

“These guys any good?” he asked under his breath.

“They’re good.”

“They’ve got a lot of fancy equipment. Is the subject inside the house?”

“We’re not sure. Thermals have a few readings. Could be a person. Could be a radiator, or a fireplace.”

“In June?”

“Or a water heater or a stove.”

“I like his utility belt. He looks like Batman.”

Normally I didn’t mind jokes, but I was on edge.

“You’re a biology guy, right?”

“I’m a doctor, actually. But saying Special Agent Dr. Rick Reilly is too much of a mouthful.”

“Will those gas masks they have protect against BT?”

“They’re standard NBC masks—nuclear, biological, chemical. NATO threaded filters. Should be fine. You look worried.”

“I am worried. Show me a leader worth her salt who doesn’t worry.”

Rick pointed his chin at Stryker.

“GI Joe doesn’t seem worried.”

“And that worries me. Confidence is essential, cockiness is lethal.”

This was my show. I wondered if there was anything more I should be doing. Go in with them? I didn’t have that kind of training. And if I got into a whose balls are bigger spat with Sergeant Stryker it might be distracting, and I wanted him focused.

They know what they’re doing,  I assured myself.

“Why aren’t you married?”

I narrowed my eyes at Rick, knocked off guard by the non sequitur.

“What does that have to do with this case?”

“Not a thing,” he said. “But it might have everything to do with grabbing a bite to eat later.”

“I have a fiancé,” I said.

“Forget to wear the ring this morning?”

His eyes had a playful glint to them, which annoyed me. This wasn’t the time or place for flirting. And cute guys had no right coming on to me only a few hours after the man I loved proposed marriage.

The man who was waiting patiently for me back at the house.

I excused myself and walked into the street, hitting the speed dial button on my cell phone.

“Hi, Latham.”

“Hi, Jack. Any chance you’ll be home soon? I made your favorite. Wiener schnitzel and spaetzle.”

German food was comfort food to me. I mentioned it offhandedly on one of our early dates, and the next time I went to his place Latham cooked it for me. Men who could cook trumped men with sexy bedroom eyes.

Not that Latham didn’t have sexy bedroom eyes.

I involuntarily glanced at Rick, noticed he was watching me, and gave him my back.

“You’re a sweetheart, Latham. I’ll try my best, but I’m in the middle of something big.”

“I understand. I’ll wait for you.”

The man was a saint.

“No. Go ahead and eat without me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I insist. I don’t know when we’ll finish up here. It could go late.”

“I’ll keep it warm for you.”

“The food?”

“Everything.”

Some paramedics pulled up. Standard procedure for a smash and grab, but it made me even more uneasy.

“How’s that mariachi?” I asked. “Did he ever find the rest of his mustache?”

“No. I think Mr. Friskers ran off with it.”

I smiled for the first time in hours.

“Look, Latham, I know I owe you an answer...”

“Focus on work, Jack. Keep your mind on the matter at hand. Everything else can wait until later.”

That proved it. Latham was an alien pod person. No man could be this perfect.

“I love you,” I said, and meant it.

“Love you too. Stay safe.”

Stryker rallied his troops, and my leadership role was relegated to the sidelines to impotently watch his “two by two surgical entry.” I stood alongside Herb, who’d been on the phone for over an hour organizing the task force teams, and snagged a headset from the SRT member monitoring the infrared. Beta Team marched around back, Stryker gave the radio command, and they rushed the front door. His partner did a knock-and-announce, Stryker hit the door with a handheld Thunderbolt battering ram, and they both stormed inside, weapons drawn.

“Team Alpha in,” the radio squawked. “Hallway clear.”

A similar banging came from the rear of the house.

“Team Beta in. Kitchen clear.”

The headsets were so sensitive, I could make out four different breathing rates, four different footfalls. They had gone in under the assumption that anyone inside would have looked out the window and noticed the police carnival camped on the street, so this arrest was about speed rather than stealth.

“First bedroom clear.”

Shuffling sounds. Some clicks.

“Hallway clear.”

Then came a gunshot.

And screaming.

“Beta Team leader down! Repeat, Beta Team leader down! We have gunfire!”

A horrible gurgling came through my earpiece, like someone choking in a shallow pool of water.

“Alpha Team has been hit! Possible IED! Alpha—”

There was a popping noise, another gunshot, and static.

“Team Alpha, do you read,” I said into the comlink. “Team Alpha, do you read.”

Moaning, but no coherent response.

“Team Beta, do you read. Beta, are you there, goddammit.”

More gurgling, weaker this time.

Herb closed his cell phone and said, “Jesus.”

I looked at the laptop monitor and could spot the heat signatures of all fou. SRT members. None were moving.

“Stryker, are you there.”

The moaning became a keening cry, like a sick dog. It made the fillings in my teeth vibrate.

“Gamma Team going in!”

Two more SRT members, a man and the woman working the cartoid mike, rushed the house.

“Hold it!” I yelled.

They didn’t listen, quickly disappearing through the front door.

“Gamma Team, stand down,” I said into the radio. “Repeat, stand down. I’m OIC. I want your asses back here now.”

White noise. A groan.

“They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

I gripped the headgear so tight, my fingers shook. “Get the hell out of there!”

“Jesus, what happened to his eyes—”

“This place is rigged. It’s all rigged. Oh my—”

A snapping sound, then coughing.

“Gamma Team, do you read? Gamma Team, come in, over.”

More coughing, and then the horrifying screech of someone screaming while throwing up. My skin got prickly all over.

“Gamma Team, come in.”

The silence was suffocating. Then, after almost thirty seconds: “Please...someone help me...”

The final two SRT members made a try for the door. Herb tackled one. I used both hands to grab the other by the wrist.

“No,” I told him.

“That’s my team!”

“We’ll get them out.”

His name tag said James, Joshua. A kid, early twenties, barely old enough to shave. His eyes were wide, panicked, and he looked like he desperately wanted to believe me.

“How?” he asked.

I turned to the super, who appeared shaken, but not nearly as shaken as everyone on the line.

“I need a HazMat team, and the bomb squad, and that robot they have, the remote control one with the cameras.”

“Bomb squad is at the Twenty-first District, the other side of town,” she said.

“Tell them to drive fast.”

Rick took my arm. “Make sure the HazMat uses self-contained breathers. I think something got through the NATO filters.”

“I thought the NATO filters were safe.”

“For BT, yes.” Rick glanced at the radio unit, painful gurgling coming through the speaker. “That doesn’t sound like BT.”

“Do you have...what are those protective suits called?”

“Space suits. Back at Quantico. Not with me.”

“...help me...please God help...”

I racked my brain. Who would have a space suit? Fire stations? Nearby laboratories? I just saw a suit like that a little while ago. Where the hell was it?

Then I remembered what neighborhood I was in, and who lived nearby.

“Goddammit,” I said, yanking out my cell phone, wondering if I’d ever bothered to erase his number.

It was still there. I hesitated two full seconds, then pressed the dial button.

“Harry’s House of Love Juice, one hundred percent natural with zero carbohydrates, stop by for a free sample.”

“McGlade,” I said, swallowing my pride. “It’s Jack. I need your help.”

Chapter 6

MCGLADE BEAT THE BOMB SQUAD and the HazMat team to the scene, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because we desperately needed his help, bad because being around McGlade was slightly less enjoyable than pulling out your own toenails with pliers.

“Hiya, Jackie,” he said through the driver’s-side window, pulling his Corvette alongside the curb. “You want me to park this big boy here, or shall I use your rear entrance?”

I briefly wondered what happened to his trademark 1968 Mustang, then realized he couldn’t drive stick shift with his newly acquired prosthesis. McGlade had been a player in a homicide investigation of mine not too long ago, and he hadn’t come out of the debacle entirely intact.

“Got the space suit?”

“I got it. You’re lucky too—I just had it cleaned. There were stains, Jack. Lots of stains.”

I put the thought from my mind. An eternity ago, Harry McGlade and I were partners. Since his dismissal, he’d been earning his living as a full-time private eye and part-time television producer. Along with boasting the IQ of a tire iron, McGlade also had the unwelcome distinction of being one of the biggest perverts I know, and I’d met quite an assortment of them working Vice. Whatever he was using this space suit for had nothing to do with science.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“In back.”

He popped the trunk, and I stared at a big pile of Day-Glo orange. I grabbed a sleeve and pulled the suit out of the car. The material felt like a combination of rubber and nylon.

“I should be the one going in,” Rick said, coming up behind me.

“Those are my people in there, Agent Reilly. I’m going.”

Herb ran over, looking even shittier than he had earlier.

“They’re not responding anymore,” he said. “Radio is silent.”

“Can you hear anything? Moaning? Breathing?” Rick asked.

Herb shook his head. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my skirt. Rick an. Herb averted their eyes. McGlade whistled.

“This is a police matter, McGlade,” I said, struggling into the suit. “You can leave.”

“Ease up, Lieutenant. We still haven’t worked out what you’re giving me because I’m letting you use my suit.”

I fought the material. The inside clung to my bare legs like plastic wrap. “It can wait.”

“I want a liquor license.”

Unbelievable. Herb must have thought so as well. He grabbed McGlade’s shoulder.

“You need to leave. Now.”

McGlade waved his artificial hand. It wasn’t a primitive pirate claw, but it didn’t look entirely realistic either. The flesh color was too light, and shiny like rubber.

“Don’t shoot me, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”

Herb gave McGlade a push backward.

McGlade smiled and shook his head, raising both hands in apparent supplication. Then he placed his fake one on Herb’s shoulder. There was a faint mechanical sound, like gears turning, and Herb yelped and fell to his knees.

“Modern technology,” Harry said. “Six hundred pounds of pressure per square inch.”

I got in his face. “Dammit, McGlade! People are dying! Stop screwing around!”

Harry shrugged. The mechanical hand whirred open. Herb had lost all color.

“Sorry, Jackie. I didn’t know we were in such a rush.”

I managed to snug the suit on over my shoulders. McGlade leaned close to me and whispered, “So...if I let you use the space suit, can you talk the mayor into letting me have a liquor license for the bar I’m open—IIIIEEEEEE!”

McGlade fell over, clutching himself between his legs. Herb unclenched the fist he’d used to induce McGlade’s aria, then got up off of his knees, his other hand rubbing his shoulder.

“I hate that guy,” he said.

Rick helped me strap on the SCBA tank. The gloves were thin, but not thin enough to get my finger inside of a trigger guard. Herb noted this and promised he’d be right back. The headpiece went on over the radio headset, a large hood with a Plexiglas faceplate.

It was hot in the suit. Steam-bath hot. And it smelled bad, like chili dogs. Sweat beads popped out onto my forehead, and my silk blouse clung to me at my armpits.

“Let me know when you feel the air.”

Rick turned the dials on my self-contained breathing apparatus, and a wave of cool air bathed my face and circulated throughout the suit. The chest and legs began to puff out, like a balloon.

“I’ll be with you on the radio,” Rick said through the comlink. “Keep the chatter going, describe everything you see, maybe I can help.”

Herb jogged back, cradling a Remington 870MCS shotgun with a pistol grip. He stepped over McGlade and passed it to me. My gloved finger easily fit into the oversized trigger guard.

“Bomb squad is still ten minutes away,” Herb said. “Robby took a bad hit last week and is out of commission.”

Robby was their remote-controlled robot.

“Give my respects to his family,” I said, starting for the house.

“We could still wait for them. They’ve got better protective gear.”

“No time.”

“Dammit, Jack.” Herb came up after me. “You’re not even wearing a vest.”

“Armor didn’t seem to help the SRT.”

I jogged toward the house. Herb and Rick flanked me.

“Her suit is leaking,” Herb said. “I can feel the air.”

“Positive pressure. It’s supposed to do that. With air blowing out, nothing can get in.”

Herb appeared ready to burst into tears.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jack.”

“Me too.”

I paused for just a moment, and stared at my partner through the Plexiglas face shield, wondering why this moment seemed so final.

“Okay.” I took a big gulp of canned air. “Let’s do this.”

Chapter 7

THE CHEMIST WATCHES the cop in her space suit approach the front door. The suit offers more protection than the previous batch of cops had, but it still isn’t enough.

She has seconds left to live. Minutes, if she’s extremely lucky.

The Chemist has spent a very long time getting things ready. There are enough traps to kill at least a dozen cops. Even careful ones in protective biohazard suits.

He hadn’t expected that the next death would be Jack Daniels, however. She’s a celebrity. Now this will be national news for sure. He should have set th. TiVo after all.

He wonders which one will get her. The modified M44? The rattraps? The pull-loop switch? The metal ball? So many terrible things await her.

And which toxin will it be? BT is perfect for food contamination, and the slower onset of symptoms has the desired effect of overburdening the hospitals and spreading panic and paranoia. But situations like this one called for something more immediate. More dramatic. Convallaria majalis. Ricin. Rhododendron ponticum. Ornithogalum umbellatum. Thevetia peruviana. Strychnos toxifera. Each of these induces instantaneous, messy death.

Of course, nothing is quite as cinematic as good old homemade napalm. Or potassium cyanide gas. He’s covered those bases too.

The Chemist spent several months researching this particular phase of the Plan. Booby trap diagrams are easily found on the Internet, but he’s taken them to the next level. They’ve become works of art. Fatal works of art. The slightest scrape of skin, the tiniest tear of fabric, the smallest misstep, and you’re dead.

So exciting. So amusing. And he has the perfect view of everything.

He wishes he had a bag of popcorn.

A television news truck pulls up. It’s about damn time.

The money will be nice. But what will really keep him company in his old age are the memories of moments like this.

Chapter 8

THE SPACE SUIT WAS claustrophobic, hot, and cumbersome. I found it extremely hard to focus. The jog up to the front door had a surreal quality, as if I were indeed stepping foot onto another planet.

“Keep your eyes moving.” Rick, through the comlink. “Not only side to side, but up and down. Pay attention to where you’re placing your feet, and what’s overhead. You’re looking for IEDs.”

Improvised explosive devices. Traps that released chemical or biological weapons. The things that decimated the SRT.

I stopped before entering the doorway and poked my hooded head inside, twisting my shoulders to get peripheral views. I could see the living room to my immediate left; the sofa and entertainment center looked completely normal. Beyond it, a hallway. To my right, several doors. No signs of Alger, or any of the fallen cops.

“Where’s the first heat signature?” I said into my headset.

“To your right.” Herb’s voice. “Second door.”

“Watch the thermals. If you see any signs of movement, let me know.”

“Roger that. Take it slow in there, Jack.”

I lifted up my right foot and crossed the threshold. The floor was dark wood, scratched, in need of refinishing. I noted some splinters and a screw; leftovers from the battering ram. I shifted my weight to my foot slowly, cautiously, as if I were on thin ice. It held.

“Attention, Special Response Team, this is Lieutenant Daniels, Homicide.” I’d almost said Violent Crimes, but recently the suits had changed division names. “I’m coming into the house to find you. If you see someone in a big orange suit, hold your fire.”

My words echoed in my earpiece, but had another added echo after bouncing off of my faceplate. I moved with care, as if every step counted, but the boots attached to the suit were too big for my feet and it was like walking around in clown shoes. Four steps into the hallway, my toe snagged on the base of a coatrack and I almost fell on top of my shotgun.

I was going to kill myself before I even got to the booby traps.

“What do you see, Jack?”

“It’s a house. A normal, average house.”

“It’s not normal. Don’t think that way. The IEDs will be hidden, or camouflaged. They might look like a child’s toy, or a framed photograph, or a pair of slippers. Assume that everything is deadly.”

I took a deep breath, let it out slow. Passed through the hallway without further incident, and stopped at the second door.

“How far into the room is the thermal reading?”

Herb said, “It’s about two yards in front of you. Not moving.”

Some sweat had beaded up on my forehead, and I didn’t have a way to wipe it off.

“I’m going in.”

My right hand kept the Remington at waist level. My left turned the knob and eased the door open.

I let out a nervous laugh when I saw the familiar rectangular object.

“It’s a space heater.”

“How many cords?” Rick asked.

That was a curious question. I lowered my line of vision to floor level and saw two.

“Thermal levels increasing.” Herb sounded as edgy as I felt.

“Two plugs, leading to the same outlet.”

“One is probably a motion detector, which activates a switch to increase the temperature. Certain poisons, like arsenic, become gaseous when heated.”

“Good thing I’m wearing a mask. I can see some fumes coming off of—”

Because I had no peripheral vision, I didn’t see the baseball until it was practically in my face. I jerked to the right, and it bounced off my faceplate. My finger reflexively squeezed the trigger, and I sprayed buckshot along the far wall, the boom of the shotgun rattling my teeth.

“Jack! Jack, are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Something hit me in the face. It’s some kind of spiked thing.”

It spun crazily in front of me, a baseball on a string. Sticking out of it on all sides, like prickles on a cactus, were nails.

“Did it penetrate your suit?”

“I don’t think so.” I eyed the deep scratch in my faceplate, saw some sort of liquid dripping down the outside. I shuddered, wondering what those nails were coated in.

“You have to make sure, Jack.”

“How?”

“Find a piece of paper. Hold it in front of your mask. If there’s a hole, the positive pressure will blow the paper.”

I looked around the room, found a paperback copy of The Tomb by F. Paul Wilson, and waved a page a few inches before the scratch.

“It’s okay. No air coming out.”

“Check above you, look for more projectiles.”

I had to bend backward to see the ceiling. “There’s a wire on top of the door. When I opened it, this thing was rigged to fall. Doesn’t look like there’s anything else up there.”

“Remember to keep looking above you.”

“Message received.”

I racked another shell into the chamber.

“...help...”

The word gave me gooseflesh.

“Did you guys hear that?”

“One of the SRT members.” Herb’s voice was pained. “He sounds alive.”

“Where are you?” I tried to listen for noises in the house. “The first or second floor?”

Coughing, then, “...help me...”

“We can’t tell where he is.”

I turned around and hurried down the hallway faster than I should have. Ahead, I saw stairs, and sitting on the bottom step, slumped over, one of my men.

I swiveled around, 360 degrees, looking for wires and traps and anything unusual. Finding nothing, I knelt next to the fallen cop and tilted up his head to see his face.

His gas mask was filled with bloody vomit, coating the inside of his goggles and oozing out the NBC filter.

I shut my eyes, then forced myself to place a hand on his chest, seeking evidence of breathing that I knew wouldn’t be there.

“I found Buhmann,” I said, sneaking a look at the name tag on his vest. “He’s gone.”

“Did you find what killed him? It might still be active.”

Paranoia cut through my anger, and I stood up and took a step back.

Except for his gas mask, Buhmann appeared normal. No injuries, no blood, no—

“It’s on the stairs.” I squinted and moved in closer. The camouflage was insidious. Eight three-inch nails, protruding up through the carpeting, painted to exactly match the color of the shag. The only reason I spotted them was a drop of blood on the middle nail.

I wondered what kind of person thought up something like that. I could picture him, sitting quietly at a workbench, calmly putting together such a horrible thing.

Cold-blooded wasn’t the word for it. This guy was a monster.

“...please help...”

“I’m going up.”

“There are several thermal readings nearby. Be careful.”

I didn’t need to be told to be careful. If the SWAT cop’s combat boots weren’t thick enough to stop a nail, my oversized rubber clown shoes wouldn’t offer me any better protection. Still, I took the stairs as quickly as I could, anxious to find the poor soul crying for help.

The stairs ended at a hallway, and three more bodies.

“Three more down, at the top of the stairs.”

“What do you see?”

“The nearest, vomit in the gas mask. The other two...”

It looked like their masks were filled with blood and bits of tissue. I remembered the wet coughing I’d heard earlier over the comlink. What kind of poison makes you cough up your own lungs?

“...dead. They’re all dead.”

“Who are they?”

I didn’t recognize the voice on the radio, and assumed it to be one of the remainin. SRT members I’d made stay outside.

“Name tags are Winston, Banks, and Kordova.”

“Look for what killed them.”

I took a cautious step forward. The hallway was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side, filled with an extensive collection of NASCAR plates, framed pictures, and assorted knickknacks. A few of the plates had shattered and fallen to the floor.

“Two of the bodies, I see wounds on their calves. Might be buckshot.”

“A hand-loaded shotgun shell packed with a fast-acting poison. Do you see any evidence of trip wires or pressure plates, or a gun or pipe sticking out of the walls?”

“No. Wait...there are some rattraps.”

I was reaching for one, when Rick yelled, “Don’t move!”

I froze in a crouching position.

“The traps fired the buckshot. It’s easy to rig a trap to fire a shotgun cartridge. There’s got to be tripwires in the hallway, stretching between the walls.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“They might not be stretched tight. Might be hanging loose. Monofilament fishing line is very thin, and it’s clear. How’s the lighting?”

“Not very good.” I saw a light switch on the wall. “There’s a switch, I’ll just—”

“Don’t flip the switch!”

“Jesus Christ! I’m going to die of a heart attack before any of these traps kill me!”

“The switch may be rigged. Take a Maglite from one of the SRTs’ utility belts.”

I altered my course to reach down for one of the flashlights. I tugged it out of its little holster and felt like a ghoul, robbing the dead.

“Got the light?”

“Yeah.”

“What color is the ceiling?”

“White.”

“Hold the Maglite down low and point it at a forty-five-degree angle upward. You won’t see the lines, but you might be able to see the shadows of the lines on the ceiling.”

Smart. I was becoming very grateful Rick had come along.

I twisted on the Mag and kept it at waist level, sweeping it back and forth.

The ceiling became a spiderweb of crisscrossing gray shadows.

“There’s a bunch. Maybe six to ten.”

“He’s probably not that way—he wouldn’t have made it. What’s behind you?”

I turned.

“A door. Closed.”

Herb said, “There’s a thermal reading, three yards east of you. It’s probably behind that door.”

The Remington was becoming heavy in my one-handed grip, and I was sweating so badly I felt like I’d just stepped out of the shower. I swept the Maglite around my immediate area, gently set the shotgun down against the hallway wall, and very slowly turned the doorknob.

I only got the door open an inch before feeling a small resistance.

“I think there’s something—”

Then came the explosion.

Chapter 9

IFELL ONTO MY ASS, sitting atop one of the dead cops, and the gas came billowing into the hall.

“Jack! Jack are you there!”

“The door was rigged. Gas is everywhere.”

Thick, gray gas, surrounding me completely.

“Is your suit breached?”

“I don’t know.”

The explosion hadn’t been that powerful. I hadn’t been knocked backward—I fell over from the surprise. Had it been enough to pierce my suit?

“Don’t panic. You have to stay calm.”

Easy for him to say. My ears were ringing, and my eyes stung like crazy.

Jesus, why were my eyes stinging?

The sweat, I realized. Dripping from my forehead. It must have gotten into my eyes.

At least, that’s what I hoped it was.

“Get out of there.”

That seemed like a good idea. I rolled onto all fours, but the gas had gotten so thick I couldn’t see anything.

“Can’t see. Too much gas.”

My throat became very dry, and I couldn’t swallow. Symptoms of panic, or something worse?

I reached out blindly before me, trying to find the stairs.

“Stay calm. Take it slow.”

My breath came in ragged gasps. Death. I was surrounded on all sides by death. I began to crawl, unable to fight the terror. I had to get out of there. I had to get out of there now. If there was even the tiniest hole in my suit—

The shotgun blast was so close to my head I saw stars. At the same instant I felt a tug along my back, as if my suit had caught on a nail.

I’d tripped one of the rattraps.

As my hearing returned, I could hear three different people screaming in my headset, and I reached around to feel my shoulders, to feel if I’d been hit.

I couldn’t tell. My back felt wet, but was that blood or sweat? This suit was bulky. The pellets might have passed right through.

But if I had holes in my suit the gas would get in.

I crawled faster, full-blown terror taking root in me like I’d never experienced before. I tripped another wire, and a gunshot peppered the shelving unit to my right, but I didn’t stop, I picked up speed, climbing over a body, pushing away dead limbs, biting the inside of my cheek, eyes blurry with tears, had-to-get-out-had-to-get-out-had-to-get-out—

I reached the end of the hall and pulled myself through a doorway, entering a small room. The gas was dissipating, and I could finally see again. My stomach felt like a giant knot, and I teetered on the verge of throwing up. I was also holding my breath, freaked out that gas had gotten inside my suit.

Calm down, Jack, I said to myself. Calm it down. You’re still alive.

I opened my mouth, trying to taste the air without breathing it.

Not surprisingly, it tasted like bile.

Squeezing my eyes shut, shaking from the lack of oxygen, I took a shallow breath even though my body craved more air.

No reaction.

I took a bigger breath, and began to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Jack! Are you there! Jack, please answer!”

“I’m still here,” I said, my voice sounding very far away.

I looked around me, saw I was in a bedroom. There was a bed, a closet, a dresser, and a full-length mirror.

I stood up on wobbly legs and walked over to the mirror, getting a profile view.

There were a dozen tiny holes in my suit where the buckshot had ripped through.

“My suit has holes in it.”

“Stay calm. As long as there’s positive air pressure, nothing can get in.”

“You son of a bitch—”

“McGlade, you little—”

“Give me the headset, lardass—”

“I’m gonna kick your—”

An oomph sound, coming from Herb.

“Jack! It’s Harry! You need to get your ass out of there! That tank is almost empty!”

Once again, panic wrapped around me like a blanket.

“Your fat sidekick punched me in the nards before I could tell you. I figure there was maybe four, five minutes of O2 left in that tank. How long have you been in there?”

About four or five minutes, I figured. I looked back down the booby-trapped hallway, gas still lingering in the air, and made my decision.

“I’m going out the back window. Get the paramedics to put a ladder—”

I stopped in mid-step. Both bedroom windows were surrounded by black pipes that didn’t look like they came standard with the house.

“I’m seeing some sort of pipes, sticking out of the window frames.”

“Describe them.” Rick again.

I didn’t want to get too close, but I forced myself to lean forward.

“Black. They have M44 written on the side.”

“Cyanide bombs. Used for killing animal predators. Don’t go near them.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Unfortunately, that meant I had to go back through the hallway to get out of there.

I began to hyperventilate, which made me even more light-headed than I already was. I got on all fours, reasoning that I’d already tripped the traps at that level and there wouldn’t be any more. The gas had thinned out to the consistency of steam. Crawling over my fallen brethren was even worse this time, now that I could see their bloody faces up close.

“Look, Jackie, if you don’t get out of there alive, I want to be sure that someone helps me out with this liquor license thing.”

Harry sounded so close, I almost turned around, expecting to see him standing over my shoulder.

“McGlade, get off the—”

I was halfway to the stairs when I paused, wondering why the voice on the headset had gotten so clear.

It took me a moment to realize the radio reception hadn’t gotten better—I could hear it better because there was no background noise.

The low, droning hiss of the SCBA had stopped.

I was out of air.

Chapter 10

I DIDN’T THINK. I moved. I made it through the gas and to the stairs in less than three seconds, and the. I slid down the first few on my belly like I was sledding.

The suit proved to be slipperier than I thought, and I picked up speed.

I stuck my hands out in front of me, trying to stop my momentum, but my gloves couldn’t get a purchase on the carpet. My chest felt like I was getting repeatedly kicked, and my head bounced around on my neck in whiplash jerks.

BUMP BUMP BUMP BUMP. The ground floor rushed at me, blurry and off center.

And then I remembered the nails on the bottom step.

They were less than a body length away. No time to turn. No time to stop. I arched my back, reaching out my hands, palms up, trying to grab the shoulders of the dead cop slumped at the bottom of the staircase. I hit him, hard, my elbows bending from the impact, holding my chest a few inches above the deadly nails.

I did a push-up off of Buhmann, got my feet under me, and eased myself over the trap. Fresh air was only a dozen yards away, out the front door. I got ready to sprint for it.

“...help me...”

I didn’t move.

Stryker was still alive. It had to be him, because the only SRT members I hadn’t seen yet were him and the woman.

I took a last, longing look at the door, then headed toward the rear of the house, to the kitchen, the only room I hadn’t yet seen.

“Jack, are you still there?”

“I’m here, Rick. I think he’s in the kitchen.”

I concentrated on slowing my breathing. I don’t know what poisons were clinging to me, or if anything had gotten in through the holes. Plus, the air inside the space suit was quickly becoming stale, since no new air was being pumped in. The less I breathed, the better.

Two steps into the kitchen, I found the female cop. I had no idea what killed her, but whatever it was made her eyes pop out of their sockets.

“Stryker, dammit, where are you?”

Static, then, “...base...”

“Who’s got a floor plan? Where’s the basement?”

It was more talking than I wanted to do, and it emptied my lungs. I took a shallow breath.

“I have the floor plan, Jack.” Rick. “There’s a door in the back of the kitchen.”

I spun my shoulders, taking in the room, and saw the refrigerator was open. I also noticed, sitting on a plate in the fridge, something horrible.

“The bomb squad is here, they’re coming in.”

Passing the refrigerator, I saw the basement steps, Stryker clinging to the top. His gas mask was also caked in vomit, but his chest was rising and falling.

I grabbed his belt and pulled.

It was like hauling a bag of bricks, but the tile floor helped, and I was able to yank the groaning SRT leader across the kitchen, toward the back door.

Three feet away, my vision began to cloud. My legs had become two sacks of jelly that could barely support my weight.

Two feet away. I felt hot and cold at the same time. A wave of dizziness swooped down on me, and I fell to my knees. Everything started to get dark.

A foot away. Beyond that doorway, fresh air. No more deadly traps. No more poison gas. Twelve inches away was Herb. Latham. Life.

I reached the jamb, straining from the effort of pulling Stryker, and then felt the floorboard shift beneath my hip.

I froze. My eyes followed the floorboard to an electrical outlet, under the sink. Attached to a cord, atop the loose floorboard, was a metal sphere the size of a golf ball. Surrounding it, like a jail cell, were metal bars. Next to the contraption was a fire extinguisher, its nozzle pointing at my face.

Even in my oxygen-deprived brain, I knew what I was looking at. If the floorboard moved, the metal ball would roll, touching the metal bars and completing a circuit, spraying me with whatever deadly substance was in that fire extinguisher.

I shifted my hip imperceptibly, and watched the ball roll forward, heading toward the bars.

I moved my hip back, and it returned to the center of its cell.

Things were really starting to get dark now. I didn’t know if I’d been poisoned, or if I’d breathed too much of my own carbon dioxide. I tried to focus, tried to concentrate. The board beneath me was only a few inches wide. If I eased myself off of it slowly, keeping an eye on the ball, it would return to its original position and—

“...please help me,” Stryker groaned.

Then his foot kicked out, connecting with the trap.

Chapter 11

INSTANT INFERNO. The flame that shot out of the extinguisher soaked Stryker, and covered the lower half of my body. I leaned over, trying to beat the fire off of him, but it stuck to my gloves like glue.

His screams cut into me, and then cut into me again through my headset. I wiped my hands on the floor, trailing fire, and then I looked around—for what, I’m not sure—maybe something to smother the flames, maybe something to end his agony, and then a powerful force yanked me backward.

I twisted around, trying to fight it, fearing what horrible trap had me now, wondering if I’d be gassed or burned or poisoned or punctured, and I lashed out with both hands, and one fist bounced off something fleshy and I stared up at Herb, pulling me out of the house.

“The suit,” I tried to warn him. It was covered in God knew what kind of deadly substances. “Don’t touch me.”

But Herb didn’t listen. He dragged me over to two firefighters waiting with a hose. They opened it up on us, knocking Herb over, pummeling me with water that looked, oddly enough, like a car wash through my visor.

Then Rick was there, yanking off my face mask, stripping off that horrible space suit, and paramedics were wrapping me in blankets. I glanced at Herb, my hero, and said, “Thanks, partner.” He shook his head, his hound dog jowls jiggling, picked up a blanket, and walked away.

“Jack, look at me.”

Rick had his arms around me, his face very close to mine. This time I was sure I felt his breath. It smelled like mint.

He looked at one of my eyes, then the other.

“Do you feel okay?”

“Headache...legs hot.”

“First-degree burns from the homemade napalm. Like a sunburn. I could rub some cream on them, if you’d like.”

“I’ll manage.”

I disentangled myself from his arms and took a last look at the house.

“Thanks.” I took another deep breath, grateful for the clean air. “I probably wouldn’t have made it out of there without your help.”

“What, you think all Feds are brainless, regulation-spouting automatons who hinder local police departments’ investigations?”

“Pretty much.”

Rick smiled, and pretended to tip his hat.

“Happy to prove you wrong.”

“Hey!”

We turned to look at McGlade, who was prodding the still-smoking space suit with his toe.

“Somebody owes me a space suit.”

I ignored Harry, looking beyond him to try to find Herb. Two paramedics wheeled a gurney over. I declined. They insisted. I compromised, and they escorted me as I walked. The scene in front had become a mad house of cops, media, and gawkers. I scanned the faces of the crowd. No Herb.

Joshua James, the SRT member that I prevented from running into the house, walked over to my car, tight-lipped and morose.

“They’re all dead.” He said it as a statement, not a question.

I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

James hitched his thumbs into his belt and stuck out his chest.

“Sorry doesn’t mean shit. Next time, let me do my fucking job.”

His stare challenged me to say something back. I didn’t. Then he turned his gaze to Rick.

“You got something to say, Fed?”

“In fact, I do. You need to focus your anger on the man that did this, not the woman that tried to save your team.”

“She fucked up. I should have gone in there.”

Rick jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at two bomb squad cops, draped in so much body armor and protective gear, they each looked like the Micheli. Man. Stretched between them was a body bag.

“See that? If you went in there, they’d be carrying you out in one of those.”

The cop went to shove Rick, but Rick sidestepped the move and caught Joshua’s wrist in a joint lock, forcing the larger man to his knees.

“They knew the risks,” Rick said. “Don’t disgrace their memories like this.”

He released him, and Joshua glared at Rick, then at me, then at Rick again, and stormed off.

I grabbed my clothes and my purse from my car, and was then led to the rear of the ambulance. Again they tried to force me to lie down. Again I fought with them, insisting that I didn’t want to go to the hospital.

“Let them help you, Jack.”

Rick. He’d somehow eclipsed Herb as my omnipresent voice of reason.

“I just want to get home to my fiancé.”

I coughed, feeling something wet in my lungs, and all thoughts of Latham were replaced by thoughts of the terrifying toxins I’d been exposed to. Rick caught my look of panic.

“Just because you seem to have avoided all of the fast-acting agents doesn’t mean a slower one hasn’t breached your suit. Like BT. Or something worse.”

I coughed again, and let them strap me down. An EMT pushed Rick out of the back, shut the door, and they carted me off to the hospital.

Chapter 12

I WOKE UP AT FIVE in the morning in an ER bed, feeling like someone had beaten me up and used me as a pincushion. Antibiotics, antitoxins, and numerous vaccines had been administered. I was a little woozy, but it didn’t seem like anything toxic had taken hold.

That was good enough for me. I had work to do, and it wouldn’t get done with me lying down.

I called a cab, and he took me back to my car, still at Alger’s house. During the ride I thought about Latham. I’d phoned him repeatedly from the hospital—at my house, at his apartment, on his cell. He hadn’t picked up. What did that mean? Phone problems? Was he asleep? Watching TV too loud and didn’t hear the ring? Or was he angry at me?

Yesterday, I’d called Latham my fiancé—twice—even though I hadn’t officially said yes to his proposal. It felt...right.

I’d been married before. It hadn’t worked. And even though my ovaries still had a few parting shots left in them, forty-six was too old to start thinking about babies, and families. If I got pregnant now, I’d be in diapers myself by the time the kid was old enough to buy me a beer.

So why did I feel all gooey inside when I pictured Latham and myself leaning over a crib, watching our child sleep?

The cab spit me out at my car. I paid the hack, and used my cell to try Latham again. No answer. So I turned my attention to the Alger house. Seeing it again made my stomach do flip-flops.

A few police vehicles and the SRT bus were still there. A bombie saw me and approached.

“Lieutenant Daniels?” Her name tag read Wells. She wore enough body armor to protect her from a point-blank bazooka hit. “There’s something in the house you need to see.”

My reaction was physical. The thought of going back into that chamber of death scared me more than anything had ever scared me in my life.

Wells seemed to sense this. “We’ve cleared the remaining traps. There were only two left.”

“There may be others.”

“We went in with X-ray, ultrasound, and a K9 unit. The house has been disarmed. You can use my mask...” Her voice trailed off, implying the if you’re afraid.

“No need. Let’s go.”

I had to will my legs to move, as they’d suddenly become stiff. It was like approaching a firecracker that should have gone off but hadn’t.

Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the ability to still function when fear overtakes you. Some people are naturally brave. Others, like me, learn to fake it. I still had no idea if faked bravery and real bravery were the same thing. Cops didn’t talk about their fears. Instead they drank, got divorced, committed suicide, or all three. It beat dwelling on being killed in the line of duty.

So into the house we marched, stiff upper lips in place. Wells took me past the living room, past the staircase, and back into the kitchen, where a black, charred stain marked the linoleum where Stryker had burned alive.

The refrigerator was open.

Curiosity overtook my jitters and I peered inside.

Standard fridge contents. Milk. Cheese. Lunch meat. Beer. Condiments in the door. But one item was out of place.

On the top rack, laid out on a CorningWare plate, were three severed fingers.

I knew immediately whose they were.

Officer Scott Hajek, my lab guy, was short, plump, and needed both hands to carry his crime scene kit, housed in an oversized Umco tackle box. He came into the kitchen and set the heavy case by my feet.

“Anything good to eat in there?” Hajek asked.

“Only finger food,” I replied.

Hajek squinted into the fridge through Coke-bottle glasses, then frowned.

“That’s bad.”

“It was that, or a hand on rye joke.”

“Where’s Herb? He has that gallows humor schtick down to a science.”

I had no idea where Herb was. After he’d disappeared last night, I hadn’t heard from him.

Hajek opened up his case, the hinged drawers expanding to three times the size of the base. After digging around for a few seconds, he came up with a vial of black fingerprint powder—to contrast the white appliance—and a horsehair brush.

He found several latents on the door handle, and several more on the front surface of the fridge. He used Pro-Lift stickers to remove and mount the prints.

“Got a glove mark.”

He handed over the Pro-Lift card, and I noted the black oval smudge, no ridges. Someone had opened the refrigerator wearing gloves. I compared two other decent partials to a laptop display showing Alger’s prints, and found that they matched. The homeowner used his own fridge; no surprise there.

Hajek then printed the severed fingers. He used modeling clay to avoid getting ink all over, and as I’d suspected the fingers belonged to former Chicago police officer Jason Alger.

It had been my suspicion that the cop had been killed, his fingers severed, and then his prints manually placed on the letter to the superintendent. Th. Chemist had known Alger’s prints would be on file, and had wanted to lead us to this death trap.

“Can you lift any latents from the dead tissue?” I asked, hoping that perhaps the Chemist had handled Alger’s fingers without using gloves.

“I could fume with iodine or cyanoacrylate, but let’s try good old low-tech to start off.”

Hajek dug around in his box and found a glass microscope slide. He handed it to me.

“Press this between your palms. My hands are always cold.”

I did as instructed, and after a few seconds he took it back, wiped it with a nonabrasive cloth, and pressed the slide to the back of one of the fingers.

“Glass is great for picking up oils. The fingers are cold, so we warm the slide, and the oils cling to the glass.”

He removed the slide and peered at it through a jeweler’s loupe.

We repeated the process four times, and then he said, “Got one.”

He dusted the slide, mounted the print with the Pro-Lift sticker, and frowned.

“Gloves.”

The Chemist was careful. I didn’t hold out hope for finding any prints elsewhere in the house, but sent Scott off to do the thankless work just the same.

“Dust any of the traps that the bombies have deemed safe. Hand railings. Toilet handles. Doorknobs. Light switches. You know the drill. Plus find Henderson—he’s been taking swabs from the IEDs, which you’ll need to identify some of the poisons.”

Scott made a face. “I’ll be here the rest of my life.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll be done in three years, tops.”

I let him get to work, then pulled the pen from behind my ear and took out the notepad I’d been carrying in my waistband. So far the To Do list read:

trace M44 purchases

Alger—arrest record

talk to neighbors

question mailman who delivered letter

security tapes at BT scenes

witness search at BT scenes

survivor interviews/background checks

research IEDs

I scratched off talk to neighbors. Three teams had done extensive door-to-doors, and no one in the area had noticed anything unusual at Jason Alger’s house. In fact, some of the neighbors didn’t recognize Alger at all. I lamented how things had changed since I joined the force. Twenty years ago, people knew everyone on their block. These days, folks kept to themselves.

Maybe they were concerned some maniac might chop off their fingers and turn their house into a chamber of horrors.

I circled Alger—arrest record. There was a chance Alger had simply been a target of opportunity. But a plan this meticulous made me think that someone had a major beef against the former cop. I added IA after his name and decided it was time to get home to shower, change, and see what was going on with Latham.

The trip to Bensenville took almost an hour. Once I exited the expressway I fell in behind an ambulance, its sirens going full tilt. I hugged its bumper. Ambulances, fire trucks, and patrol cops had remote control devices called MIRTs—mobile infrared transmitters—used to change red lights into green ones. Being part of Detective Division, I didn’t warrant the five-hundred-dollar gizmo, but following an ambulance worked just as well.

Luckily, the meat wagon appeared to be taking the same route I was. Hitting all of these greens, I might even get to the house in record time.

I considered what I’d tell Latham when I saw him. What was I afraid of? Trust? Commitment? Family? My living situation changing? Losing my independence? Love?

I didn’t know. I was obviously afraid of something, but couldn’t figure out what it was.

And then, abruptly, I decided that I didn’t care what I was afraid of. I could fight the fear. I didn’t feel brave, but I was damn good at faking it.

I would marry Latham.

I noticed I was still following the ambulance, which was a little creepy, considering I was almost home.

When it headed down my street, I felt downright paranoid.

And when it pulled into my driveway, I went from paranoid to panicked.

I threw the car into park and rushed onto the lawn. Two paramedics were approaching my front door.

“I’m a cop. This is my house. What’s going on?”

“Had a call from this house a few minutes ago. Man complaining of abdominal pain, vomiting, and some paralysis.”

Botulism. Those were symptoms of botulism toxin.

“It might be...it might be botulism. Do you have antitoxin?”

“Not in our kits.”

I fumbled for my keys, trying to open the dead bolt, wondering how the Chemist could have found me so quickly. People close to me are always getting hurt. If Latham died because—

“Ma’am, can I try?”

One of the medics took my key and guided it into the lock. I flung the door open and rushed into the house.

“Latham! Latham!”

No one in the living room. In the kitchen, the table still set for a romantic celebration dinner that never happened, the bedroom empty, the bathroom—

“Latham! Oh my God...”

The man I loved was on his back, his shirt crusted with vomit, a portable phone still in his hand. It didn’t look like his chest was moving. His face—his face was blue.

“Move out of the way, ma’am.”

I couldn’t wrap my mind around what I was seeing. The paramedics shoved me aside and knelt next to him. The next few seconds were a blur of words and actions.

“...cyanotic.”

“...pulse is weak.”

“...airway clear.”

“...BVM.”

They placed the mask over Latham’s mouth and nose and pressed the bag, filling his lungs with air.

“...BP is sixty over forty.”

“...get the cart.”

One of the medics again pushed me aside and hurried past.

“Will he be okay?” I asked.

I asked this question several times as they strapped him to the gurney and wheeled him out to the ambulance.

Their only answer was, “We’re doing the best we can, ma’am.”

In the ER, Latham was put on a ventilator and given antitoxin at my insistence. I filled out his paperwork, naming myself as the primary contact.

In between worrying and hating myself, it occurred to me that the Chemist probably hadn’t attacked Latham at my house. The food, the German dinner he’d prepared last night to celebrate, he’d bought at Kuhn’s, a deli on Irving Park Road. The Chemist claimed to have contaminated a deli on Irving Park. I hadn’t made the connection.

Latham wasn’t sick because of my job. He was sick because of my stupidity.

I stared down at my left hand, at my naked ring finger, and cried until I had no tears left.

Chapter 13

THE CHEMIST WAKES UP ANGRY. Last night had been a bitter disappointment. Months of planning, and only six cops dead.

After morning coffee, he considers returning to the greenhouse, working on more liquor bottles. Instead he flips on the morning news.

Twenty seconds of taped action on CBS. On ABC, he only catches the tail end of the coanchor banter, their grave voices bemoaning the loss of police life. Channel 5 doesn’t have anything at all.

He flips on CNN, and the story doesn’t even warrant a scrolling graphic at the bottom of the screen.

Back to CBS, and they’ve wrapped his story, moving on to some earthquake halfway across the world. Channel 7 has a bit about the botulism outbreak, but the footage is recycled from an earlier broadcast.

Disappointing. Actually, more than disappointing. Infuriating.

How had Jack Daniels managed to get out of there alive? He’d almost died several times himself, setting up all of those traps. That bitch must be unbelievably lucky.

He lets the anger build. Living with anger is something he’s become expert at.

What happens to rage deferred?

It explodes. It explodes in spectacular fashion.

He allows himself a small smile.

Last night went poorly, but the Plan hasn’t changed at all. The second phase will soon be in effect, and he needs a patsy for it to work. Lieutenant Jack will be perfect for that. And she’ll be all alone when it happens.

Not that 911 would help much anyway.

The Chemist switches off the TV. There will be more news in a few days. National news. World news. Books written, movies of the week, covers on Time and Newsweek ...

But why not get the media ball rolling a little sooner?

“Do I dare?” he says, alone in his living room.

He has everything he needs. He even has a spot picked out, a backup in case one of the other locations went bust.

A deviation from the Plan doesn’t seem smart. Everything has been thought through to the tiniest detail. Improvising at this point might lead to a mistake.

Still...

“Let’s do it,” he says.

There will be news. This very morning.

The trick to a good disguise isn’t to hide your own features, but to make a certain feature stand out; one that witnesses will remember. He chooses a black mustache and a temporary tattoo of a black playing card spade that he applies to his right cheek. A ratty jean jacket, a bandanna, and some Doc Martens boots complete the transformation. Instant biker.

He types a note on his computer, prints it out, then fills the jet injector bag with a tincture of monkshood and lily of the valley. He hides the tube up his sleeve, arms the spring.

It’s a beautiful day. Warm. Sunny. The Chemist walks past the semitrailer in his driveway, adjusts the tarpaulin that the wind had blown off the portable chemical toilets stacked against the garage, and considers which car, if any, to take.

He decides on neither—such a fine day is perfect for public transportation. Plus, no risk of a car being seen. Sammy’s Family Restaurant is a few miles away. He takes the bus. Sammy’s is open twenty-four hours, and at this time of morning it caters to the prework crowd and the people getting off late shifts.

It’s part of a chain. He wonders if it’s publicly traded. He wonders how much money will be lost when the stock takes a dive tomorrow.

Get ready for a bear market, he thinks, then enters the restaurant.

Just his luck, the place is so full there’s a ten-minute wait for tables.

The Chemist studies the crowd. Lots of twenty-somethings. A few loners. Old people. Yuppies. And some off-duty cops, waiting to be served.

Perfect. This is going to be exciting. Really exciting.

He buys a newspaper from one of the coin machines in the restaurant lobby, leans against the wall, and waits.

A few minutes later, he’s given a table for one. He makes small talk with the fat waitress, and eventually orders the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet that Sammy’s is famous for.

He approaches the salad bar like a sinner approaches an altar, reverent and nervous. The owners of Sammy’s have installed a clear plastic sneeze shield at eye level, so germs don’t contaminate the food.

How thoughtful of them, the Chemist muses. So concerned for their customers’ health.

The Muzak can barely be heard above the loud conversations, so he knows no one will hear the hiss of his gun. He picks up a plate from the stack, still warm from the dishwasher, and gets in line behind two blond girls with jeans that just barely cover their butt cracks.

The big bowl of diced fruit, resting on a bed of crushed ice, gets his attention first.

Psssssssssst. Pssssssssssssst.

Then he moves to the pan of scrambled eggs. Then the bacon. The dry cereal. The obligatory red gelatin. Sausages. French toast. Waffles. And a large tray o. Danish and bagels.

The Chemist leaves the buffet spread with a large plate of food that he has no intention of eating. He surreptitiously detaches the jet injector and sticks it into his pocket. Then he returns to his table, opens the paper to a random page, and pretends to read.

But he’s really watching the salad bar.

The cops are the first ones there, and he has to bite his lower lip to stop from grinning. They pile their plates with enough poison to kill a large town.

A yuppie couple next. Then some black guys. A father with a young son who demands Jell-O—he should have gone to school today, Dad. A single guy going for toast seconds. One of the blond girls, returning for more eggs. An old man who is filling two plates, one for his crone of a wife waiting back at their table. The Chemist loses count after a dozen people have come and gone.

The first person begins to convulse less than five minutes later.

It’s one of the cops. First he’s patting his forehead with a napkin. Then he’s clutching his stomach. Then he’s on the floor, shaking like he’s plugged into an electrical outlet.

The Chemist can stare openly, because everyone else is as well. One of the other cops places a call on his radio, doubles over, then spews a lovely green vomit all over his fallen partner.

People are on their feet now, their shocked expressions priceless. The Chemist stands as well, feigning horror.

The little boy is next. His face plops right into his plate of gelatin, and Dad begins screaming for help.

Soon many people are screaming.

One of the yuppies, moaning nonsensically, runs full-tilt into another table, sending food and patrons flying.

The old man has something spilling from his mouth that appears to be drool, and he’s shaking with palsy so badly that his false teeth pop out.

More vomiting. More moaning. A mad rush for the door, where a girl who didn’t even eat at the salad bar is trampled. The last cop, apparently hallucinating, fires his gun into the crowd, then begins aiming out the window at people on the sidewalk.

It is absolutely glorious. Truly a scene from hell. Seeing the immediate fruits of his labors is so much more rewarding than watching the victims on hospital ventilators on the news.

He yearns to be closer to the action, to become a part of it.

No one is looking at him, so he doesn’t even try to conceal the jet injector anymore. He reattaches the hose, arms the unit, and then pushes his way into the throng of people.

Psssssssst. He gets a man in the neck.

Psssssssst. A woman’s arm.

Pssssssssst. A stray hand that got too close.

These first three he injects are so anxious to flee the restaurant that they don’t even turn to look at him. The Chemist knows the jet injector doesn’t hurt much. It’s more of a mild discomfort, like having a small rubber band snapped against your skin. In the panic of the moment, none of them feel a thing.

He locates his waitress, the only person in the restaurant who got a good look at him, and gives her two trigger pulls under the chin.

She opens her mouth to scream, then falls over, convulsing.

The restaurant is almost empty now, except for the dead and dying. He hurries back to his table, drops the note, then picks up his plate and takes it along, dumping the contents on the floor. Ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks are starting to arrive. He crosses the street, tosses his plate into a Dumpster, and stands there for ten minutes, watching the commotion.

The news crews arrive next.

This will get more than a ten-second sound bite, he says to himself. Then he catches the bus for home, anxious to turn on the TV.

Chapter 14

I SPENT ALL DAY in the hospital, by Latham’s side. I held his hand, cried, and listened to the doctors tell me there was nothing else they could do but hope the toxin’s progression was stopped in time.

Latham didn’t regain consciousness.

Since I wasn’t a relative I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight, even though I flashed my badge and made threats. They kicked me out when visiting hours ended.

Not having any other options, I went home.

Sleep wasn’t going to happen. When all went well in Jack’s world, getting to sleep was difficult. With everything currently going on, sleep would be impossible.

Instead, I worked out my frustration the way my mother always did. I cleaned the house.

I began by just tidying up, but that progressed to knee pads and rubber gloves and Lysol and Pine-Sol and ammonia. Everywhere I looked I saw germs, poisons, toxins. I individually bagged all the food Latham had bought at the deli and set it outside on the porch, and then threw away every other piece of food in the refrigerator and scrubbed it out with bleach.

Then I scoured the sink, disinfected the garbage can, mopped the floors, hosed down the bathroom, washed the bedsheets and pillowcases, and then the pillows themselves and the comforter. And, dressed in my Kevlar vest, safety goggles, and two oven mitts, I gave Mr. Friskers a bath.

He didn’t like it.

After applying hydrogen peroxide to the gashes on my arm and cheek, I broke out the vacuum and wondered if I had time to do a room or two before I needed to get ready for work. My mother’s bedroom was the smallest, so I figured I could at least get that one done.

I plugged the vacuum cleaner in, pushed Mom’s twin bed over to the far wall, and bent down to pick up a shoe box she had under the bed.

Mr. Friskers, apparently still angry about the bath, launched a surprise attack, bounding into the room and leaping onto my back. I twirled around, feeling one of his claws dig into my shoulder, and the shoe box opened up and spewed paper everywhere like a snowblower.

The cat howled. So did I. Luckily, within reach was something he hated even more than the squirt gun—the vacuum.

I pressed the on pedal with my toe, and the sound alone was enough to make him disengage and haul ass out of the room.

All of those people who crow about how pets enrich our lives are full of shit.

I kicked off the vacuum, looked at the mess of paper around the room, and sighed as I began to pick stuff up.

It was mail, mostly. Some letters from one of my mother’s old boyfriends. I inadvertently saw the phrase nibble your luscious wet and had to turn away before I saw any more.

One envelope, however, stood out because it was still sealed. Written on the front was the word Jacqueline in my mother’s florid script.

I stared at it for a moment. On one hand, it was sealed and hidden in a box under my mother’s bed. On another hand, it had my name on it.

On any other day, I would have put it back unopened. But I was exhausted, emotionally frazzled, and I didn’t need anything else hanging over my head at the moment.

I opened the envelope and read the letter:

My Darling Daughter,

If you’re reading this, it is because you’ve been going through my things after I’ve died. I hope my passing hasn’t caused you too much distress.

I take that back. I hope you’re completely devastated. I loved you more than life itself, and know you felt the same way about me. You’re the one good thing I did with my life.

There’s something you should know, something I’ve never had the courage to tell you when I was alive. You see, I can’t forgive the man, and I knew if you learned the truth I’d have to deal with my buried feelings all over again. It was wrong, and you have every right to be mad at me, but now that I’m dead, I don’t have to hear you condemn me for my decision.

I’ve lied to you, Jacqueline. When you were small, you were told your father died of a heart attack. In truth, he didn’t die. He left us. One day, after supper, he calmly told me that he hated being a husband, hated being a father, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us ever again. Then he walked out of our lives forever.

I told you he died because, essentially, he was dead to us. It was easier to tell a child that her father wasn’t coming back because he was no longer with us, rather than he no longer wanted to be a father. I meant to tell you the truth, when you got older, but I feared you’d track him down and confront him.

It took a very long time for me to move on, after he left. You were a wonderful girl to raise, but you know how difficult we had it. I cannot ever forgive him for what he did to us, and never want to see him again.

I urge you to just let this go, but I know you won’t. It isn’t in your nature. You’ll track him down, and ask him why he did what he did.

When that moment comes, dearest Jacqueline, give the bastard a swift kick in the family jewels from me.

Love, Mom

It took me a few seconds to process what I’d just read. Then it took me a few more seconds to get on the phone with Mom.

“Good morning, Jacqueline. How’s my kitty cat? Is he eating?”

“Mr. Friskers is fine. I—”

“And how’s Latham? I really like that man. If I were a few years younger—”

I didn’t think this was the time to hit her with that news, so I held it back.

“Mom, I was cleaning up in your room, and I found the letter.”

“Oh, don’t be upset. So I exchanged a few dirty letters with a few men. I find the written word much more erotic than pornographic movies. Though I did date this one gentleman who took me to a peep show once —”

“Not that letter, Mom. The other one, with my name written on it.”

My mother paused. “Oh. That letter. Did you read it? Of course you did, or you wouldn’t be calling. Unless you’re asking my permission to read the letter, to which I’ll politely answer no.”

“Dad is alive?”

Mom sighed, as if I was such a disappointment she couldn’t bear it. “I honestly don’t know. He might be. I really don’t care, one way or the other. Did you read the part when I wrote that you were the one good thing I did in my life? Did that make you cry? I cried when I wrote it. But, truth told, I’d been hitting the schnapps.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Mom, don’t you think this is something we should have discussed before you died?”

“Well, I’m not dead, and we’re discussing it right now.”

“Who is it?” A male voice said in the background.

“My daughter, Charlie. Go back to sleep.”

“Mom, are you in bed with someone?”

“Don’t be shocked, Jacqueline. We were just sleeping.” I heard her peck him on the cheek. “The sex won’t happen until later, in the shower.”

“Look, Mom, I’m upset right now.”

“Well, don’t be upset with me. I’m not the one who left us.”

I set my jaw. “He’s my father, and I should have known he was still alive.”

“Why? So he could hurt you again? You don’t know what it’s like to have the man you married, the father of your child, look at you and tell you he wants no part of you. Believing he was dead was a much easier way to deal with the loss.”

It was like wrestling with an octopus.

“That should have been my decision to make, Mom.”

“Well, now it is. But if you find him, I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to know if he’s dead or alive. I don’t want to discuss it. Ever.”

“Fine.”

“Also, since you’re obviously being very meticulous in your cleaning of my personal space, I suggest you stay out of my bedside cabinet, lest you find more things that upset you. Good-bye, Jacqueline.”

She hung up. I marched into her bedroom, tugged open the drawer next to her bed, saw a variety of battery-controlled devices in different sizes and shapes, then closed the drawer and tried to get the images out of my head. Especially of the really long red one.

Mom knew I’d open the drawer. She did that on purpose to rattle me. I became even more annoyed.

Mr. Friskers appeared in the doorway and hissed in my direction.

“Not now,” I warned him.

He seemed to consider it, then trotted away. I glanced at the clock, saw I was running late, and hopped in the shower. I didn’t have time to condition, did a quick towel dry, dressed in a gray Tahari Mandarin collar jacket that I bought in a set with a beige cami and black slacks. God bless the Home Shopping Network. I eyed a pair of Emilio Pucci heels, which had so many different colors in their crazy design they looked like they were made of Care Bear skins, but ultimately went with some Taryn Rose “Stevie” flats, figuring I’d be running around all day.

The long drive to work gave me time to apply my makeup in the car and for my hair to air dry, providing it wasn’t humid enough to give me the frizzies.

An hour later I was pulling into my District parking lot. The day turned out to be rain-forest humid, and the only thing I could do with my brown curls was tie them in a ponytail.

I took the stairs up to my office, hoping Herb had gotten there before me and was waiting with a big cup of coffee, because I needed caffeine.

There was a person in my office, but it wasn’t Herb. And she didn’t have coffee.

“That’s my desk,” I said, pointed to where she was sitting.

The girl smiled. “I know. It’s your office.”

She was in her early twenties. Blond hair with pink highlights, in a short bob. Enough makeup to shame a gypsy fortune-teller. Multiple earrings. And a multicolored blouse that clung so tight, it looked painted on.

“I’m Roxanne.” She stood. Roughly my height, but slightly thinner in the waist and hips, and a cup size bigger. “Roxanne Waclawski. Call me Roxy.”

She offered a hand, a zillion sterling silver wire bracelets jingling at me.

I kept my hand at my side.

“Why are you in my office.” I added, “Roxy.”

She smiled big. “We’re partners!”

“I have a partner.”

“Captain Bains told me that I’m your new partner. Your old one died or retired or something.”

I spun on my Stevies and walked across the hall to Herb’s office. He was packing stuff into boxes.

“Herb? What’s going on?”

My partner looked at me with an expression halfway between pain and remorse.

“My transfer came through. I’m going to Burglary/Robbery/Theft. No more Homicide.”

I felt like I’d been hit, like all the important people in my life were deserting me.

“Why?” I heard myself say.

“The stress. I can’t take it. Too many years of people trying to kill me. Or you. I think it’s worse seeing you in danger.”

“If it’s about yesterday—”

Herb set down the box, hard. The noise made me flinch.

“Yesterday was just an example. It’s been like this for a long time. I can’t take it anymore, Jack. I’ve seen too many dead bodies. Talked to too many crying relatives. I’m done.”

He pulled out his desk drawer and dumped all of the contents into the box. Most of the contents were empty food wrappers.

“Weren’t you going to tell me?” I asked.

“Bernice told me not to. She said you’d talk me out of it.”

“Of course I’d talk you out of it. You’re a Homicide cop. A damn good one. It’s in your blood. You can’t walk away from this.”

“I got less than ten years left in the Job. I’m spending them in Robbery. No crazed maniacs. No psycho killers. No lunatics poisoning the whole goddamn city. The next decade will be like a paid vacation.”

I walked around his desk and put my hand on his arm. Herb was practically family. I’d had partners before, but never one that I felt such a bond with.

“You saved my life yesterday, pulling me out of that house. If you go to Robbery, who’s going to save my ass next time?”

I said it half-joking, but his reply was so serious it stung.

“You’ll have to find someone else to save you next time, Jack.”

He gave me his back, pulling stuff off of shelves.

“I put all the task force stuff on your desk, which team is doing what. I’m sure Bains will assign you a new partner, if he hasn’t already.”

“He has. The paint on her isn’t even dry yet.”

Herb turned and managed a weak grin. “A younger partner, huh? I’d never put up with that shit.”

Maybe I was the one who reached for him. Maybe he was the one who reached for me. But the very next moment, two tough macho cops were hugging like relatives at a funeral.

“You’re going to make a great Robbery cop,” I said to his chubby neck.

“You can come with me. Think it over. No shooting. No dead kids. No serial creepos. And if the bad guy gets away, he won’t wipe out a preschool. The worst he’ll do is steal a BMW.”

“Sounds tempting. I’ll think about it.” But we both knew I was lying.

Herb broke the embrace, cleared his throat, and returned to the shelf. He came back with a cellophane package of Twinkies.

“Look at this.” He squinted at the package. “Date says 1998. They look good as new.”

“The best things in life never change,” I told him.

“Actually, Jack, sometimes they do.”

He tossed the package into his box. I didn’t think I had any tears left in me, but I felt them coming. I considered telling him about Latham, or about my father. Anything to make him stay.

Instead I said, “Call me when you get settled in.”

Then I turned around and walked out the door.

Chapter 15

MEANWHILE, BACK IN MY OFFICE, Roxy had once again appropriated my desk. She even had her feet up, her Skechers in the spot normally reserved for my morning coffee.

“That’s my desk.” I tucked away all of my pain in a private, secret place, where it wouldn’t get out until I allowed it, and forced a pleasant smile. “The next time I see you sitting at it, I’m going to roll you up into a ball and shove you back inside Cyndi Lauper.”

Roxy quickly removed her feet and stood up.

“Who’s Cyndi Lauper?” she asked.

“A girl who just wanted to have fun.”

“She sounds cool. Hey, while you were gone, Captain Bains called. There’s some big meeting happening downstairs that we’re supposed to go to. Conference Room A.”

“Are you really a cop, and not someone who just snuck in here?”

Roxy smacked her gum and grinned.

“I like you,” she said. “You’ve got attitude.”

I took the task force folder from my in-box. Roxy picked up her backpack—of course she had a backpack; how else could she carry her skateboard?—and followed me down the hall.

“I thought we were going to the conference room.”

“I need coffee.”

“Here.” She tugged at my arm to stop me, then reached into her pack and produced a twenty-two-ounce can of energy drink.

“I don’t want that. I want coffee.”

“This is sugar-free. And it has twice the recommended daily allowance of taurine.”

“What’s taurine?”

“I dunno. It kind of tastes like pee. But it has a real kick.”

The station coffee also tasted like pee, so I accepted the energy drink. The flavor wasn’t pee so much as carbonated bile, with a hint of salt. But my body instantly reacted to the caffeine, and I perked up a little on the way downstairs.

“Your outfit is so cool,” Roxy told me.

“Thanks.”

“I’m so going to wear stuff like that, when I get older.”

Captain Bains, Superintendent O’Loughlin, Special Agent from the Hazardous Materials Response Team Dr. Ric. Reilly, the ubiquitous PR guy Davy Ellis, and several other people I didn’t know were seated around the boardroom table, in a heated discussion. Roxy grabbed the last empty seat. I was about to strangle her with her hemp necklace, but Rick stood up and offered me his chair, leaving the room to find another.

“Jack,” the super said, “this is Dr. Abigail Van Hausen from the Center for Disease Control, Majo. Phillip Murdoch from the United States Army Medical Research Institute fo. Infectious Diseases, Dr. Sylvia Ng from the World Health Or ganization, and Dr. Wayne Astor, also from USAMRIID.”

I shook hands all around. Roxy did the same.

“I’m Roxy, Jack’s partner. Anyone need an energy drink? It’s got taurine.”

Everyone declined. Roxy removed a can and popped the top, taking a loud slurp.

“Has this become a DOD show?” I asked, eyeing the army guys.

The major answered, in a tone that was obviously military. “The Department of Defense is here to ascertain if the situation in Chicago is a threat to national security. Also, one of the victims at the diner yesterday was a dignitary from Japan, and we’ve been asked to assist in the investigation.”

I’d heard about the diner massacre while at the hospital with Latham.

Bains appeared unhappier than usual. “Six dead, four more in critical condition. We’ve confirmed it’s a Chemist attack—note found at the scene.”

He passed over a piece of paper in a large plastic bag and went into details about the time and place. The font was bigger this time, but matched the previous letter.

Two million dollars or I tell CNN what’s going on.

The Chemist

“We need to go public with this,” I said.

“Not necessarily.” This from Davy, of course. “If we went public—”

I interrupted. “It would cost the city billions of dollars. Which we all know is more important than the lives of a few innocent people.”

“That’s only part of it. The Chemist is bluffing. He doesn’t want the media to know, because then it would be harder for him to spread his poisons.”

“Explain how that’s a bad thing.”

“You need evidence to catch him. How will you find that evidence if he disappears?”

“Who is the asshole?” Roxy whispered in my ear. I ignored her.

“What will happen to the city’s approval rating when the public finds out there’s a lunatic poisoning their food, and we knew but didn’t tell them?”

Mr. PR opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“I’m calling a press conference,” said the super. “We’re going public.”

Davy pursed his lips like a fish. “The mayor won’t like this.”

“Our job is to serve and protect, and keeping this from the public is doing neither. Dr. Ng, Dr. Van Hausen, I understand that you had colleagues at Cook County Morgue when they brought in the members of the Special Response Team from Alger’s house. Have you found anything?”

Dr. Ng, a thin, attractive Asian woman, nodded at Dr. Van Hausen, cleared her throat, and read off of a paper in front of her.

“The deaths all appear to be the result of poisoning. We’ve managed to isolate seven different toxins so far. Some of the deceased show symptoms and signatures of several toxins.”

Rick came back into the room, dragging a chair. Roxy whispered in my ear, “Who is the stud?”

I ignored her, and suppressed a smug expression when the stud pulled his chair close to mine and sat down.

“Nerium oleander,” Ng continued, “which is a cardiac stimulant and has an effect similar to digitalis. Ornithogalum umbellatum, Tanghinia venenifera, Strychnos toxifera, Ricinus communis. So far, we haven’t discovered any evidence of disease. And it should be noted that all of the toxins we’ve found have been derived from plants...”

“Have you had similar findings, Special Agent Reilly?”

Rick turned his attention to the super.

“Actually, no. I found traces of hydrogen cyanide, arsenic trihydride, and parathion. These are all inorganic compounds, and can be purchased everywhere or made with a child’s chemistry set. The Chemist apparently has knowledge of diseases, organic poisons, and chemical weapons.”

“Parathion is a relative of sarin nerve gas.” From Dr. Astor, the army guy.

“Yes. It’s sold under various brands as a pesticide.”

“Is everything the Chemist is using available domestically?” Major Murdoch asked.

“The big four haven’t come up yet,” Rick answered.

Roxy, who had been worrying a hangnail, perked up. “Big four?”

Rick turned to her. “VX gas, anthrax, smallpox, and plague. These would indicate a hostile foreign source.”

“Or a domestic one.” I faux-smiled at the major. “Doesn’t the U.S. have smallpox in a freezer somewhere?”

Major Murdoch gave me a look that left no doubt I hated my country, then said, “Has there been any evidence that these compounds have been weaponized, or made more lethal?”

Rick snorted. “How can you make cyanide more lethal?”

“Please answer the question.”

Rick’s leg rubbed against mine under the table. I didn’t know if it was intentional or not. My heart rate bumped up a bit, but I blamed that on Roxy’s energy drink.

“No, Major. All evidence points to a single extortionist, not a sleeper al-Qaeda cell waiting to pop out of a cake and squirt you with Variant U.”

“What is Variant U, Mr. Reilly?”

“It’s Special Agent Reilly. Or Dr. Reilly. Variant U is a weaponized form o. Marburg. And no, I haven’t found any evidence of that either.”

O’Loughlin focused on me.

“What have your teams uncovered, Lieutenant?”

I looked at the file before me, which I hadn’t opened yet. Now seemed like a good time.

Herb, ever the professional, had written a condensed version of what he’d discovered so far.

“We’ve deployed eleven teams to each of the known sources of the BT outbreaks. They’ve already collected several hundred prints, hundreds of food products, have interviewed dozens of potential witnesses, and have the names and contact information for over one hundred more. Background checks are in the pro cess of being done on all known botulism victims, and the store owners and employees at each outbreak nexus.”

Major Murdoch leafed through the folder in front of him, and I noticed it actually had Top Secret stamped in red on the front. “How about the background of that cop Alger?”

“He’s come up clean. Two Internal Affairs inquiries. Both shootings, both times he was cleared. We’re looking at his arrest record for anyone who might have a grudge, which is just about everyone he’d arrested in thirty years on the force. The severed fingers in the refrigerator have been confirmed as belonging to Alger, and we suspect he’s been killed.”

“Maybe he cut off his own fingers to fool us,” Roxy said.

No one said anything, but the stares she received made her shrink down in her chair.

“We’ve located the deli on Irving Park that the Chemist mentioned in his letter.” I thought of Latham, and my voice caught. I coughed into my hand to cover it. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit there, gathering evidence, questioning the staff. It’s going to take some time to sort through everything.”

“We don’t have time,” the super said. “This nut wants an answer in tomorrow’s paper. To make the early edition, I need to get the personal ad in today by noon.”

“Are we paying him?” I asked.

“I have received authorization to meet the Chemist’s demands. It should go without saying that mum is the word on this.” The super zeroed in on me. “We can say the city is under attack, we can name the businesses that have been hit, we can tie in Alger, but no word about the extortion.”

I mulled this over. That was probably why the city hadn’t outed the Chemist yesterday—they had been considering paying him off. If that got out, every loony with a Saturday Night Special would be moving to Chicago, trying to extort a few bucks.

“Who’s in charge of setting the trap to catch him if we decide to pay?” I asked.

“We are, Lieutenant. You can start figuring out how right after the press conference. Plan on it at ten a.m.”

The super adjourned the meeting, and both Roxy and Rick stuck to my shoulders, accompanying me to my office.

“You’re cute for a Fed,” Roxy said to him.

“I believe that looks are superficial, and it’s what’s inside that counts.”

Roxy batted fake eyelashes. “Are you saying you’d like to get inside of me?”

“Sorry. I don’t date women younger than the scotch I drink.”

Score points for Special Agent Rick.

“You should date Jack. She’s like in her fifties.”

And points lost for the new partner.

“Have you ever done a press conference before, Roxy?” I asked, making my voice conversational.

“Who? Me? No. I was on TV once, at the MTV spring break bash in Fort Lauderdale. I never saw it, though. My friends told me about it. I was pretty trashed.”

“I think you should sit this one out.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll steal your thunder?”

“No. I’m afraid you’ll say something stupid that will get me fired.”

Roxy tugged my elbow and stared me in the eye, petulant.

“I’m a detective third grade. I didn’t get this promotion by giving blow jobs. I busted my ass. You, of all people, should know how hard it is for a woman to be taken seriously in this sausage fest.”

I considered all the things I could say, about professionalism, and attitude, and image. Instead I said, “Chances are this lunatic watches the news. If we put an attractive woman up there, he could become fixated on you.”

“Really?” Roxy grinned. “Cool.”

“No. It’s not cool. It’s the opposite of cool.”

“You think because I’m young I can’t handle myself?”

“No. I think because you’re young you can’t handle yourself as well as you think you can.”

Her grin disappeared.

“You know, you’re an inspiration to a lot of women in the department, Jack. It’s a shame that in person you’re such a bitch.”

I looked to Rick for support, but he’d taken an inordinate amount of interest in the bulletin board on the wall. The. I met Roxy’s glare. I wondered if I disliked her so much because she reminded me of me at that age.

No. I would have gotten along with me just fine. This girl was a Gen-X car accident waiting to happen. But we all have to learn sometime.

I took a deep breath. “Fine. You can do the press conference with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m serious. But I’ll do most of the talking. And we need to go over everything beforehand. Rule one, think before you speak. Don’t repeat yourself or say um or uh a lot. Rule two, if you can’t answer a question, say no comment. Rule three, always appear in control. Reporters can sense fear, and they pounce on it.”

“I can do all that. How do I look?”

I gave her a once-over. “Do you have anything else to wear? That outfit is...cute, but it doesn’t look very professional.”

“Let me check my locker,” she said, and hurried off down the hall.

Rick nudged me. “Is this a good idea?”

“We’ve all got to learn sometime.”

“After this conference, how about lunch? I want to go over some points about the case.”

“Lunch? I’m going to need a few drinks.”

“We can do that. I need to check in with Washington and Quantico. I’ll probably miss the conference. Can I meet you someplace?”

What is it about physical beauty? If Rick were average looking, I would immediately take him up on lunch. But because he was handsome, I didn’t think I should spend any time with him outside of the office. It seemed like betraying Latham, even though we might be able to make some headway on the case.

It’s only lunch, I convinced myself.

So I named the place and the time.

What was the worst that could happen?

Chapter 16

THE CHEMIST WATCHES the press conference with a frown on his face. He hadn’t expected them to go public. Though this doesn’t alter the Plan in the least; the city has followed his trail of bread crumbs quicker than he’s expected.

They aren’t showing his letters. They admitted that they did receive letters, but say they’re keeping them under wraps to rule out bogus confessions. They also neglected to mention anything about his demands. Which means they’re planning on paying him.

This is disappointing. He expected the city to stall for at least a few days, or to take a hard-line stance and refuse to deal with terrorists. That would have given him a chance to indulge in a few more surprises before the big bang.

Still, maybe he can fit one or two more in before crunch time.

He sets his TiVo to record, and then wanders over to his closet to pick a disguise. He decides on business formal. A Jack Victor suit, wool, three-button, vented, dark blue with dark gray pinstripes. A white shirt. A power tie. He slicks his hair back with mousse, applies a liberal dose of Lagerfeld, and then puts on the distraction—an eye patch.

A check in the mirror shows him to be roguish, mysterious. And all the witnesses will remember is a well-dressed man with an eye patch.

Along with the jet injector, he brings along a tiny contact lens case, containing a few drops of extract of Tanghin. The Chemist doesn’t know if he’ll get close enough to use either, but he’s got the entire day free to try. Should be fun.

He considers taking the bus because parking will be terrible downtown, but with all the stops the bus makes, it will take twice as long. So he risks it and takes a car, one that can’t be traced to him anyway.

The television told him the press conference was live at the 26th District police station, and that’s where he heads. Traffic isn’t too bad for lunchtime, and he manages to snag a parking meter spot from someone pulling out, only three blocks from the precinct house. Even luckier, the meter still has an hour left on it.

Fate apparently wants him to kill a cop today.

He decides to leave the jet injector in the car. Getting this close to the police, he doesn’t want to be caught with it on him. That leaves only the Tanghin, but that should be more than enough.

He walks briskly, hoping to get there before everyone has left. There are still news vans parked in front, so that’s a good sign. A hot dog vendor is set up on the corner. He approaches the forlorn figure and orders one with the works.

“Thanks, buddy. Business has been terrible.”

The Chemist takes a bite of the red hot, smothering his grin with pickle relish. He considers poisoning this man’s stand. It’s the perfect location for it, right outside the police station. Cops probably eat here all the time.

Maybe later, when he comes back.

There’s a bench on the sidewalk with a good view of the front of the station. He sits down and eats leaning forward, so nothing drips on his suit. Ten minutes pass, and he orders another dog, to the eternal gratitude of the vendor.

“Bless you, guy. I got two kids. Wish this city wasn’t so chickenshit.”

“You’re not worried?” asks the Chemist.

“Hell, no. My food is fresh. No one will get sick off my dogs, that’s for sure.”

“Didn’t you hear the latest?” The Chemist feels ripples of excitement, talking about this topic. “One man is doing all of this. They call him the Chemist.”

“And if I ever met this Chemist, I’d bust him in the ass.”

“What if he snuck up on you, poisoned your food while you were talking with another customer?”

“You got a sick mind, you know that?”

“I’ve been told.”

The Chemist returns to his bench. After twenty minutes, he begins to wonder if he had gotten there too late and missed the mark, but like magic she walks out of the building. Alone. It’s almost a hundred yards away, but he recognizes the hair, and the gray jacket she wore on TV.

He takes some extra napkins from the hot dog vendor. Then he trails the cop from the opposite side of the street, staying parallel to her.

She walks two blocks, turns onto Michigan Avenue, and enters a well-known grill pub, a chain place where kitschy things are stuck to the walls and the bartenders dress in sports jerseys. If it’s like the others of its ilk, the interior will be crowded, smoky, with low lighting. Which is perfect.

Traffic is against him, so he has to wait for the light to change before he can cross the street. When he walks into the restaurant, it’s exactly as he expected. The cheerful hostess tells him it will be a half-hour wait for a table. He declines, heading for the bar.

The bar is packed too, but he sees the cop standing between several men, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

He moves in closer, getting to within a few feet. Up close, she seems smaller, less substantial, than she appeared on tele vision.

“Dirty martini, up,” she orders.

My, my, my. Our city’s finest, drinking while on the clock. Still, who can blame her? It’s been a tough morning.

A stool opens up, and she goes to it, and then does something that proves to th. Chemist that fate is truly on his side: She takes off her gray jacket, places it over the stool, and asks the bartender where the ladies’ room is.

He points over his shoulder, and she heads in that direction. A moment later, the bartender sets down her drink by her stool.

The Chemist doesn’t hesitate. He opens the lens case, palms it in his right hand, and approaches the bar. With his left hand he reaches over, snagging some cocktail napkins from the bartender’s side of the bar, and with his right he dumps the toxin into the drink.

Now it’s a really dirty martini, he muses.

He shoves the napkins into his pocket, backs away from the bar, and finds a vantage point from several yards away. No one gives him a second glance.

A few minutes later she returns from the bathroom and sits atop her jacket. Grabbing the martini in one quick motion she brings it up to her lips—

—and drinks the whole thing.

He ticks off the seconds in his head.

One...

Two...

Three...

Four...

Five...

She touches her head.

Six...

Seven...

She wobbles slightly on the bar stool.

Eight...

Nine...

She rubs her eyes, then stands up.

Ten...

Eleven...

He cranes his neck up for a better look.

Twelve...

Thirteen...

She’s bent over now, a line of drool escaping her mouth. It’s followed by a flood of vomit.

Too late. Vomiting won’t help.

At fourteen seconds, she falls over.

People give her a wide berth. Several say the word drunk.

It takes almost thirty seconds for an employee to approach and kneel next to her.

“Call an ambulance!” he yells. “She’s not breathing!”

Of course she’s not breathing. She’s dead.

As the curious gather, he slips out the door, calm and casual. He has no doubt that several people are now frantically dialing 911. But according to statistics, a 911 response will take a minimum of ten minutes. Chances are it will take much longer. He knows this from experience. There is zero chance she’ll be revived.

The Chemist uses the napkins to wipe out the contact lens case, then deposits them into a garbage can. It’s a gloriously lovely day, and he takes off his blazer and uses one hand to carry it over his shoulder, Frank Sinatra style. Someone is bound to recognize the cop shortly. And when they do, it’s going to be a media frenzy. He wants to be home in time to see it, but TiVo is taking care of that for him, and it has been so long since he’s actually enjoyed a walk downtown.

In fact, it’s been a while since he’s actually enjoyed anything. A long while. Six years, three months, and thirteen days.

Revenge is a dish best served cold.

He considers heading to the lakefront, or walking through Grant Park. Then he remembers walking through the park with Tracey, and a foul mood overtakes him.

Who could have ever known that wonderful memories would someday prove painful?

He heads back to the car and climbs in, considering his next move. The satisfaction of watching the cop die is gone, replaced by a cold, dead feeling.

He wonders if this is why people become killers. That emptiness deep down that nothing—not drinking, not drugs, not therapy, not sex—can fill. Perhaps some people are born like that. Soulless. That’s how he feels most of the time.

Before, he was a normal guy. Decent friends. Decent job. A hardworking, tax-paying, red-blooded American who voted for the current mayor because he promised to be tougher on crime.

It seems like it was someone else’s life. But it wasn’t. It was his.

And now, there’s only cold.

He thinks about the hot dog stand, and that warms him a bit.

The Chemist snakes the jet injector tube up his sleeve and arms the spring. He’s wrestling to put on his blazer in the cramped front seat when he hears a car horn, right next to him.

Startled, he looks up.

A man in a rusty, older model Chevy stares at him, the rage on his face an indicator he’s been waiting there for a while.

The Chemist shrugs at him and shakes his head, indicating he isn’t moving.

The man honks again.

“I’m staying,” he says.

The man leans on the horn now, screaming, “Move your car!”

The Chemist ignores him, pockets the jet injector, and exits the vehicle. Some people just don’t take a hint. He’s actually doing this city a favor, reducing the population of idiots like—

“Hey, asshole! I’ve been waiting five fucking minutes for that space!”

The man has an unkempt beard and crazy eyes. In the passenger seat is an equally unkempt woman, obviously seething.

The Chemist shrugs. “This is my spot. Find another one.”

“We’re fucking late for court and we need that fucking space!”

No surprise there. The Chemist wondered what white-trash crime these two had committed. Set fire to their trailer to get the hundred dollars in insurance money? Or maybe sex with some sort of animal? His wife was so ugly, she’d qualify. He smiles at the thought.

And then the bearded guy is out of his car, walking right at him.

“You think this is funny, asshole?”

The Chemist is shocked. He’s heard about this happening, people being killed over parking spaces, but he can’t believe it’s happening to him.

He manages to say, “I’m not laughing at—”

And then the guy shoves him, hard. The Chemist almost loses his footing.

“Think you’re better than me, in that fancy suit and that faggy tie.”

The man goes to shove him again, and on reflex the Chemist brings up the jet injector. When the guy grabs his shirt, he pushes the orifice into his chubby neck and squeezes the trigger.

The lunatic raises up a fist to hit him, then his eyes bug out and he clutches his throat.

He falls, dead before he hits the street.

“Arnie!”

The Chemist looks at the woman, who is now out of the car and rushing at him.

“What have you done to Arnie! You killed him!”

Like a picture snapping into focus, the Chemist is instantly aware of his surroundings. People are watching him. On the sidewalks. From their cars. This has become a scene.

“That son of a bitch shot my husband!” she howls. “Someone help me!”

The only person close enough to ID him later is Arnie’s wife. He’s on her in four steps, jamming the injector into her throat, killing her in mid-scream.

Then he hurries back to his car. People are pointing now, and shouting. A few of them are running over.

Hands shaking, the Chemist fishes the car keys out of his front pocket. He starts the car and realizes, to his horror, that Arnie’s car is blocking him in.

There’s no time to do anything else. He slams the car into gear, steps on the accelerator, and crashes into the car parked ahead of him. Then he puts it into reverse and hits the gas again, causing another collision.

He now has an extra few feet of room around his vehicle, and he squeezes onto the street between Arnie’s Chevy and the car he’d just rear-ended. There isn’t quite enough space, and there’s a grind of metal on metal as he scrapes both sides of the Honda as he pulls away, hyperventilating, a crowd of people staring at him.

This is bad. Very bad. But he can fix it, if he moves fast. All they’ll remember is the suit and the eye patch—thank God he kept it on.

They’ll remember the car too. There’s a good chance someone even took down the license plate number.

But that’s okay. The car isn’t his. He can tie up this loose end, if he hurries.

The Plan doesn’t have to change. But now he feels an urgency he hasn’t felt before, and that excites him.

He expected this to be emotionally satisfying. But in his sweetest dreams, he had never expected this to actually be fun.

Chapter 17

I SAT OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ, at one of their patio tables along the side walk. Rick hadn’t been at the press conference, and it was twenty minutes past the time we said we ’d meet.

We’d exchanged numbers, but I didn’t call him. Instead I called Latham’s hospital room, again, and was informed that there had been no change in his condition.

Another five minutes passed. An ambulance streaked by, sirens blaring. I diale. Dispatch, hung up, dialed them again, and asked the desk sergeant to give me a record and location of Wilbur Martin Streng, DOB October 16, 1935.

Traffic and people and time passed. A bee took an interest in the bud vase of cut carnations on my table, and I stiffened.

Don’t bother it, and it won’t bother you, I told myself. But I moved my hands away just the same. I was the lucky one person out of two hundred and fifty who was allergic to stings. When I was a teenager, a particularly nasty wasp had stung my hand, which quickly led to anaphylactic shock. My throat had swelled up to the point that I couldn’t breathe, and only an emergency room injection of epinephrine had saved my life. It wasn’t an experience I cared to repeat.

Luckily, the bee had interests other than me, and it buzzed off to molest some flowers at an adjacent table.

I sipped my iced tea. I closed my eyes. The sun felt good. I decided to order a club sandwich, not caring if Rick showed up or not.

“Sorry I’m late...”

Rick was slightly out of breath. I had the impression that he’d been running, and was more flattered by his hurrying to meet me than I was irritated at his lateness.

Rick sat down, then picked up the water glass at his place setting. He drained half of it in one gulp.

“Did you catch any of the press conference?” I asked.

“No. Conference call with Washington. How’d it go?”

“Fine. Roxy actually did okay. Remained calm and poised, answered everything correctly. And she looked better in my jacket than I did.”

Rick leaned in, his eyes twinkling. “No. She didn’t.”

I was being honest, not fishing, but it felt nice to hear just the same.

My sandwich came, and I apologized for having ordered without waiting for him.

“Can we split this club, and then I’ll order another one?”

“Sure. That’s fine. But...”

“But what?”

I was hungry, but looking down at the food made my stomach twitch. What if this restaurant had been on the Chemist’s list? What if I took a bite and would be dead in thirty seconds?

Rick apparently sensed my hesitation.

“Life is about risk, Jack. You can run away, or you can face it head-on.”

He leaned in closer, his knee touching mine under the table. Then he picked up half of the sandwich and took a big bite, some mayo dribbling down his chin.

I felt my heart rate increase. Maybe I was overtired. Or hormonal. Whatever problem I was having, I promised myself no more one-on-one time with Rick.

Another ambulance streaked by, followed by two news vans. I didn’t like the implications of that at all.

I pulled my radio out of my purse and tuned in to the police band. A few seconds later Rick threw down some money and we jogged up the street.

I worked out three times a week, weights and aerobics, and twice a month I attended a four-hour tae kwon do class, so I was able to keep pace with Rick the three blocks to the station house without collapsing or throwing up. But I did feel sick when I saw the ambulances at the corner of my precinct building.

A dozen uniforms were cordoning off a section of street, directing traffic, and questioning onlookers. Several paramedics were milling around two bodies. They didn’t seem to be in a hurry. I managed to locate Herb in the crowd. Even though he was no longer my partner, he still managed to beat me to the crime scene.

“What happened?”

“I just got here. Some kind of traffic dispute.”

“The radio mentioned the Chemist.”

“Could be. Two dead, no marks on their bodies.”

“Don’t touch him!” Rick yelled at one of the medics who was crouching down next to a victim. “Risk of contamination!”

If the witnesses weren’t spooked before, that started a mass exodus to the police lines. Herb went north and I went south, explaining to the crowd that they were perfectly safe, and if anyone saw anything we’d like to talk to them. I managed to snag a retreating party of businesspeople, and Herb caught a kid on Rollerblades. While we did that, Rick produced a gas mask and some rubber gloves, and examined one of the bodies.

The trio gave me a rundown of what they saw, beginning with the honking and ending with the perp stabbing each victim in the neck with something. He wore a suit, had an eye patch, and drove a white Honda Accord with scratches on both sides. None of them got the license plate.

Herb’s witness gave a similar version of the story, but said the victims were shot in the neck with some kind of gun, rather than stabbed.

As we conferred, a uniform named Justin Buchbinder came to us with a jackpot: a witness with a camera phone.

“My name is Doris, Doris Washburn. I took three pictures.” She was young, chic, in business attire. “The quality isn’t the greatest, but I got one of the killer, and one of his car.”

She showed me how to view them on her cell phone. The perp’s head was turned, and the license plate on the car too pixilated to be read, but the forensics guys had digital filters that might help improve the images. The third picture unfortunately only captured the man who later died, pointing his finger and yelling.

“We’ll need to keep your phone.”

“I need my phone for work. Can’t I just send you the images?”

“Will they lose quality?”

“No. I can send them to your e-mail address.”

I called Hajek at the crime lab, and Doris sent the photos to him using her phone.

“Get anything?” I asked him while the data transferred.

“A headache. Neck strain. A sore back.”

“No prints?”

“The Chemist used gloves for everything. I even found a glove print on the toilet handle.”

I thought about that. The only people that paranoid about leaving prints are those with prints on file. This guy was in our system, somewhere. People who have been arrested had their fingerprints taken. So did government employees like cops, Feds, and military. Plus, fingerprinting was becoming more common in the private sector, for both security reasons and to ID workers.

“How about the devices? Any way to trace them?”

“The M44s had serial numbers, but they’d been removed. Acid etching didn’t bring them up. Wildlife Services uses them to kill coyotes, but these seem to be older models. Could have picked them up anywhere.”

“How about the other traps?”

“Made from common household items. I got a copy of the CDC report—even the poisons are from pretty common plants. Many are available growing wild, or at garden shops. All of them can be ordered over the Internet. No way to trace them. I’m getting the e-mail now, hold on.”

This was becoming silly. How is it possible to kill so many people and leave zero evidence?

“Well, the bad news is, the pictures are awful.”

“Can you fix them?”

“Let’s see.” I heard him typing, and then humming softly. “I’ll transfer them to my image enhancer. Clean up the noise...resize the image...reduce JPEG compression...and it’s even worse than before. Let me work on it. Will you be at this number?”

I told him yes, and hung up.

“Where’s the new partner?” Herb asked.

“Lunch.”

“Shouldn’t you call her?”

“Probably. I want my jacket back.”

I called Dispatch to get Roxy’s number. Surprisingly, a man answered when I dialed her number.

“I’m looking for Roxanne Waclawski.”

“Are you a friend or relative of hers?”

“I’m her partner, Lieutenant Daniels from the CPD. Can you put her on?”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. I’m an EMT. We got a call of a woman passing out at a Willoughby’s on Michigan and Huron. Your partner is dead.”

I squeezed my eyes closed so hard, I saw stars under the lids.

“How did she die?”

“It appears to be heart failure. But in someone this young...”

“Okay, you need to be careful. She was probably poisoned, and some of it may still be on her. I need you to talk to the manager. Try not to let anyone leave until I get there.”

“Was this—”

“Don’t say anything more. I don’t want to cause a panic. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I hung up and looked at Herb.

“She’s dead. It’s a few blocks away. I need you at the crime scene.”

Herb hesitated for a moment, and then said, “No.”

“Goddammit, Herb—”

“Goddammit, Jack, I’m not Homicide anymore.” He looked as angry as I’d ever seen him. “This isn’t my case, and you’re not my partner.”

“Fine,” I said, the words forming in my mouth before common sense could override them. “Be a coward.”

I didn’t mean it. But before I could take it back, Herb was storming off, through the crowd, over the yellow police tape, and back to the station. I’d apologize later. Herb would forgive me. Especially if the apology included carbohydrates.

I turned to look for Rick, but he was still in full gear, hovering over the corpses. Figuring I’d need help at the restaurant, I grabbed the uniform, Buchbinder.

“How would you like a temporary promotion to Homicide/Gangs/Sex?”

“My sergeant will bust my balls if I leave my post.”

“What’s your post?”

“Parking enforcement.”

“I’ll smooth it over. You got a car?”

“A bike.”

“Even better. Let’s go.”

That cheered me up a fraction. I liked bikes. My ex-husband, the man who gave me my last name, had a 1982 Harley-Davidson Sportster, and we’d go riding whenever we could. Which, as far as I can remember, was twice.

I worked a lot back then.

Unfortunately, when Buchbinder said bike, he meant scooter. The tiny little electric moped barely had room for two, and had a top speed of slow. A five-minute walk took us ten minutes on the bike, because Officer Buchbinder stopped for all traffic signals, pedestrians, strong breezes, and optical illusions. He also pulled behind a horse and buggy giving six geriatrics a tour of the Magnificent Mile—a tour so excruciatingly sluggish that I doubted all of them would live long enough to see its conclusion.

“Go faster,” I said.

“If I follow too closely, there could be an accident.”

As it turned out, there was an accident. Buchbinder couldn’t brake in time, and coasted right through the largest pile of horse shit I’d ever seen.

“Apparently they can do that while trotting,” I said.

“Did you see that? It came out of nowhere.”

Actually, I did see it, along with where it came out of. But I chose not to mention it.

“Some got in the spokes,” Buchbinder whined. “I just cleaned the spokes.”

“Pay attention to the road.”

“My God, my bike is trashed. What was that horse eating?”

“Let’s get off this topic.”

“What’s that on the fender...peanuts?”

“Pass the damn horse or I’m firing you.”

He made a hand signal and thankfully got around the horse and cart. But getting past it and getting past it were two different things.

“I gotta clean this quick, before it hardens. Don’t want to have to chisel it off.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. I didn’t say, “Like your non-future in the Homicide division.”

Buchbinder, however, was fixated.

“I can smell it. Can you smell it?”

Jesus. It just wouldn’t end.

“I got some on my pants.”

“Buchbinder, shut the hell up about the horse already.”

“Okay. But I never saw Mr. Ed do that, no sir. That manure pile was the size of a small child. Lucky we weren’t both killed.”

I didn’t feel lucky. Not even a little bit.

“Do you smell peanuts?”

We got to Willoughby’s shortly thereafter. I instructed the Horseshit Whisperer to take witness statements after he cleaned his pants. Then I spoke with the bartender.

“She came in alone. Sat down, ordered a dirty martini, up. Took off her jacket and asked where the bathroom was. I made the drink and set it down by her stool.”

I looked at the empty glass, an olive at the bottom.

“Did you see anyone near her drink?”

“Some guy came to the bar, took some napkins.”

“Did he touch her drink at all?”

“I only saw him out of the corner of my eye.”

“Can you describe him?”

“White guy. Suit. Had an eye patch.”

Dammit, Roxy. After that long talk about making yourself a target and being extra careful, how could you leave an unattended drink on the bar? I stared at my gray jacket on the bar stool, and could picture her on camera wearing it, looking so confident and professional.

I left it on the stool. I’d never wear it again.

I switched focus to the martini glass, trying to figure out how to transport it. The Crime Scene Unit would have the materials. They needed to be here anyway, to dust for prints.

I used the cell phone to call in the CSU, and some members of my team, including an Identikit artist. Maybe with all of these witnesses, we could give th. Chemist a face.

My phone rang. Rick. I picked it up.

“Where are you?” he asked.

I filled him in.

“Shit. She was a good kid. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Sure I can.”

“She was a professional. She knew the risks.”

“She was a child.”

“Put the guilt on the back burner for a little while. I think I figured out his delivery system. What he’s using to tamper with food.”

That got my attention. “What?”

“He’s also been using it directly on people. It’s called a jet injector.”

“What is that?”

“I can do better than just tell you. I’ll show you. When will you be free again?”

I looked around, at the several dozen people in the restaurant.

“A few hours at least.”

“We had to cut lunch short. Up for dinner?”

I thought of Latham, unconscious and on a ventilator.

“I’ve got something to do after work.”

“How about a quick bite? I’ll bring some food to your office. I can show you there.”

I hadn’t eaten anything, and by dinner I’d be ravenous. And if I ate at work, it would give me more time with Latham.

“Fine. Meet you there at five.”

No big deal, I assured myself. It wasn’t like we were going to have sex in my office.

Right?

Chapter 18

I GOT BACK TO the office a little after four. A copy of the personal ad set to run in tomorrow’s newspaper was on my desk.

Chemist–the answer is yes.

My stomach was growling loud enough to make passing dogs growl back. I visited the office vending machine, plunked in two quarters for a candy bar, and then stopped when I remembered that candy bars were on the list of tampered food items.

What was left to eat? Food in cans, and things I hunted and cooked myself. And I wasn’t even sure about the cans—the CDC found evidence that a can of chicken soup might have been dosed with BT.

What the hell can contaminate canned food?

I had half a roll of breath mints that had been in my purse for a year, and I wiped off the lint and ate those, along with water from the tap.

The CSU had lifted a bajillion fingerprints from Willoughby’s. The crime lab, in conjunction with the CDC/WHO/HMRT, had confirmed that Roxy’s martini had been dosed with Tanghinia venenifera, known as the ordeal bean of Madagascar. It also grew wild in Hawaii. As few as ten drops of extract were fatal.

Poor Roxy.

I flipped through a few reports from witnesses at the restaurant, and three of them had put together a composite picture of a generic-looking guy. It was so featureless, it looked like a Ken doll with an eye patch. A hot dog vendor a block away had corroborated the sketch, adding that th. Chemist spoke with a Midwestern accent, stood about five feet nine inches, and was between twenty-five and forty-five years old. But even though he had extended contact with him, all he really had focused on was the damn eye patch. Basically any thin white guy could be our perp.

I guessed the eye patch to be a disguise, because it hadn’t been mentioned in any of the scads of reports. We ran it through the registry just the same. Over two thousand guys in our database could fit the description. I put a team on it.

The mints did nothing to curb my hunger, so I wandered over to Herb’s office, to apologize for being an ass and to see if he still had those antiqu. Twinkies.

His office had been cleared out, and there was no Herb to be found. No food either. He’d even taken the wrappers.

I passed the vending machine again, and paid special attention to the packaging. Chips—could be tampered with. Candy bars—could be tampered with. Mints—it would be hard to inject toxin into mints.

I bought a roll, then spent five minutes turning them around in my hands, looking for evidence of tampering.

Life is about taking risks, Rick had said. I opened the package and popped one in my mouth.

I didn’t die.

As I sucked on the candy, I went through the reports that Herb had compiled, and made some calls to get updates on the questioning of the victims, witness searches, security tapes, and Alger’s arrest record. None of it pointed in any specific direction. I took out my To Do list and stared at it.

trace M44 purchases

Alger-arrest record

talk to neighbors

question mailman who delivered letter

security tapes at BT scenes

witness search at BT scenes

survivor interviews/background checks

research IEDs

I added to the list: gardener, fingerprints probably on file, disguise/eye patch, white Honda Accord, local, two million dollars.

I stared at the new list. Why two mil? It was a lot of money, but not that much. He could have demanded more than that. Did it have some kind of significance?

I also noted that question mailman was still on the list. I leafed through Herb’s folder and found the statement from Carey Schimmel, USPS. It was the shortest statement in the history of statements, amounting to: I delivered the letter. Carey also admitted that since the anthrax scare, he wore gloves, which explained his lack of fingerprints on the extortion envelope. I crossed that off the list.

I was about to give Hajek a call to see how he was coming with the camera phone pics, when Rick came in, carry ing a bag of heaven.

“Do you like Chinese?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“Are you kidding? I could eat Mao Tse-tung raw right now.”

The smells were intoxicating. Sweet and sour. Rice. Soy. Beef. Veggies. My mouth filled with saliva.

But wariness prevented me from tearing open the bag with my bare teeth.

“Are we sure it’s...”

“So far, the Chemist has only struck in the city, right? I got this in Cicero.”

We dug in. I ate an egg roll in two bites, wondering how that might look to a guy, but not caring. Then I dug into some beef chop suey, some kung pao chicken, and a potsticker that had to be the single greatest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.

Rick had also brought a six-pack of Tsingtao. My job would be in jeopardy if just one reporter with a long lens caught me through the office window, drinking beer. I took the risk anyway. I wouldn’t call myself a beer aficionado—I liked Sam Adams and I liked a local brew called Goose Island even more—but that Tsingtao went down quicker than any beer I’d had in ages. Rick popped open another for me, and then one for himself.

“To catching the bad guy,” I said, raising my bottle.

“And to making new friends.”

We drank to that.

When my stomach had distended to the point where my innie became an outie, I threw in the chopsticks.

“So what is this lunatic using to tamper with the food?” I asked, kicking off my shoes and pulling my feet up under me in my chair.

“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but it would explain the lack of needle holes or surface toxins, and I confirmed it with the deaths of the couple on the street, and several of the victims of the Sammy’s massacre yesterday. It’s called a jet injector.”

“Which is what?”

He dug into his satchel and took out a small blue object shaped like a phaser from Star Trek, only child-sized. It had a white plastic tube jutting out of the handle, which extended about eigh teen inches into a silver cylinder.

“It’s a needle-less injection gun, used for mass immunizations. Invented years ago, to counter the cross-contamination caused by needles, along with the fear factor and high cost of sterilization. Diabetics also use them. This model can administer a dose of liquid up to three cc’s. Its orifice is many times smaller than a needle—less than the width of a human hair, actually—so the hole it makes is very hard to spot. And unlike a needle, it evenly disperses liquid once it penetrates the skin. It’s the perfect system to introduce medicine subcutaneously.”

I looked at the thing with a mixture of dread and fascination.

“How does it work without a needle?”

“Air pressure. This one uses a spring. Other models use compressed gas, like CO2. You arm the device”—Rick turned a key on the cylinder—“then squeeze the trigger.”

I flinched at the hissing sound, and saw a spray of vapor appear around the nozzle of the gun.

“The pressure causes a jet stream, which forces the liquid through the skin and into the muscle. Smaller hole, less central concentration of fluid, less pain. Some of these models are tough too. You could inject insulin into a basketball.”

“What about plastic wrapping, or butcher paper, or aluminum cans?”

“Conceivable, yes. It would probably even work on thicker plastic, or cardboard. And look how small it is.”

Rick turned his palm and closed his fingers. The gun was completely hidden by his hand.

“I think this is what the Chemist used on his last two victims, on the street outside. They died so quickly there wasn’t even bruising, and the puncture wound could only be seen under a microscope. But I biopsied neck tissue where witnesses say he held his weapon, and found uneven concentrations of ricin, a toxin found in castor beans. I think he injected it directly into their throats.”

Rick was smiling, and while I was happy to know what we were up against, I wasn’t able to share his enthusiasm. Truth told, the Chinese food was doing somersaults in my stomach. The thought of someone using a device invented for good to do so much evil gave me a giant case of the creeps.

“Can we trace these things?” I asked.

Rick’s smile faltered.

“No. There are about two dozen companies that make them, and only six of them make a model small enough that it can be concealed, but that still gives us thousands of possibles. The guy might have picked it up at a garage sale, or on the Internet, or stolen one.”

He set the jet injector on my desk, where it coiled like a snake among the half-empty food cartons. Rick, so full of energy a moment ago, looked like he’d deflated.

“This still helps narrow it down,” I said. “We’re looking for a white male, local, with a greenhouse and a jet injector.”

Rick raised an eyebrow at me. “He’s local?”

“He has to be. Roxy was just assigned to the case, and he got to her right after she appeared on tele vision. I’m guessing he was watching at home, then put together a quick disguise and went out after her.”

“Why the greenhouse?” Rick asked.

“He uses toxins, which are organic. I’m guessing he makes these himself, which means he has a garden somewhere. Some of the plants are tropical, so unless he keeps his house at ninety-five degrees, he probably has a greenhouse.”

“Smart. That could mean hydroponics, special lamps, fertilizers. Chicago is a big town, but it shouldn’t have that many specialty gardening stores.”

My turn to frown. “You’re forgetting the Internet. All that stuff can be purchased online.”

We were quiet for almost a full minute. It didn’t surprise me that Rick looked adorable while deep in thought.

“You’re paying him?” he finally asked.

“That’s the idea.”

“You’ll try to make the arrest when he picks up the money?”

“Of course. But I’m sure he’s anticipating that.”

Rick rubbed the stubble on his chin. I liked stubble. I liked the feel of it, against my cheek. Between my thighs.

Dammit, Jack, quit it. So, he’s pretty. So what. Get over it.

“Two million isn’t a lot,” he said.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Might be using that small number because it’s easier to handle, easier to carry. Even using hundred-dollar bills, it makes a pretty big pile. About the height of your desk. One person couldn’t carry it all.”

“Which means, what? A drop-off point? He’ll ask for the money in a big metal box and then swoop down in a helicopter carrying a big magnet?”

Rick grinned. “That’s what I was thinking.”

“We know all the tricks. Transmitters. Tracking devices. Exploding ink packs. Consecutive serial numbers. Coating the money with spy dust.”

“What’s spy dust?” Rick asked.

“An invisible powder that shows up under UV light.”

“You use that stuff?”

“No. I saw it on a TV show.”

We shared a laugh.

“I guess we won’t know what to do until we hear from him,” Rick said.

“Which should be tomorrow, once he reads the paper.”

I looked at my watch. Visiting hours at the hospital were until eight p.m. I needed to get going.

“Jack, you have something on your cheek.”

Rick did the mirror reflection thing, wiping his own cheek off. I wiped in the same spot.

“Did I get it?”

“No. Here.”

He reached for me, caressed my cheek, and our eyes locked and I couldn’t believe I fell for that stupid trick, but I didn’t pull away, even when he moved in and placed his lips against mine.

I didn’t kiss him back.

Well, not at first.

His lips were warm, soft, and when the tip of his tongue entered my mouth, something snapped in me and a little sigh escaped my throat and I put my hands behind his head and pressed his body against mine.

He grabbed me by my waist and picked me up out of the chair like I weighed nothing, and then his hands were on my ass and mine were on his ass and—damn, did he have a great ass.

As our mouths fought for better purchase, his hand came around my hips and undid my front button, or perhaps just tugged it off, and then his fingers touched the top of my pan ties and he was a few inches away from seeing how excited I really was. Then common sense overrode hormones and the World’s Worst Fiancée pushed him away.

“I...can’t,” I said between deep breaths.

“Sure you can. I bet you’re really good at it.”

I wanted him, but a small voice inside me said I was just using sex to cope with all of my problems. Then another small voice tried to convince me that there was nothing wrong with that, sex was a perfectly acceptable way to cope, and that voice was louder than the first. And then a third voice, louder than both of the others, reminded me about a boyfriend on a ventilator whom I was afraid to marry because I feared making mistakes.

And then it all made sense.

“I’m afraid to get married because I’m afraid I’ll screw it up,” I said, surprised at the self-realization. “So I’m subconsciously trying to sabotage that.”

Rick reached for me again, but I kept him at arm’s length.

“I...I fear failure,” I said to Rick. But it wasn’t really to Rick. It was more to myself. “So I’d rather cop out of a situation than take a chance. I mean, look at me, I’d rather sabotage a good thing instead of giving it a try.”

I stared at Rick, who somehow had his shirt open—had I done that?—revealing as nice a chest as I’d ever seen outside of a movie.

“I’m going to see my fiancé,” I told him.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m really sure.”

Rick smiled. “He’s a very lucky man.”

I checked my pants button, and saw that he’d also gotten the zipper down. I zipped them back up, suddenly embarrassed.

“If it doesn’t work out...” Rick said, letting his voice trail off.

But I knew it would work out. I’d make sure it would work out. I loved Latham, and I’d do everything within my power to make our marriage succeed.

“We’re not going to happen,” I told Rick, pointing at him and me. “I’m sorry.”

Rick sighed, then buttoned up his shirt and left my office, closing the door behind him.

I adjusted my blouse and realized he had unhooked my bra as well. How the hell had he done that so fast?

The phone rang, and I knew deep in my heart that it was Latham, and he was conscious again, perhaps even well enough for me to screw his brains out.

But it wasn’t Latham. It was Hajek at the crime lab.

“I’m a genius, Lieutenant. A certifiable genius.”

“What happened?”

“I got the license number. And even better, I traced it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning we’ve got the bastard’s address.”

Chapter 19

WHAT’S THE ADDRESS?” I asked. “Don’t you want to know how I did it?”

Hajek spoke with the same enthusiasm as a child showing off the construction paper snowflake he made in school.

“Give me the quick version.”

“JPEG compression didn’t work, and neither did resizing or noise reduction, so I used a program that could change the blur width by —”

“You’re a genius,” I said, interrupting. “What’s the address?”

“But changing the focus points wasn’t enough. I had to rearrange the pixels using—”

“The address, Scott.”

He sighed. “Vehicle belongs to a Tracey Hotham. Her apartment is on Thirty-first and Laramie in Cicero.”

“Did you run priors?”

“Of course. No records. I checked DMV, and her license had expired. So I tried Social Security, and found out Tracey died six years ago.”

“How?”

“I didn’t dig that deep. But you can ask her parents. According to 411, they’re still living at the Cicero address.”

Two scenarios came to me simultaneously. Maybe they no longer had the car, or maybe a member of Tracey’s family was the Chemist.

I yawned. Not from boredom—my lack of sleep was catching up with me. “Nice work, Scott.”

“Thanks. Maybe we could discuss it over dinner.”

“Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow, during dinner.”

I hung up, my fingers pressing the speed dial for Herb before my mind remembered he and I were no longer a team. I hit the disconnect button.

Abruptly, I felt very alone.

I could get in touch with Bains, have him assign me a new partner, but that wouldn’t happen today. I wasn’t even sure I wanted a new partner on this case. I didn’t like wearing a bull’s-eye, and didn’t want to hang one on anyone else.

Calling Rick wasn’t an option. I didn’t want to see him again unless I was wearing a suit of armor. I could tr. Scooterboy Buchbinder, but going solo was preferable to hearing him wax prolific about the World’s Largest Road Apple. Before leaving Willoughby’s, he had taken me aside and confessed that right before the unfortunate collision, he’d sworn the manure pile looked exactly like the Lincoln head on Mt. Rushmore.

“I keep seeing it. President Lincoln’s face, getting cleaved in half. And that haunting, squishing sound...”

The guy had issues. More than issues—he had a whole subscription.

So I had no choice. I’d be going stag to Cicero.

On my way to the car, I called the Cicero police, and was bounced around until I connected with a sergeant named Cooper.

“You think the Chemist lives in our burg?”

“I have no idea. As of now, the Hothams are persons of interest. It’s your jurisdiction, if you want someone there.”

“We’ll meet you at the apartment. You need a warrant?”

“I just want to ask some questions. Don’t...” I thought about walking into Alger’s house. “Have your people wait for me before they go in. This guy likes to set traps.”

And then I hopped in my car and headed for Cicero.

The drive only took fifteen minutes. Cicero bordered Chicago on the west, blending into it seamlessly. Mostly Hispanic, a population of around eighty thousand, middle class, blue collar, more like a neighborhood of Chicago than a distinct town.

Their patrol cars were black with silver accents, and there was one of them at the address when I arrived. It was empty.

On the drive over, I’d gotten a little sleepy. But this put me into full alert mode, complete with adrenaline sweat and a tug of nausea. They’d gone in without me.

I dug out my .38 and stared at the apartment building. Three stories, brick, dirty beige. Black wrought iron railing along the walkway, rusty and broken. Security windows on the first floor. Front door open a crack.

I hung my star around my neck, drew in a big breath, and went through the door.

Hallway was well lit, the walls freshly painted. I took the stairs two at a time, up to the second floor and 2- C, where the Hothams resided. Their door was also open a few inches. I nudged it with my shoulder, peering into the apartment but keeping my face well away from the crack.

I heard static, then, “Car seventeen, this is base, please copy.”

“Police,” I announced. “I’m coming in.”

I eased the door open, still not daring to breathe the air coming out of the apartment.

I saw the legs first. Male, black shoes, sidearm still in his rocker holster.

“Seventeen this is base, what’s your twenty, over.”

He lay on his back, bloodshot eyes wide, mouth hanging open and coated in froth and mucus. I didn’t see any movement, but I knew I needed to check for a pulse to be sure.

The problem was, I didn’t want to go into that apartment.

I parted my lips, still not breathing, but trying to taste the air, to see if it was safe. I didn’t taste anything.

“Is anyone inside this apartment?” I said loudly.

No answer.

My options were to call for backup, or go inside and look for possible survivors. If this was the Chemist’s apartment, it could be booby-trapped.

“Car seventeen, this is base, please respond. You there, Smitty?”

I let in a tiny bit of air. It seemed fine. No strange smell. No physical reaction, other than a strange sense of déjà vu that I’d been in this same situation before, which wasn’t déjà vu at all.

But this time, I didn’t have a space suit.

I went in, crouched next to the fallen cop, probing his carotid. Nothing. So I reached for the radio clipped to his chest.

“This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago PD. We have an officer down at 1730 East Thirty-first, apartment 2-C. Request immediate assistance.”

The radio crackled a response, but I wasn’t paying attention; my eyes focused on the two people sitting on the couch.

A man and a woman. Early sixties. She had brown hair, cut short, with gray highlights. He was mostly bald. Both wore glasses. Both stared straight at me.

Both were dead.

It took a moment to realize that. After the adrenaline startle, I stood erect and took a few steps toward them. Their eyes were dry, lifeless. Their faces devoid of color. They held hands, and I noticed the lividity blush to their fingers, where the blood had pooled.

What killed these people?

My paranoia kicked up to near panic, and I looked up, down, left and right, in every direction I could, for traps, for gas, for IEDs, for poison, for anything dangerous or out of place.

Cobwebs on the ceiling. A clean carpet. An easy chair. Two floor lamps, glowing. A window air conditioner. A large floor-model humidifier, silent. Photos on the walls, of the old people. It was their house.

“Is anyone in here?” I shouted.

No response.

I walked past the fallen officer, through the living room, nice and easy, aware of my center, my footing, my balance, eyes sweeping the floor for wires and fishing line.

Another cop was in the kitchen, facedown on the tile floor, a pool of vomit surrounding his head like a green halo. Gun clenched in his fist. No signs of any injury, just like his partner.

Had they surprised the Chemist, and he dosed them all and then ran out?

Or had they run into some of his improvised traps?

Or was the Chemist still inside, waiting with his jet injector?

The phone rang, and my finger flinched. I was a millimeter away from shooting the dead cop before I caught myself and eased back on the trigger.

It rang again. I stared at the phone, one of those older desktop models the phone company once called “Princess,” on the kitchen counter between a coffee machine and a tabletop humidifier—apparently the Hothams preferred a humid household.

I moved in closer, searching for trip wires or switches attached to the phone. It seemed untampered with. On the third ring, I picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” A male voice, whispering.

“Lieutenant Daniels, of the Chicago Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”

A pause. I could hear him breathing. Slow and even, like a metronome.

“You know who this is, Lieutenant. Did they assign you a new partner yet?”

Anger overrode anxiety. “Why are you doing this?”

“You’re the cop. You figure it out.”

I clenched the phone so tight, my knuckles turned white.

“You’re killing innocent people.”

“No one is fully innocent,” he rasped. “Especially not the police.”

“How about these people in this apartment? What did they do to you?”

“Unfortunate, but I needed the car. I believe the government would call them casualties of war, or collateral damage.”

“We’re not at war.”

“I am.”

I waited. An old police trick. Give a suspect silence, and he’ll fill the silence with talk.

“Are you wondering if I’m a terrorist?” the Chemist finally said. “I’m not. I’m not out to cause terror. I’m out to cause pain. An eye for an eye. And I might as well make a little money along the way. Have you decided to pay me?”

“Yes. The ad will run tomorrow. If we pay you, you’ll stop this?”

He chuckled.

“You’re very attractive. Not like that younger woman, the blonde. She had a better body, but she didn’t have that look that you have. The haunted look. You’ve seen things, I bet. Done things. Any sins to confess, Lieutenant?”

I knew I could get the phone records, trace this number, but he probably knew that as well. Why did he call? To ask about the money? To see if there were survivors?

“If you come in voluntarily, we can work out a deal. I know the assistant state’s attorney. We could waive the death penalty.”

“Lieutenant Daniels.” He was speaking normally now, no longer whispering. “I am the death penalty.”

I had talked to my share of psychos, but this one was really freaking me out.

“Why did you call here?”

“For two reasons. First, to get your phone number. You’re the person I want to deal with from now on. What’s your cell?”

I didn’t like that much, but I gave it to him.

“What’s the other reason?”

Another chuckle. “It’s awfully dry in there, don’t you think?”

I glanced at the tabletop humidifier, noticed that the green light was blinking.

“Perhaps you should leave, Lieutenant. A dry environment isn’t very healthy.”

I dropped the phone and backed away, stumbling over the corpse, almost losing my footing, forcing my throat closed in mid-gasp. Back in the living room, I heard the faint humming of the floor-model humidifier next to the sofa. It had been off before, but those things had sensors and timers and started automatically. Now it was running full tilt, billowing lethal steam throughout the room.

I clamped a hand over my mouth and sprinted, still not breathing, and ran out into the hallway into a band of Cicero cops storming up the stairs.

Four men trained their weapons on me. I exhaled, raising up my hands, saying, “I’m police.”

And then my stomach twisted, and my vision got wiggly, and I grabbed on to the railing and thought Oh my God no just as the vomit escaped my lips.

Chapter 20

AN OVERLY HAIRY MEDIC named Holmes stuck an electronic thermometer in my ear as I sat in the rear of his ambulance, breathing into a plastic bag.

“Ninety-nine point one,” he declared.

The plethora of unpronounceable poisons, toxins, and diseases I’d been exposed to in the last few days raced like a stampede through my mind.

“So I’m sick?” I asked, my voice small.

“BP is normal. Reflexes are normal. Headache or stomachache?”

“Both.”

“Open wide.”

I opened, self-conscious about my breath after throwing up.

“Throat looks fine.” He shined a penlight in my eyes. “Pupil response normal.”

“So what have I got?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell.”

The CPD Mobile Command Post drove up, and six SRT cops got out, all wearing full space suits.

“I threw up,” I told the medic. “Should we go get a sample?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To test.”

Holmes gave me a patronizing look.

“You aren’t the first cop to throw up at a crime scene. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That’s not why I threw up. I’ve seen corpses before.”

“Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s probably what did it.”

“But you said I have a fever.”

“A slight fever. Could be due to stress, or overheating.”

“And my headache?”

“Stress.”

He packed up his kit.

“If I drop dead, you’re going to feel really stupid,” I said.

He winked at me. “I’ll risk it.”

A Cicero cop came over, Cooper on his name badge. The sergeant I’d spoken with on the phone. Short, dark, and brooding.

“What a giant clusterfuck. Those were good guys.”

He didn’t seem to know what else to say. I didn’t have much either.

“You want my statement?” I eventually asked.

“Yeah.”

We spent half an hour going over it, backward and forward and backward again. Cooper got on the horn with the phone company and a few minutes later found out that the Chemist had called from the Hothams’ own cell phone, which he’d apparently taken with him after their murder. Cooper tried pinging the number—a system that the 911 Emergency Center uses to triangulate cell phone locations to within twenty-five meters—but the Chemist had probably destroyed the phone after calling the apartment.

With my statement in the can, I asked if I could poke around the apartment. Whe. Cooper said no, the relief I felt was a physical thing.

“We’ll keep you in the loop, get you the reports, but you going up there now isn’t going to happen.”

From the hard looks of the Cicero cops who walked past, I understood Cooper’s reasoning. If I hadn’t called earlier, two men would still be alive.

I drove home. Even though Cicero was closer to Bensenville, it still took an hour.

A call to the nurse’s station told me Latham had awoken briefly, but was now sleeping again. I asked them to call me if there was any change. Then I fished my notebook out of my purse, and found the number of Wilbur Martin Streng that Dispatch had given to me earlier. He lived in Elmwood Park. No priors, other than some minor traffic violations.

My dad.

I stared at the number, wondering how I should feel. I didn’t remember much about my father. All I had were impressions of him. The old leather slippers he always wore around the house. The dark-framed Clark Kent glasses. The smell of Old Spice and cigars.

One memory stood out, so clear that I had no idea if it was a real memory or a fabrication. We were in Grant Park for some kind of summer festival, and I was on his shoulders, and there was an ice cream vendor on the street. Dad bought me an ice cream, and I dropped it. So we went back to the vendor, and he bought me another one. I accidentally dropped that one too. He didn’t get mad. No lecture. No yelling. Not a single word. We just went back to the ice cream man, and Dad bought me a third.

This was the man who left me and Mom. The man who destroyed our family.

I wanted to drum up some hate, but couldn’t seem to find it. All I had was curiosity. I wanted to hear, in his words, why he left. Why he never tried to get in touch. How he could completely absolve responsibility for the lives of two people he was supposed to have loved.

I put the number away. Now wasn’t the time.

I came home to a package outside my door. Shoes I’d ordered from some TV shopping club. Normally that would perk me up. This time, it was a chore to even pick them up.

Upon opening my door, I was greeted by the pleasant surprise of a living room coated in kitty litter. This was impressive, considering the cat box was in the kitchen. Mr. Friskers had also asserted his dominance over the sofa, having shredded one of the armrests.

He missed my mother, I guessed.

I’d once gone so far as to battle Mr. Friskers into his cat carrier, in preparation to get him declawed, and if possible, detoothed. Mom, in her mother tone, reminded me that the cat had saved both of our lives, and removing his claws would be like taking away Wyatt Earp’s Colt Peacemaker.

I told her, “Wyatt Earp didn’t terrorize the West, maiming innocents and destroying property.”

“Let the kitty out of the carrier, dear, and help yourself to my Valium.”

The cat was the one who needed the Valium. But Mom won, and the weapons of mass destruction weren’t removed. Mr. Friskers celebrated his victory by tearing apart a section of carpeting in my bedroom.

He never seemed to destroy any of Mom’s things.

I went into the kitchen, litter crunching underfoot, and saw Mr. Friskers on the countertop, playing with something small and dark.

That poor mariachi’s mustache.

“You’re the Antichrist,” I told him.

He ignored me.

I checked his food dish, saw that it was filled with kitty litter (how did he do that?), and rinsed it out. I dumped in some dry food, refreshed his water, and plodded into the bedroom.

As I undressed, I thought about Latham and got pretty choked up. Not only because he was sick, but because I should have said yes when he proposed. I looked at my left hand and felt an itch where the ring should be.

Where was the ring?

Latham had appropriated a few drawers in my dresser, and I opened up the top one. The ring box was resting on top of his jeans. I took it out and opened it up.

It was gorgeous. Bigger than I remembered. And I wanted it so badly.

I considered putting it on, so he could see it when I visited him. But I wanted him to put it on me. I wanted the mariachi players again, and the kneeling, and the sweet speech, but this time I’d say yes, and no one would lose any facial hair, and then we’d have a romantic dinner and wild sex and I’d soon be Jacqueline Conger. Jacqueline Conger-Daniels. Jacqueline Daniels-Conger.

Well, we’d figure out the name stuff later.

I closed the box and put it back in the drawer.

A hot shower burned away some of the stress, but not much. I threw on one o. Latham’s undershirts, rubbed some Oil of Olay into my wrinkles, and plopped into bed as exhausted as I’d ever been.

Sleep refused to come.

After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I flipped on the Home Shopping Network. I had their 800 number on speed dial, my customer number committed to memory, and I bought a portable steamer, a hair-coloring system guaranteed to get out the gray in five easy minutes, and an assortment of fake eyelashes because I’d never owned fake eyelashes and because they looked like fun and because I was seriously overtired.

“Would you like to put this on your Visa, Ms. Daniels?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Some people had cocaine. I had HSN. It was still up in the air as to which was the more expensive addiction.

The phone rang, and I wondered if it was Stacey from HSN, telling me their computer burst into flames when they tried to authorize my credit card.

But it wasn’t HSN. It was the hospital.

“Are you the next of kin for Latham Conger?”

I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. I managed to say, “Yes.”

“You’d better get here are soon as possible.”

“What’s going on?”

“His condition has deteriorated. He may not last the night.”

I glanced at the drawer, the one with the engagement ring in it. Then I threw on some clothes and headed for the hospital.

Chapter 21

HIS GREEN SWEATPANTS have holes in the knees, and have been rubbed with grease and grime from his gas grill. He wears a blue hoodie, equally stained, and over that a black rain slicker. His shoes are an old pair of white Nikes that have been scribbled on with black permanent marker. Grease also coats his forehead and both cheeks. The glued-on goatee has bits of crackers in it.

Taped to the insides of his jacket are eight large-sized ziplock bags. They’re full, and when he cinches his jacket closed, he can feel their contents wiggling.

He carries a stuffed backpack, also dirtied up. If he puts his ear to it, he hears a soft rustling sound.

He checks the mirror, rubs more grease onto his face and over the backs of his hands, and then pulls on a wool cap, covering his hair.

Then he walks to the corner and waits for the bus.

Even at three in the morning, it’s unbearably hot. It’s only June, but Chicago already has that oily humidity so common during summer nights; part garbage smell, part sewage smell, with just a hint of Lak. Michigan. It’s bright out—traffic, shops, streetlights—and the bus stop is especially well lit. To discourage criminal behavior, he assumes. He’s not discouraged in the least.

The movement inside his jacket is creepy, repulsive. He forces himself not to fidget, to keep the coat on and relax. When the bus arrives, green and white and almost as dirty as he is, he puts his quarters in the money box and the driver makes a show of not looking at him.

The bus has a few occupants. A single black man. Some college kids talking loud. A woman who might be a hooker. He sits in an empty seat and places his backpack between his feet. He stares at it, and tries not to think about what he’s got under his coat, tries not to think about what he’s going to do.

His stop comes up. He gets off the bus. There are a few people on the sidewalk, but not nearly as many as before. He’s sweating hard now, and can smell himself. It adds to his disguise.

The police station is ahead, and he hesitates. He’d been inside a few months ago, to get a layout of the place. This will work. He just needs to remain calm.

He walks through the front doors, up to the desk sergeant seated behind the bulletproof glass.

“I was robbed,” he says, putting a little alcohol slur into the words. Then he gives a fake name. Brian Pinkerton.

The cop frowns at him. He can guess the sergeant’s thoughts. No one likes the homeless. They’re a blight on the city. Who cares if one got robbed? But a crime is a crime, and they have to take the reports.

He’s told to sit down in the lobby and a police officer will be with him, but it may take a little while.

Which is perfect.

He takes a seat on a cracked vinyl bench the color of cigarette smoke, and places the bag between his feet like he did on the bus. But this time, he unzips the top.

There are half a dozen people in the lobby. An old woman, black and fat, obviously homeless, muttering to herself. A Hispanic lady who keeps dabbing at the tears in her eyes with a wadded-up tissue. Two white guys with various facial cuts and bruises. A man in a reverend’s collar. An angry-looking old man, swinging his cane around like he’s swatting flies.

The first cockroach climbs out of the backpack, hesitates for a millisecond, then climbs down the side and tears across the room.

Two more do the same thing.

Then thousands.

One of the white guys is the first to notice. He stands abruptly, pointing and saying, “Holy shit!”

His companion also stands.

“That is disgusting.”

The angry old man also stands up, uttering a round of expletives, the favorite being, “Goddamn!”

Crying lady leaps to her feet and runs across the room, screaming. The reverend watches, mouth agape, and then also gets up and retreats to a corner of the room.

The Chemist remains still, even as the roaches crawl up his legs. He’s been preparing for this for many months, breeding and feeding the bugs, sticking his hands into the roach pen to overcome his inherent squeamishness. He reaches inside his raincoat, pulling open one of the bags. Roaches erupt from the holes in his clothing like he’s bleeding them out of his veins.

The homeless woman also remains still as the roaches swarm her. He watches as several crawl across her face, and tries to remain just as unaffected as they crawl across his.

Someone is yelling at the desk sergeant, and two plainclothes cops come into the lobby, take one look at the stampede of insects, and join the old man in the “Goddamn” chant.

In a radius of ten feet and growing, the white tile floor has become brown with shifting white specks. Some of the roaches beeline for corners, cracks, hiding places. Others run in straight lines, apparently assured of their safety in numbers.

A female uniformed officer comes in, takes a look, and exits the way she came.

The Chemist stands, hands in his coat, opening more bags. He was hoping to free at least half of the bugs before they kicked him out, but no one is rushing over to grab him. More cops enter the lobby, and they just stand there, looking revolted. No one acts. One of them tiptoes across the room, roaches crackling underfoot like dry leaves, but he heads for the exit rather than trying to secure order.

There is more talking now. The Chemist catches the words filthy and homeless. Freeing the contents of the final bag, he walks toward the exit, pausing at the bulletproof glass to stare at the desk sergeant, ass up on his desk and feet raised from the floor as if the room had suddenly flooded.

“You got a bug problem,” he says.

Then he walks casually out the door and into the humid Chicago night.

Chapter 22

ISPENT THE NIGHT by Latham’s bedside, holding his hand. He had developed pneumonia, his lungs awash with pus and fluid. He was mercifully unconscious for a horrific procedure called a lung tap. The doctors and nurses used big words like empyema and nosocomial and rhonchi and pleural effusion, but none would give me the straight facts on what his chances were.

He looked terrible. His entire face seemed to hang loosely, as if it no longer was attached to the bone. His color was sickly pale, his red hair slicked to his head, his hand clammy and hot.

I played the fate game for a little while, thinking about my telling him to eat without me, realizing that if I hadn’t we would have eaten together and I’d be in the bed next to him. No one wins thinking those thoughts, but I punished myself with them just the same.

I slept a little, on and off, Latham’s mechanical ventilator oddly soothing. But I always awoke with a startle shortly after sleep began, panicked that the man I loved had died without me being there for him.

At a little after seven in the morning, I again startled myself awake, and looked into Latham’s eyes and saw that his droopy eyelids were halfway open.

“Are you awake, honey?”

I pushed a damp lock of hair off of his forehead and noticed his skin was cool. His fever had broken.

“Do you know where you are?”

His eyelids twitched, and I felt him weakly squeeze my hand.

“You’re in a hospital. You have botulism poisoning. It’s paralyzed many of your muscles, including your diaphragm, so you’re on a ventilator.”

Another light squeeze.

“It’s not permanent. You’ll get better, but it will take a few weeks. I was thinking...I was thinking about our honeymoon. I’ve never been to Hawaii. I was thinking maybe we could go there.”

His eyes closed again. I didn’t think he’d heard me.

And I had to go to work.

I went home, forced myself through some sit-ups and push-ups and a twenty-minute workout video, showered, searched my cupboards for food and found some instant oatmeal, nuked it, and forced myself to keep it down, even though my stomach didn’t like the idea. Then I threw on a light blue Barrie Pace wing-collar jacket, a matching skirt, and what I called my tough-girl boots—black suede Giuseppe Zanotti knee highs with low heels, rubber soles, and silver and crystal skull details on the ankle buckles. Socks, no nylons. Then makeup.

The sleep had helped reduce the enormous black bags under my eyes to only slightly gigantic, and my concealer made easy work of them. My mom, a cop herself, was never a fashion plate, but she taught me one valuable girlie lesson: The more expensive the cosmetics, the less you have to fuss with them.

It was humid, and my hair frizzed up in a Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio way. Straight-haired women all wanted curls, and I hated my curls and wished someone put out a shampoo that promised less volume instead of more. I checked my purse for mousse or gel or spray. All out. I was stuck with poofy.

An hour later, I tried to pull into the station parking lot, but every slot behind my building was filled, mostly with trucks bearing the names of exterminators. I had to park across the street, next to a hydrant.

“What’s going on?” I asked a uniform named Collins when I came in.

“Roaches. Some homeless guy brought them in this morning. They were living in his clothes.”

I stared as three men with backpack spray canisters and multicolored jumpsuits walked past.

“All this for a few roaches?”

“More than a few. Nasty things are everywhere.”

I took the stairs to my office, eyes alert for roaches. I saw something on the wall that turned out to be a stain, and a wad of gum stuck to the railing, but no insect activity.

There were reports waiting for me on my desk. More victim interviews, witness interviews, a crime lab report from Willoughby’s, and a fax from the Cicero PD—my statement, autopsy reports, and an inventory of the crime scene. My machine had run out of paper, but had eight more pages saved in memory, so I reloaded the tray and let them print. Then I sat down and settled in to read.

The task force was doing a good job gathering information, but since I was the only one going over everything, there might have been connections that I was missing. I corrected that by calling one of my teams and switching them from interviews to data review. Then I loaded up the fax with reports and read the one that had just printed. It was a background check of the Hothams, and they came up clean, but there was another mention of their daughter Tracey’s death. Except this mention labeled it a homicide.

I called Cooper in Cicero, but he had no more information about the daughter—the crime hadn’t happened on their turf. So I ran Tracey Hotham through the Cook County database, and found the death certificate. She’d died six years ago. GSW to the stomach. I didn’t recall the case, but there had been thousands of murders in Chicago since then.

I located a case number, along with the assigned officer—J. Alger. It also had another case number—an arrest—attached. I looked that up, and found that Tracey Hotham’s assailant, a man named Dirk Welch, had been charged with her murder. A Department of Corrections search informed me that Welch got life, but died in prison after serving two years. Back to the CC database. Welch’s death certificate stated he’d died of a digitalis overdose.

I wanted to read Alger’s case files, but that required a trip to Records on the first floor. So instead I Googled “Tracey Hotham” and found the newspaper articles about the attack. Thirty-one-year-old postal worker Tracey Lynne Hotham had been beaten, raped, and shot in the stomach. She was taken to the hospital, and died en route. Welch had been living across the hall in the same apartment building. Jason Alger arreste. Welch two days after the attack, he confessed, and it was an unusually speedy trial.

So what was the Chemist’s connection? Did he have ties to Tracey or to Welch or to Alger? Or was this just an unhappy coincidence?

I’d have to visit Records and crack open the file for more info.

I leaned back in my chair, ran my hand through my hair...and felt something.

I thought maybe it was a twig, or maybe some plaster from the ceiling had fallen on my head. But the something twitched and crawled right out of my fingers.

I abruptly stood up and shook my hair side to side like a Vidal Sassoon commercial, without the sultry smile. I bent over to give my hair another shake, and glanced at my boots, along with the several dozen roaches climbing up them. Then I felt them inside the boots, between the suede and the naked skin of my calves.

I freaked out, complete with full-blown girlish screams and hopping up and down. This knocked over my garbage can, and the remains of the Chinese feast Rick had delivered last night. Except tha. I didn’t see any garbage, because it was swarming with hundreds of scuttling cockroaches.

I ran out of that office like it was on fire. It took me five steps before I got any control back, and luckily no one saw me. I wound up sitting on a boardroom table, tugging off my boots, dumping about ten live roaches onto the floor. And a few dead ones, that I’d squished underfoot.

Yuck. Yuck yuck yuck yuck.

“At least they weren’t bees,” I said, my voice a wee bit higher than normal.

My white cotton socks, covered with roach guts, went into the garbage.

It took courage I didn’t know I had to put those boots back on, and then I flagged down one of the jumpsuited exterminators—one who looked a lot like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters—and gave him directions to my office.

“Kill them,” I said. “Kill them all.”

“That’s why we’re here, ma’am.”

He walked past, but I grabbed his elbow.

“Do, um, cockroaches carry any kind of disease?”

He scratched at his stubble. “They aren’t the cleanest. Like to eat spoiled food, and excrement. Tough little buggers too. A roach can survive a few weeks with his head cut off. Eventually starves to death. Can live if you flush them down the toilet. Can even survive radiation equivalent to a thermonuclear explosion. But they don’t carry any germs harmful to humans.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. And hold still, you got one in your hair.”

I clenched my teeth as he reached up to my scalp and pinched a roach between his bare fingers.

“Thanks again,” I said, forcing on a smile.

“Ah, there’s another one. Hold on.”

I forced myself to stay still.

“Just a sec...little fella crawled around the other side.”

Bill Murray walked behind me, rooting through my hair like he was giving me a hot oil treatment.

“Looks like you got a few in here. Maybe they’re having a party.”

And that was the straw that broke me. I ran squealing to the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and gave my scalp to the tepid spray. I got water up my nose, started to choke, but kept my head under, running my fingers through my hair over and over until I was sure every last bug was out.

Then I squeezed out the excess water, tried not to stare at the five bugs trying to crawl out of the slippery porcelain sink, and positioned myself awkwardly under the push-button hand dryer.

The air was hot and strong, but it took twelve button presses before I’d dried my head and jacket.

I checked the mirror. My expensive makeup hadn’t washed off, and my hair had lost the poofiness and actually looked pretty good.

I wasn’t going to go back into my office until I was sure it had been fumigated, sterilized, and hermetically sealed, so I took the stairs down to Rec ords.

Chicago had twenty-six Police Districts, divided into four Areas. Each District housed their duplicate reports at a single Records facility in their Area. My District had that honor for my Area. Alger had worked the two-four, making him part of my Area, which meant copies of his files would be kept in my building.

Every year, we griped about digitizing the files and putting them in a database. And every year, we were told that there was no money for it. So even in this enlightened technological age, the CPD was still killing trees.

Records was an expansive, open room with floor-to-ceiling shelves. The shelves held document boxes labeled according to case numbers, which were divided by District and in semi-chronological order.

The cop running Records was a portly woman named Martel Sardina who’d worked here for six years and didn’t know where a damn thing was. It took a special talent to learn absolutely nothing about your job in that amount of time. I asked Sardina about it once, and her reply was jovial.

“I like it here. It’s quiet. I can read magazines. Records is considered scut-work, a stepping-stone to other positions. If I did a good job, I’d be promoted out of here. So I don’t do a damn thing.”

It made a warped kind of sense.

Sardina offered a friendly smile and wave when I walked in. Instead of reading magazines today, it appeared that she was working on crayon drawings. I asked where the two-four files were, and she shrugged.

“Come on, Officer Sardina. Just point me in the right direction.”

“I have no idea. Do we even have records from the two-four?”

“Yes. And I’m sure a thousand people have asked you where they are, over the years.”

“If they found them, they never shared their location with me.”

“If you had to guess, where would they be?”

“I couldn’t even guess.”

“Come on. I won’t tell. I’ll even put in a bad word to your superior.”

“I can’t help you, Lieutenant. And in all honesty, I don’t wish that I could.”

She smiled pleasantly.

“What if I told Captain Bains you’re doing a great job, and that I wanted you transferred to Homicide?”

“Threats won’t work,” she said. “He just threatened to suspend me, because of my art.”

She held up a poorly done stick figure crayon drawing of a man with a very large mouth yelling, “I’m a big stupid poop head!” The title at the top read Captain Bains.

“You got the eyes wrong. They’re brown dots, not blue dots. And I don’t think he has a pig snout.”

“Artistic expression. Want to see the one where he’s rolling around in the mud?”

“Maybe later.”

“Ask Mr. Creepy Exterminator Guy if he wants to see it. He’s around here somewhere, spraying for bugs.” She squinted at her drawing. “Think the captain would look good as a cockroach?”

“Just make sure you get the eyes right.”

While she hunted for a brown crayon, I walked down the ranks and files of shelves, trying to remember where I should begin. I had the case numbers, but where were the two-four files?

I checked the nearest box as a reference point. But the boxes on either side didn’t seem to be in order. Was that also part of Sardina’s plan to appear incompetent? Putting the files back out of order? If so, I was impressed. She deserved to be in management.

I moved an aisle over, and here the numbering system seemed to work. I opened a box to confirm. This was, indeed, the two-five section. I skipped the next aisle, turned, and almost bumped into a guy in a bright red jumpsuit, digging through one of the boxes.

“Are they eating our files?” I asked.

The exterminator looked up and smiled. He had a port-wine birthmark covering most of his right cheek, just above a thick goatee. Aviator glasses that reflected like mirrors. And a dark smudge on his forehead, grease or dirt.

“Little fellas like it dark. Gotta check everywhere.”

He set the box back on the shelf and picked up his chemical pack, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he held out the sprayer wand and squirted along the bottom of the shelf he’d been searching, coating the carpeting with white powder.

“Is that stuff dangerous?”

He winked. “Only to vermin.”

Sardina was right. Creepy guy. We passed each other, and I followed the numbers until I got to Alger’s case files. My internal alarm sounded—they were in the same box that the exterminator had been looking through.

I took off after him, rounding the corner, not even thinking that my piece was upstairs in my purse, and then I skidded to a stop because he was waiting for me, his sprayer extended.

“Take a deep breath,” he said.

And then he squeezed the trigger, blasting me right in the face.

Chapter 23

LIKE I’D DONE AT the Hothams’ apartment, I closed my throat and sealed off my lungs, halting my breathing in mid-inhale. I also shut my eyes on reflex.

The chemical, or whatever it was, clumped onto my face and neck. It felt warm, slightly moist, almost like a beauty peel or a mud wrap.

I reached up to wipe the poison off, to get it off my face.

“Don’t touch,” the Chemist said. “That’s tetraethyl pyrophosphate. Also known as TEPP. It can be absorbed through the skin, and the mucus membranes. If you rub it, you’ll force it deeper into your pores.”

I stopped. Time seemed to stop too. I had one of those this can’t be happening to me thoughts, which did nothing to improve my situation.

“The first symptoms will be eye pain, headache, and cramps. That quickly progresses to chest pain, vomiting, loss of sphincter control, convulsions, paralysis, low blood pressure, and finally, death. Chances are, unless you can wash it off, you’ll be dead within fifteen minutes. Sooner if you inhale.”

I stuck my hands out, touched the fabric of his uniform, but he pulled away.

“Not on the first date, Jack. But maybe later. If you live through this. Bye, now. Best of luck.”

I heard him walk off, and then all I could hear was the beating of my heart in my ears, and it was beating much too fast for me to make it through this alive.

I pushed aside the panic, which wasn’t that hard to do because I had panicked so many times in the last few days, I didn’t have much left in the tank.

Officer Sardina wouldn’t be of help. She probably wouldn’t even look up from her crayon art. And I dared not open my mouth to yell, because some poison might get in.

I needed to wash this off. That meant a sink. There was one on this floor, but I wasn’t sure of the exact pathway. But on the second floor, I knew the bathroom was right down the hall from the stairs.

Could I make it to the second floor, with only half a chestful of oxygen, blind as a bat?

I had to try.

In my mind, I pictured where I stood in the Records room, tried to remember where the door was. Straight ahead, and to the left. I held my hands in front of me and began to walk in what I thought was a straight line.

I ran straight into a shelf, jamming my right pinky.

Readjust. Step to the left. Keep walking.

“Hey, don’t point that thing at me, Creepy Man.”

Sardina. Then she screamed. It was followed by choking. And gagging.

I had to focus. I walked fast, using the shelf as a guide. When it ended, I kept going forward until I reached the wall, and followed that left, seeking the doorway.

Vomiting sounds from Sardina. Then an eerie, pain-racked wail.

The wall stretched on. I bumped into a chair. Tripped over boxes. Walked fifteen steps. Twenty. Twenty-five.

Sardina began to scream. Wet, gurgling screams.

Where was that goddamn doorway? Did I miss it? Did I go the wrong way?

And then my hand met empty space and I fell through, onto my knees. The tile was cold, hard. I tried to think. The stairs were to the right. I began to crawl until I found the wall again, then followed it to the staircase.

How long had it been since I breathed? Thirty seconds? A minute? It seemed like a long time ago, and my diaphragm spasmed, wanting air, wondering why I wouldn’t allow it. The pounding in my head became louder, and my eyes had begun to sting. The first symptoms.

Again I fell when the hallway opened up into the stairs. I landed on my chest, and that knocked some precious stale air out of my lungs, but I couldn’t dwell on it. I was on all fours, climbing the steps, reaching for the handrail, coming up to where the stairs turned, taking them as fast as I could go to the second floor.

When I reached the hallway, I couldn’t remember if I needed to go left or right.

Panic worsened. The spasm in my chest was now a full-blown cramp, almost doubling me over.

Left or right? Left or right?

My office had been here for ten years. Dammit Jack, focus. This is an easy one.

Left. It was left.

I kept my hand on the wall, found a doorknob, but that was an office, not the bathroom. My head was screaming now, and my legs were giving out, and my vision through my closed eyes—already black—seemed to get even darker.

Dizziness set in. I’d need to breathe within the next few seconds, poison or no poison. Rational thought had been overtaken by animal instinct, and I felt the scream well up in my throat, my whole body beginning to quake.

And then I was in the bathroom.

I ran, my hip crashing into the sink, my shaking hands turning on the water and splashing it onto my face, over my eyes, wiping at my nose and mouth, and the. I was sucking in air, crying, still wiping and rubbing and splashing and I opened my eyes and saw they were bloodred, and I started screaming until everything went blurry and finally black.

Chapter 24

AN EXTERMINATOR HAD SEEN me crawling blindly through the hallway, and alerted some cops on my floor. Shortly after I passed out I was whisked away to the hospital. They revived me en route, and I semi-coherently informed them it was TEPP poisoning.

The ER nurses scrubbed my face and neck until I appeared to be sunburned. My eyes were irrigated, a process as painful as it sounds. I was given atropine. Pralidoxime. Activated charcoal.

Somehow Herb appeared at my side during the treatment. I gave him bits and pieces about what I remembered, but couldn’t give much of a description beyond the port-wine stain on the Chemist’s cheek, which I guessed to be fake. Even though Herb was no longer my partner, he dutifully took down the info.

I was in eight kinds of pain. The drugs made my heart jittery. My eyes itched, my skin was on fire. My nose and throat felt like I’d been sniffing broken glass.

“My face hurts,” I told Herb. I was setting him up for the punch line, “Yeah, it’s killing me too.” But he didn’t bite. He just stared at me, sadly, his walrus mustache drooping at the ends.

“I brought your purse. It’s next to the bed. We’ve also got a team on the way, to watch your room after you’re admitted.”

“Thanks.” It was painful to talk. “How’s Sardina?”

“She didn’t make it.”

I couldn’t take the way he was staring at me, so I turned away, focusing on the green ER curtain that surrounded my cot. Humble pie time.

“I’m sorry I called you a coward, Herb. You’re no coward.”

His hand touched my arm, above the IV.

“This has to stop, Jack. You’ve almost died twice in three days.”

It was actually three times, if you count the Hothams’ apartment in Cicero, but I saw no reason to share that. Instead, I spilled out everything else.

“Latham proposed and then got poisoned with BT, I made out with the Fed, my father is still alive, and I can’t catch the Chemist without you.”

Herb let it all soak in, and then said, “You made out with a Fed?”

I forced myself to look at him. “Out of everything I told you, that’s what you latch on to?”

“That HMRT guy?”

I nodded.

“I thought he was gay.”

“Why do men always think that all really cute guys are gay?”

“It helps us sleep better at night. So how far did he get? Second base?”

“Second base? What, are we in junior high?”

“Third base? Did he violate your Constitutional rights?”

“You sound like McGlade. Can’t we talk about my father, or the fact that I’m engaged?”

Herb lifted up my left hand, scrutinizing it.

“Where’s the ring?”

“I didn’t say yes yet. Before I had a chance, he got sick. He’s critical. I almost lost him last night.”

“I’m sorry, Jack. I like Latham. You’re going to say yes?”

“Yes.”

Herb smiled. “Congrats. If you need a maid of honor, I look great in pink. And your father isn’t dead?”

“He lives in Elmwood Park. My mother admitted that he left us, and she told me he died to stop me from looking for him.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No.”

“But you’re going to?”

“I don’t know. I—”

I heard my phone beep. Herb handed me my purse, and I checked the number. Th. Hothams’ stolen cell.

“It’s the Chemist,” I told Herb.

He picked up his notepad and put his head next to mine so we could both hear. I answered the call, made my voice strong.

“This is Daniels.”

“I’m glad you’re still alive, Jack. You’ve got a great set of lungs on you, if I may say so. How are you feeling?”

“We’ve agreed to pay you. What are your demands?”

“I asked you a question, Lieutenant. How are you feeling?”

I spoke through my teeth, anger masking all of my symptoms.

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Because I want you personally to deliver my two million. Here’s how it will work. I want a hundred thousand dollars in cash, three hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars in platinum eagles, and the remainder in uncut diamonds, at least three carats per stone. No tricks, no transmitters, no laser-engraved serial numbers on the stones, no moissanite, you get the idea. If you screw around with me, I’ll be very angry. Put everything in a leather suitcase, and paint it bright yellow. Then stand outside the Daley Center, near the Picasso, at ten thirty a.m. tomorrow. Got all of that?”

I looked at Herb, who was furiously scribbling notes. He nodded at me.

“I got it.”

“Good. Have your cell phone on you, and wear some running shoes. You’re going to need them.”

“I know about Tracey,” I said, trying to catch him off guard. “And Dirk Welch. You killed him in prison. Were you cell mates?”

There was a pause.

“I’m planning something big. Very big. If everything goes well tomorrow, I’ll tell you what my plan is, and you’ll be able to stop it in time. If anything goes wrong, many will die. If you try to find me, many will die. If you pull any tricks or try to catch me, many will die. The el derly. Women and children. I know you don’t want that on your head. But it won’t stop there. I’ll come after you as well. You and everyone you know.”

He hung up. I stared at Herb. He didn’t say a word, but I could read his mind.

Burglars don’t call you up and threaten you and half the city. Robbers don’t spray poison in your face and put you in the hospital. Thieves don’t attack the people you love.

Yeah, well, he was right. But I couldn’t do anything about it.

A nurse opened the curtain and stuck her perky head in.

“We’ve got a room available, Ms. Daniels.”

I might have protested, demanded to be released, but the nurse divided into two identical nurses and I wasn’t sure which to talk to. Earlier, I’d been told to expect double vision. It wasn’t as much fun as I’d hoped it would be.

“Herb, I hate to ask...”

He held up his notes. “I’ll pass this along to the super. We’ll work out the details. You get some rest.”

“Thanks. Also, in Records, I was looking for the Alger case file for Tracey Hotham’s murder investigation. The Chemist was in the box. I don’t know if he took it or not. If he did, we need to see if the records are still on file at the two-four.”

“I’ll check.”

“There was a guy named Welch involved, died in prison.”

“Jack...”

“I know. We’re not partners anymore. Pass it off on a subordinate.”

Herb nodded, gave me an informal pat on the shoulder, and left.

I asked the nurse(s) for some water, and she gave me a cup and took my blood pressure. As she did, my whole body began to shake. First mildly, and then it became violent enough to make me spill water all over my bed.

“She’s seizing!” the nurse yelled.

A doctor rushed over while the nurse forced something rubber between my teeth. Then I couldn’t see anything else, because my eyelids were fluttering too fast.

“Administering diazepam push.”

I felt a calm flow through me, and the convulsions stopped. The nurse fished out the mouth guard, and I squinted at her, trying to focus.

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re fine. TEPP can cause seizures. We gave you some Valium, which will work with the atropine and pralidoxime to relax your muscles.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was pretty freaked out, but the Valium went a long way to helping me over that.

The nurse draped a dry blanket over me, then promised to be back shortly. Whil. I waited, my phone rang again. A blocked number.

“This is Daniels,” I said. My voice sounded kind of thick.

“Hiya, Jackie. How’s it hanging?”

Harry McGlade.

“Hi, Harry. How’s the space suit?”

“A tax write-off. I cornered your superintendent, and she threatened to have me arrested if I didn’t vacate the scene. A real piece of work, that one. Feisty. If her cankles weren’t the size of hams, she’d be my type of woman. Speaking of dates, are you going to PoliceFest on Sunday?”

“No.”

“How about going with me? The mayor will be there, and you could get me an audience. He likes you, right?”

“I’m not going.”

“Of course you’re going. Every cop in the Midwest is going, and this year it’s in Illinois.”

“Every cop but me.” I grinned. Valium was a pretty nice drug.

“You owe me one, Jack.”

“Ask the super to take you. Maybe she’ll do it if you promise to rub lotion on her cankles.”

There was a long silence, which was unusual for Harry.

“Jack, I...I gave up my business. No more private investigating.”

“Chicago will never get over the loss.”

“It isn’t funny. Could you stay a cop if you lost your gun hand? I suck lefty. Hell, I can’t even wipe my damn ass lefty. I’m completely useless with a gun. And I had to sell my baby, my Mustang, because of the goddamn stick shift. My electric bill was sent back because they thought a retarded child had signed the check. I even had to pay for sex, because no woman wants to sleep with me.”

“What does that have to do with your hand?”

“Dammit, Jack, my life is destroyed. Show some sympathy.”

Maybe it was all the medication, or the residual effects of the TEPP, but I actually felt for him. “That’s too bad, Harry.”

“If the city doesn’t let me open up this bar, I might as well shoot myself. And I’d need your help doing that too, because I’d miss my fricking head.”

“You think? You have a pretty fat head.”

I laughed at my drug-influenced assessment. He did have a fat head.

“Take me to PoliceFest. Introduce me to the mayor. Help me get the liquor license. And I promise, I’ll never bother you again as long as I live.”

“That’s a tempting offer.”

“We were partners once. I know I did wrong by you, but I’ve helped you out several times since then. Please. I need this.”

Harry McGlade had caused me more annoyance than I cared to recall, but in a warped sort of way he was kind of a friend. A friend who needed a hand. Really.

“Fine, McGlade. But I can’t promise the mayor will go for it.”

“Thanks, Jackie. I’ll drop by Sunday morning. You still at the place on Addison?”

“No. I’m a suburban girl now. I live in Bensenville.”

I gave him my address.

“See you Sunday. Maybe afterward I can buy you a beer.”

“Maybe.”

“And after that, sex.”

“Good-bye, Harry.”

“I’ve got this attachment for my prosthesis—”

I hung up before he could finish. Then I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, thinking about PoliceFest with Harry ...

PoliceFest with Harry? What the hell was I thinking?

Maybe I’d get lucky, and the Chemist would kill me tomorrow so I wouldn’t have to go.

I fell asleep, strangely comforted by that thought.

Chapter 25

THE CHEMIST SHATTERS the last bottle of vodka over the garbage can, spraying glass and alcohol on his heavy work gloves, a shard bouncing off the facial netting on his helmet. He’s in his greenhouse. It’s dark, quiet. Night is the best time to work, because insect activity is minimal.

He reaches into the glass shards and fishes out the bottle neck, moving with speed and efficiency. He’s getting near the end, a culmination of years of effort. This should be savored. But all of the recent excitement has put him behind schedule, and he has to catch up.

He places the bottle neck on his workbench and uses a hammer and pliers to break all of the glass away from the aluminum cap. When he’s finished, the cap, with its tamper-proof ring along the bottom edge, is intact.

Next he selects an identical brand of vodka, and twists off its top. The tamper-proof ring separates along the perforated line where it is attached to the cap and remains on the bottle neck. He snips the ring off using nail clippers, pours out four ounces of vodka, and adds an equal amount of colorless, odorless ethylene chlorohydrin. It blends invisibly with the liquor.

Then he takes the intact cap—the one he removed from the broken bottle—and carefully screws it onto the full bottle. It now appears to be new, unopened. He places it in the cardboard box next to the eleven other poisoned bottles of alcohol, and gets started on the beer.

Beer is even easier to tamper with. A local brewing supply shop, the same place he got some of his hydroponics equipment, also sells bottle cappers. He carefully pries the tops off of a dozen pop ular import beer bottles, adds a few drops of conotoxin to each, and then uses the bench capper to reseal the caps until they’re as tight as when they left the brewery.

After finishing a full case of beer, he stands and stretches. There are things that need to be double-checked. He makes sure the Little Otter has a full charge. He lays out the dry suit, places a bottle of talc next to it. Tests the gauge on the nitrox canister.

Then, outside, he changes out of his protective suit and checks the cement mixer, which has another three yards ready. It takes ten minutes to pour. He’s an expert with the forklift, and gets it into place on the first try. Two more to go. He loads the mixer with three more bags. Adds a touch of aluminum. A dash of diesel. A healthy handful of roofing nails.

Inside, he practices for the last time with the TelePC. He’s adjusted for delays. He’s taken the route himself, so the timing should be perfect. This should all work out.

Finally, he uses spell-check on the letter, and prints out a copy.

This will be a nice surprise for Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels. A beautiful end to a beautiful relationship.

After six years, three months, and thirteen days, Tracey will finally get her revenge.

And then he’ll get his revenge.

Chapter 26

AGAINST DOCTOR’S RECOMMENDATION, I checked myself out of the hospital at seven a.m., wearing loaner clothes. A cab took me to my car, which was still in front of the fire hydrant. I drove back to the suburbs, rush hour traffic helping me chase away the groggies.

I felt pretty good, considering. A little weak. A little raw. But ready to work.

Once home, I fed the cat, forced down some oatmeal, hopped into a tepid shower—hot hurt my skin—changed into a pair of boot-cut Levi’s, some Adidas running shoes, and an Anne Klein blouse and jacket—black over white—and called Latham. He was sleeping, but the nurse informed me he was stable. I took that as a good sign.

Next, I climbed in my car and headed back to Chicago. When I got on the expressway, I called Herb.

“Any word on the Hotham file?”

“Missing. That one and the Welch file. From the two-four as well.”

“That’s what I figured. There’s something there the Chemist doesn’t want us to find. What’s the set-up for today?”

“You’ll be carrying a GPS phone, a clone of your cell number. It will track you wherever you go, and has a booster for indoors. They’ve got six cars, two bikes, four teams on foot, and chopper support. You won’t get lost.”

“Any luck finding Tracey’s cell phone, or her car?”

“The Staties found a white Honda in a parking lot in O’Hare. No plates, but the VIN matches. Unlikely they’ll find prints—the car was torched. No ping on the cell phone. They think he’s removing the battery between uses. We’d have to catch him during a call.”

“How about the money?”

“Cash, coins, and stones are all clean, as he demanded. We’ve got the yellow leather suitcase.”

“What’s in it? Radio transmitter? Another GPS?”

Herb didn’t answer.

“Herb?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing in it, Jack. If you run into the Chemist, you’re ordered to stand down. No arrest. No shooting. The mayor doesn’t want to mess with this guy.”

I processed that, but it didn’t get any better the more I thought about it.

“What if I have a chance to catch him?”

“You remember what the loony said if you try.” Herb kicked up his voice to Mickey Mouse level and mimicked, “Many will die, many will die.”

“Many will die anyway. He’s not going to stop.”

“I’m only the messenger,” Herb said. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

I’m not a person who spits, but I was angry enough to.

“Will you be there?” I asked.

Another pause. Then, “No.”

“Herb—”

“We’re not partners anymore, Jack. I’m not Homicide. I’ve got another case I’m working on.”

“And what case is that?”

“Last week, someone stole a semi full of portable toilets.”

“Well, that’s a lot more important than tracking down the mass murderer who’s terrorizing our city. What do you call that? Grand theft potty?”

“Good-bye, Jack. Be safe.”

Herb hung up.

I had no right to be mad at Herb. The secret to reaching old age in our profession is knowing when to call it quits. If he felt he couldn’t do it anymore, my goading him wouldn’t help either of us.

But Herb was Violent Crimes to the bone. If you cut him, he bled Homicide. Robbery was a waste of his time and talents. He must have known that. He just needed someone to remind him.

I called him back. I was going to open a line of honest communication to get to the bottom of his fears and intentions instead of resorting to blaming and name-calling.

The first words out of my mouth were, “Don’t be an idiot, Herb.”

He hung up on me. I thought about calling his wife, remembered she was in on his silly plan to stay alive until retirement, and instead called Rick.

“I’m glad you called, Jack. I heard about what happened. I wanted to visit you in the hospital, but I figured...” He trailed off.

“No problem. Did you hear what the mayor said?”

“I was at the meeting last night.”

“He wants to give the guy his money without trying to catch him.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re not going along with that, are you? The federal government doesn’t make deals with terrorists, right?”

“Not as far as you know.”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m saying that this guy has the means to kill more people. If we pay him off, there’s a good chance he’ll stop. I talked to some special agents on the Behavioral Science Team, and the profiling computer says —”

Great. I’d been down this route several times, and it never led anywhere worth visiting. Was I the only sane cop left in this hemi sphere?

I interrupted his profile-speak. “What do you think? You personally?”

“I think he’s got something big planned, and if we bring him in, he’ll let people die.”

“So we just let the guy go?”

“The case won’t be over, Jack. We have a mountain of evidence we haven’t even sifted through. We’ll catch him eventually. And we won’t be risking the lives of civilians.”

It was tough to talk while biting my tongue, but I managed. “So we run away to fight another day.”

“You sound pissed off.”

“I am pissed off.”

“Not to put a price on human life, but it’s only two million dollars, Jack. That’s nothing.”

“You’re wrong. It’s two million too much. Tell me about the profile. Let me guess—starts fires, wets the bed, tortures animals, abused as a child...”

“Not even close. Single white male, between thirty-five and fifty-five, college education, white-collar job, lives in Chicago, possibly a leader in the community, does volunteer work, bi-polar—”

“You think? Maybe his problem is he ran out of Zoloft.”

“—above average intelligence, minor criminal infractions in the past, single, some background in theater—”

“Sure, he did Arsenic and Old Lace in summer stock.”

Rick sighed. “This is a decent profile, Jack.”

“Where’s the part about dressing up like Snow White and collecting Donnie Osmond lunch boxes?”

“Actually, the profile says he probably collects something, like comic books or baseball cards.”

“Or poisonous plants. Look Rick, letting this guy go is a bad idea. Does the profile say he’ll stop if he’s paid?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he won’t. I’ve talked to him. This is all a big game, and he’s enjoying it way too much. Once you give a bully your lunch money, you have to keep paying him forever.”

“What are you planning on doing?”

I thought about the .38 in my purse.

“I’m going to be a bigger bully than he is.”

“And what if more people die?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? If I caught him, and people died, I’d never forgive myself. But if I let him go, and people died, I’d never forgive myself.

Burglary/Robbery/Theft was looking better and better.

I bid adieu to Rick and spent the remainder of the drive going over scenarios, trying to find one with a decent outcome.

None sprang to mind.

I parked in front of a hydrant on Randolph, kitty-corner to the Daley Center. It looked like a scene from The Blues Brothers. Twenty members of the SRT were there, in formation. At least forty cops. Some brass, including the super. Eight squad cars. Four motorcycles. Two scooters. Four horses. Two mountain bikes. The Mobile Command bus. And a Segway.

The Daley Center served as Chicago’s main courthouse. It was an imposing six-hundred-foot-tall structure, all steel and glass, bounded on all four sides by streets. The area around the Picasso—an impressive metal sculpture in rusty brown that resembled a horse mating with a harp—had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, and onlookers as well as media had gathered around the perimeter to watch what ever was happening.

I popped the trunk, dug out my spare shoulder holster, and put it on under my jacket. I also strapped on an ankle harness that held a five-inch AMT Backup II. It weighed about eighteen ounces. I loaded five 9mm short rounds into the clip, jacked one into the throat, and added one more. My boot-cut jeans covered it easily, plus the wider bottoms made my hips seem slimmer. A win-win jeans experience.

I went back to the front seat and removed my Colt Detective Special from my purse, along with a speed loader, and a roll of antacid tablets. I chewed four antacids while strapping the .38 and the speed loader into the Velcro webbing of my holster.

Then I opened the glove compartment and took out a balisong, a Filipino butterfly knife. It had a four-inch stainless steel blade, which stayed hidden between two halves of the handle. With a few flicks of the wrist, the handles would separate, the blade would come out, and the handles would rejoin. I’d taken it off a suspect last year, and often played with it while driving. I’d gotten pretty good, and could open the blade in less than a second.

The knife went into my back pocket. Then I stuck some Ray-Bans on my forehead, locked the car, and jumped into the fray.

I pushed my way through the crowd, past the SWAT guys, sidestepping the horses and a manure mound that looked disturbingly like Richard Nixon, and sashayed up to Superintendent O’Loughlin. She wore what appeared to be a man’s blazer, which pinched her waist and made her shoulders look like a linebacker’s. The slacks were even less flattering. Someone needed to take away her Macy’s charge card, because she was wasting it.

The omnipresent Davy Ellis, attired in gray Armani, offered me a big smile and a wink. Captain Bains didn’t seem to be around.

“Lieutenant,” the super boomed, “I’ve gotten word that you don’t want to play by our rules.”

Who ratted me out? Herb or Rick? Had to be Rick. Herb would never do that. Right?

“I don’t think we should let the Chemist go,” I said.

“I’m sure your personal opinions won’t interfere with your ability to do your duty.”

“My duty is to catch bad guys.”

“Your duty is to serve and protect. Engaging this guy won’t do either.”

“Neither will letting him go.”

O’Loughlin was hard to read. I knew that somewhere, deep down, she had to agree with me. But her face was granite.

“I’d like you to relinquish your weapon, Lieutenant.”

I blinked. Then I blinked again.

“You’re kidding.”

“You’re going to be watched every step of the way. Air support. Snipers. Even a police marine unit. We’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

I thought about my AMT backup, safe in the ankle holster, and then handed her the Colt.

“Now the backup piece.”

I made my face blank. “What backup piece?”

“You gave up the .38 too easily. That means you have a backup.”

Smart lady. I should have thought of that.

“I need to have a gun on me, O’Loughlin.”

“You’ll address me as Superintendent or ma’am. Now give me the backup.”

“What if I refuse?” I added, “Ma’am.”

“Then I call over some men to take it from you, and at the end of the day I fire you.”

“And then I go to the media and tell them all about you paying the Chemist off.” I looked at Davy. “Think that would be good for PR?”

“That would be bad,” Davy said.

O’Loughlin got in my face. “You do what you have to do, Lieutenant. I’ll do what I have to do. And right now, I have to take your piece.”

We played stare-down for what seemed like twenty minutes, but was probably only a few seconds, and then I gave her the AMT.

“If I get killed, it’s on your head.”

“I’ve got a lot of deaths on my head right now, Lieutenant. Do I have to frisk you for any more weapons?”

I lifted up my arms. “If that’s what turns you on.”

For a moment, it looked like she was going to do it, but then some SRT guys came over with a big yellow suitcase and interrupted our tête-à-tête. A tall one with a unibrow handed me something silver.

“This is a tracking phone programmed with your number. It sends a GPS signal to the Mobile Command Post, and we can pinpoint your location to within three feet. It will also transmit the number he’s calling you from, and we can trace that number to either an address or to a cell phone within twenty yards.”

“And if you find him, you’ll do what? Deliver a pizza?”

“After we’ve deemed it safe, we’ll get the guy,” the super said. “He won’t get away with this. He’ll pay.”

Another SRT cop, a black guy with biceps larger than my waist, opened up a map of Chicago.

“There’s a chance he’ll run you around town, to try to lose any tails. That’s pretty much impossible with the GPS, but we have teams stationed around the city, all with receivers.” He pointed out a dozen red dots on the map. “We also have people stationed at O’Hare and Midway in case you’re required to get on a plane. Plus three teams dogging your every move. We won’t lose you.”

I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I was worried about the guy dosing me with something lethal before any of the ten thousand cops around me could do anything to stop it.

But I said, “Thanks, Officer,” just the same.

They wired me up with a radio headset/walkie-talkie combo, gave me an extra GPS tracker, and an extra phone.

“Do you want armor?” Biceps asked.

“No need. He’s not a shooter. But I could use some of this.”

I sidled up to Unibrow and put my hands on his utility belt.

“May I?” I asked, taking a can of pepper spray.

“Help yourself, Lieutenant. It’s rated at five million Scoville heat units. Hit him anywhere on the clothing, or just get the stream close to him, he’ll feel it.”

“Thanks. A girl needs her protection, right, Superintendent?”

The super didn’t seem amused, but she didn’t prevent me from tucking the pepper spray into my holster.

“So now we wait,” Biceps said.

The wait wasn’t long. Less than a minute later, my tracking phone rang. A blocked number. I nodded at the group, and said, “It’s showtime.”

Then I answered the call.

Chapter 27

GOOD MORNING, JACK. HOW are you feeling?” His voice provoked a reaction in my stomach normally reserved for warm oysters and cheap tequila.

“Nervous. I’ve got all this money, and no one to give it to.”

“I don’t see the suitcase. Hold it up.”

I fought the urge to look around. He could be in one of the surrounding buildings, in a car, in the crowd, on the street, or even in the Daley Center itself. Ultimately, it didn’t matter where he was. We were going to let him go anyway.

I hefted the yellow bag, surprised by its weight. Forty, maybe forty-five pounds, and bulky. I had Biceps hold my phone, then I pressed the suitcase up over my head, made sure it was balanced, and did a 360- degree turn.

Biceps had casually plugged in an earpiece, and Unibrow casually walked back to the Mobile Command bus.

“Good,” the Chemist said when I got the phone back. “Here’s how it is going to work. I’m going to call you, and tell you to go to an address. When you get to the address, you’ll wait for me to call again with more instructions. You’re to go alone, no escort. I don’t want to see any cops with you, near you, or following you. If I do, I’m calling it off, and many people will die. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“I saw that SWAT guy give you some things. A radio. An extra phone. And what was that black thing?”

“Pepper spray.”

“Naughty girl, Jack. Don’t you know that chemicals are dangerous? But I’m not referring to the spray. I’m referring to the small black box, looks like a PDA.”

“That’s a GPS tracker.”

“Put all of those things on the ground.”

I complied.

“The pepper spray too. I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

I made a face, but added that to the pile.

“Very good. Now, I know that you’re going to try to find me. That you’ll try to trace the calls. I’m sure that large phone you’re talking on right now has all sorts of tracking goodies on it. So we’re going to switch phones. Walk over to the Picasso. Bring the suitcase with you, and make sure everyone keeps their distance.”

This was getting better and better.

“Everyone needs to stay here,” I informed the group. The super nodded at me, either a good luck nod or a you’d better follow orders nod. Then I yanked out the telescoping handle and pulled the suitcase behind me, grateful for the wheels.

“Look by the base of the sculpture. There’s a coffee cup. Put down the phone you’re talking on and pick up the cup.”

I saw it immediately, stark white contrast to the brown metal of the Picasso. As I stared, it began to ring.

I didn’t want to touch anything the Chemist had touched, but I took a chance, assuming he wouldn’t kill me this early in the game. I set down the tracking phone and gently lifted the cardboard cup by the rim. Inside was a cell phone, an older, larger model.

I answered the call.

“I found it.”

A pause. Then, “Walk east. I’ll be watching. If I see anyone approach you, this is over, and people will die. Keep the line free for further instruction. If I try calling, and it’s busy, people will die. Remember the rules.”

And then silence.

I had no choice. I began to walk.

In a way, this was all pretty funny. The Chemist was working damn hard to make sure no one arrested him, when all he had to do was knock on the mayor’s door and His Honor would gladly sign over a personal check. Unfortunately, I had a hard time seeing the humor when I had no backup, no radio, no GPS, and no guns. I assumed my fellow officers would still be able to follow me, but that didn’t mean they would. The city of Chicago had made it abundantly clear that the payoff was more important than my personal safety.

I walked east to Dearborn, went right, then continued east on Washington. The day was hot, muggy, in the upper eighties. The sun hurt my face, still pink from the rough scrubbing the hospital had administered. I moved the sunglasses from my head to my eyes, and kept my pace casual even though my heart rate was set on sprint.

After a block, I had an unhealthy film of sweat covering my body, and a really good feeling I was being followed. A yellow cab, creeping along ten yards behind me, matching my pace. I stopped, pretended to adjust the suitcase handle, and looked at it over my Ray-Bans. The taxi also stopped. I couldn’t see inside very well—the sun glared off the windshield—but the cab was hired and it looked like a single occupant in the backseat.

In truth, I didn’t know if I’d recognize the Chemist even if I was staring right at him. The only thing I remembered from my brief encounter with him in Rec ords was the port-wine stain on his face, and his beard. Both were fake. Just like the eye patch.

If I ran into someone with a single distinctive feature, that might be our man. But if he went without a disguise, he could be anyone. Maybe even someone I’ve already met.

I stopped futzing with the bag and continued east on Washington. I sensed that the cab resumed pursuit, and then actually saw it peripherally as it came up on my right.

“Handoff, from a jogger, soon,” Unibrow said through the open backseat window.

Then the cab accelerated past and turned right on Wabash.

The cell phone rang. I connected after the first ring, wondering if the Chemist was going to go ballistic because he spotted the cab.

“Hello?”

A pause, then, “Go to the Art Institute and wait on the steps. You have four minutes.”

That was about four blocks away, one east and three south. I couldn’t make it in time by walking.

I began to jog.

Normally, a four-block jog wouldn’t even get me winded. But heat, exhaustion, sickness, and a forty-five-pound anchor all conspired to have me wheezing like an asthmatic after the first hundred yards. I kept up the pace, my eyes scanning the crowd ahead, looking for the police jogger who was going to hand off something to me. I hoped it was a cold beer.

The jogger, wily little devil, came up from behind after I turned onto Wabash. He ran past me with ease, not so much as a bump, and I almost didn’t think it was him until I thought to check my blazer pocket.

No beer. But he had left me a walkie-talkie and a wireless earpiece. I switched it on, leaving it at whatever frequency they’d set it at, and stuck the receiver/mike combo on my ear.

“This is Daniels,” I panted. “He told me to go to the Art Institute.”

“This is Reynolds, SRT.” It was Unibrow. “We know. Miller took a guess, and the cell phone the Chemist gave you is Trace. Hotham’s. We’re listening in, and we can ping your location. We’re also tracing his calls. It’s not as easy, because they’re being routed through a PC—one of those computer phone lines. It’s not the same phone he called you from initially. That was one of those pay-by-the-minute cells. We’re not getting anything from it. But we should have his new location in a few minutes.”

I didn’t waste any breath answering. The Art Institute was a block away, on my left, and I only had about a minute to get to it. I was sweating freely now, my shoulder beginning to ache from tugging the suitcase. The sidewalks were packed, and the citizens of Chicago paid me little attention as I ran. A few stepped aside. Most ignored me. None offered to give a struggling lady a hand. I passed the Prudential building, and saw the green lion sculptures in the distance, standing vigil on either side of the steps in front of the Ar. Institute, and then the phone rang.

“Daniels.”

“Now go to Buckingham Fountain. Stay on foot. You have seven minutes.”

“I need—”

I wanted to say more time, but the connection ended. The fountain was another three blocks north, and maybe three more blocks east. I couldn’t do six blocks in seven minutes, not as tired as I already was.

“Did you get that?” I said into my radio.

“Affirmative. We got a lock on the phone he’s calling from, and it doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?” I huffed.

“It seems to be coming from Jason Alger’s house.”

The retired cop whose home had been turned into a death trap and whose fingers had been left in the fridge.

“We’re sending a team to check it out.”

“Bad idea. Last time—”

“We’ll be careful. But Alger is uptown. How did he get across town so fast?”

I made it to Jackson, and the light was against me, so I couldn’t cross. It would delay me, but I was grateful for the rest.

“Could have had a remote video camera planted at the Daley Center,” I said. “Or he was watching from a distance. Or maybe he’s forwarding his calls through Alger’s computer somehow.”

“Or maybe he has an accomplice.”

I didn’t like that possibility. Not at all. A guy on the corner next to me gave me a sideways glance, then resumed his cell phone conversation. Suddenly everyone on the street was a potential spy. Or a potential poisoner.

The light changed, and I put it into second gear and charged across the street, almost pulling off my arm when the suitcase wheels caught on the curb. I switched to my left hand, couldn’t find my rhythm, then switched back. I cut left on Van Buren into the cul-de-sac leading to Congress, and huffed and puffed up the bridge over the railroad tracks.

When I reached the apex, my legs, arm, and lungs were pudding. But I could see the Buckingham Fountain ahead, one of Chicago’s most recognizable landmarks, the center jet shooting a hundred and fifty feet into the air. When I got there, I was seriously considering jumping in to cool off. Or to slake my thirst.

Strangely, I was in the same part of Grant Park where my father bought me those three ice creams, years ago. Where were all the damn vendors now that I really needed one?

My phone rang, even though I hadn’t yet crossed Columbus.

“I’m almost there.”

“New destination. Navy Pier. Take Columbus to Grand Avenue on foot. You have fifteen minutes.”

Then he hung up. That little mother...

“Lieutenant, this is Reynolds. We have a team en route to Alger’s house.”

“Why? So you can shake his hand and congratulate him when he gets his money?”

That might have been harsh, considering the casualties they’d suffered, but I was exhausted and in a mood.

“We’re going to watch and wait. The mayor doesn’t want him picked up until we get the all clear. But you can be damn sure we won’t let him out of our sights.”

Reynolds sounded pissed, and I realized he didn’t like playing by these rules any more than I did. Maybe during their surveillance the Chemist might accidentally have his head blown off. The thought made me smile.

I paused for a moment in front of the giant fountain, the Windy City blowing a mist of its water onto my face. I had no idea how clean the water was, but it felt wonderful.

Navy Pier was a mile away, maybe a little more. To make it in fifteen minutes, I needed to haul ass. But something was bothering me. The Chemist liked to talk. Even after he sprayed me with TEPP, he stuck around for a bit to chat. But his last several phone calls had been abrupt, clipped. Either he was worried about being caught on the phone, or ...

“Reynolds, what’s the number the Chemist is calling from?”

He read it to me.

“Have you tried calling it?”

“No. We don’t want to tip him off that we know.”

But I could call him back without letting on that I knew his number. I pressed *69. The phone rang ten times. No answer. I tried entering in the numbe. Reynolds gave me. Another ten rings, no pickup.

Then I waited. If the Chemist thought he was being messed with, he’d call me back to scold me. But my phone didn’t ring.

“He’s not in the house,” I said. “He’s not watching me. He’s at the drop point already.”

“Are you sure?”

“Have your team do a thermal scan of the Alger house. I bet it’s empty.”

I knew I was right. But how could we use this to our advantage? I had fourteen minutes to make it to Navy Pier, and if I wasn’t being monitored, I could use that for something else. What could this extra time buy us?

“Get me transportation. The nearest cop in the area. And if Rossi is available, have him come along.”

“Rossi?”

“If not him, try Taurus or Wesson or Daewoo. Any of those guys.”

“Okay. Got it.”

I waited two minutes. My breathing and heart rate returned to normal. Th. Chemist didn’t call, demanding why I was still at the fountain. Now I was positive he wasn’t watching me. I briefly toyed with the idea of grabbing a cab, getting on a plane to the Bahamas, and seeing how long two million bucks would last.

I heard a motor coming from the right, and did a double-take at the police scooter heading toward me, the manure-fixated Officer Buchbinder at the helm.

“Hello again, Lieutenant. I was the closest cop in range. How’s that for a coincidence?”

“Get me to Navy Pier,” I said, securing the suitcase on the small rack at the rear of the bike with bungee cords. “And watch out for horses.”

“Don’t need to tell me. I scrubbed my bike for so long I had dung stuck in my fingernails.”

He offered me his hand for inspection, which I judiciously ignored.

I mounted the scooter and asked, “Where’s the gun?”

“The what?”

“Rossi. Daewoo. Those are gun manufacturers.”

“I was on parking detail. No one told me to bring you a gun. Just to pick you up.”

“Give me your gun.”

“Why?”

I spoke between my teeth. “Because I need one.”

“It’s my gun. I bought it.”

It’s a good thing he didn’t hand it over, because I would have shot him.

“Take Lake Shore Drive,” I ordered Buchbinder. Then I hit my call button. “Reynolds, I’m going north on LSD. Have Rossi meet me on Monroe.”

“Roger that. The SRT has checked the house for thermals. Negative.”

Buchbinder refused to turn onto Lake Shore.

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“There’s a lot of traffic.”

“Jesus, take the damn footpath.”

“What if I hit somebody?”

“Buchbinder, get the damn bike moving or...” What the hell could I threaten a parking cop with? “Just get the damn bike moving.”

He crossed the street and pulled onto the footpath.

“What’s our next move, Lieutenant?”

I had to choose my words carefully. I knew O’Loughlin was listening in.

“I think he’s using an auto-dialer on the computer. Like telemarketers use. That means he’s not at Alger’s house, it’s just a recording. If you can get your team into the house safely, maybe we could find out where the drop point is before he gets there, so you can get men in place.” I added, “To follow him.”

“Roger that.”

“Lots of people taking walks today,” Buchbinder whined. “Dogs too.”

“Go faster,” I told him.

We zipped past some Rollerbladers, but Buchbinder was still driving like an old lady in a rainstorm. A blind old lady, with gout in her accelerator foot.

If I got a gun, and if I had some private time with the Chemist, I’m sure I could convince him to tell me what he was planning. That might not be what the super, the mayor, or the city wanted, but letting this psycho go not only went against everything I believed in as a cop, but more people were going to die. I was sure of it.

Buchbinder picked up a tiny bit of speed. On our left, Lake Shore Drive, eight lanes packed with cars. On our right, a strip of grass and trees, and beyond that, Lake Michigan, a giant black mirror dotted with tiny white boats.

I checked my watch. Eight minutes left.

Maybe this would all work out. Maybe—

“Dog poo!” Buchbinder screamed.

He jerked the handlebars left, then right, avoiding the little brown land mines dotting the walkway.

“We’ve been hit! Did you see the size of that pile?”

“Buchbinder, dammit, you need to—”

And then he turned too fast, the bike spun, and we hit a tree and both went flying through the air.

Chapter 28

IOPENED MY EYES and wondered what kind of crazy dream I was having. My neck hurt like I’d slept funny, only worse. I had a pounding headache, and someone had removed the roof of my house so I faced blue sky.

I tasted something metallic, delicately probed a fat lip, and looked at my fingers. They had a few blades of grass clinging to them, and blood.

I looked around, saw the lake, saw the cars, and remembered where I was. The motor scooter lay about fifteen feet away from me, crumpled like a frat boy’s beer can. Someone, a tall white guy, was leaning over it, inspecting the damage. The Chemist? No. Too big.

“Police,” I said. “Get away from there.”

I had meant for it to be a yell, but it came out as a croak. Then I searched fo. Buchbinder, saw him sitting on the lawn a few yards from me. He was wide-eyed and holding out his hands in front of him, Lady Macbeth style.

“No no no no no,” he moaned.

“Buchbinder! You okay?”

He held up his palms for me to see. They were covered in dog shit.

I sat up, the motion bringing a world of dizziness. Someone helped me to my feet. Someone else asked if I was all right. I reached for my radio earpiece, discovered it was gone. So was the radio. Thankfully, I still had the cell phone. And I wasn’t the only one. Several people had their cell phones out, calling 911.

“I’m a cop,” I said. “Everyone put down your phones.”

If the Chemist saw a big gathering of emergency vehicles, it might spook him. I must have looked like an authority figure, because everyone put their phones away. Now I needed to find my radio. I looked through the grass, between me and the wrecked scooter.

“It’s on my face!” Buchbinder screamed, high-pitched and manic. He began to rub his face, but since his hands were already coated, he wasn’t doing much in the way of cleaning.

I glanced at the bike again, and saw the curious tall white guy remove the final bungee cord and begin to drag the suitcase up the walkway.

I automatically reached for my holster, which did about as much good a. Buchbinder’s face-rubbing, and then took off after the guy. My legs felt good, strong, but my vision was wiggly and my neck hurt like I’d been playing tetherball with my head.

“Freeze! Police!”

My voice was in full effect, but Tall Boy had apparently misinterpreted my order as “Run away faster,” because he picked up speed, heading in the direction Scooter and I just came from. I checked my watch. Six minutes left. If I turned around and ran the rest of the way, I might make it to Navy Pier in six minutes. But I didn’t have a gun, and I would owe the city of Chicago two million bucks. If they took it out of my paychecks, I wouldn’t be able to retire until I was 163.

I gained on Tall Boy, part of me wanting to shout, “Hard to drag that bastard, isn’t it?” I managed to restrain myself, and instead reached out and caught the suitcase by a strap.

One of Newton’s Laws got involved, something to do with objects in motion and pulling and pushing, and I jerked him off his feet and ate my own asphalt sandwich a millisecond later. When the tumbling stopped, Tall Boy was on his knees, opening up a folding knife and snarling at me.

It’s never a good time for a knife fight, but this really wasn’t a good time.

“I’m a cop,” I said, trying to sound stern despite my fear and exhaustion.

“I’m Charlie Manson,” he said.

Great. A loony.

I reached into my back pocket and took out the butterfly knife. I opened it slowly, with some flourish, letting the handles swing back and forth a few times to show this punk I knew what I was doing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I said, getting to my feet. “I’m only going to poke out your eyes.”

I closed and opened the knife again, as fast as I could. His bravado cracked a bit.

“Just turn around, and run away. After I take your eyes, I’m going to take your ears.”

I changed my grip on the knife, did another blindingly quick open and close, and sliced open my knuckles pretty good.

“Son of a—”

Tall Boy saw my mistake and attacked. He came in low, his weapon held in an underhanded grip, blade up, stabbing at my chin. I pulled back, wincing at the pain in my neck, but avoiding the cut. He followed up with another jab, to my chest, but momentum was already taking me backward and I twisted my shoulders and all he caught was the fabric above my left breast, making me thankful for the first time in my life that I was a B cup.

My knuckles were bleeding, but functional, and my grip on the butterfly knife was solid as I brought it down on his thrusting arm, jamming it a good two inches between his radius and ulna. His knife flew into the grass, but leverage was on his side and as he fell the balisong was jerked from my hand.

He howled, staring at the handle protruding from his forearm, his entire body shaking.

“Leave it in,” I told him. “If you pull it out, you could bleed to death.”

I checked my watch. Four minutes and some change left. I hurried to the suitcase, happy to find it intact, and began to jog back to Monroe. My bottom lip was now so swollen I could see it if I looked down my nose. It throbbed with every step. I tried to find my rhythm, tried to find the cadence, but my feet weren’t moving as swiftly as I wanted them to.

I passed Buchbinder, who was wiping his hands on the grass and moaning, “I need a moist towelette,” and one of the onlookers pointed at me and screamed. I must have looked pretty bad to provoke such raw fright. But then I realized she wasn’t pointing at me, she was pointing behind me.

I chanced a look, and Tall Boy was a few steps away from me. He hadn’t taken my advice about leaving the knife in his arm. The knife was now in his hand, raised over his head like Mrs. Bates during the shower scene in Psycho, and his expression confirmed he wasn’t in a happy place.

I stopped in four steps, pivoted my hips, and swung my right leg around, planting the mother of all spin kicks into his stomach. It knocked me backward, but I stayed on my feet. Tall Boy fared worse. He fell onto all fours, retching. I was on him in five steps, kicked him squarely in the jaw, and he sprawled out onto the lawn, where he’d probably stay until he bled to death.

“Buchbinder! Tourniquet!”

Buchbinder stared at me like my nose had grown five inches. I tried a different tactic.

“This guy has antibacterial wipes.”

Buchbinder scrambled over to him, and I headed back up the footpath, toward Monroe, dragging the suitcase, two minutes to go, hearing Buchbinder cry behind me, “I crawled through vomit!”

And then a wheel on the suitcase broke.

I hefted the bag up to waist level and tugged the strap over my shoulder. Heavy wasn’t a good adjective to describe it. Impossible was better. I couldn’t run, but I broke into a kind of quick hobble. The only thing on me that didn’t hurt was my ass, but there was still time for that.

When I reached the intersection, I looked all around for the cop who was supposed to meet me.

Naturally, there was no cop. I should have expected that. I thought of Herb, sitting behind his desk at Robbery, making a few phone calls to track down his missing toilets, and felt a jealousy so intense I almost started to weep.

A car honked. The cab, with Reynolds in the backseat. He opened the door and said, “Hop in.”

Getting the suitcase off my shoulder was a relief on par with a death row reprieve. I shoved myself into the backseat after it, and Reynolds ordered the driver to Navy Pier.

I checked my watch. The fifteen minutes were up.

“Couldn’t find Rossi, but I got a Mr. SIG-Sauer for you.”

He handed me a P228, semiauto, blue finish. Cocked and locked.

“Thanks. Mr. SIG-Sauer will do just fine.” I adjusted the Velcro straps on my holster and tucked the gun inside. “You need to send an ambulance to the walkway a few hundred yards back on LSD. And make sure they have some towels.”

“Trouble?”

“A little. Lost my radio too.”

Reynolds dug around in his pocket. “Here’s an extra.”

“Any luck with Alger’s house?” I asked, plugging in the earpiece.

“It’s been booby-trapped again. No casualties, but my team can’t get to the computer.”

“Probably too late now anyway. We’ll try Plan B.”

Reynolds narrowed his eyes at me. “You gonna drop this guy?”

“I’m going to have a talk with him.”

“This asshole killed a lot of my buddies.”

I thought of Officer Sardina in Records. “Mine too.”

“Don’t be a hero. He looks at you funny, waste him. No one will shed any tears.”

“And if more people die?”

“They would anyway.”

The unibrow notwithstanding, I liked this guy. The cabbie pulled onto Streeter, and I told him to park it. Navy Pier was less than a block away, and if th. Chemist was watching, I wanted him to see me walk up.

“Good luck, Lieutenant.”

Reynolds offered his hand. I raised mine, noted the bloody knuckles, and gave him a salute instead. Then I manhandled the bag out of the cab, pulled the torture strap up onto my shoulder, and walked toward the giant letters that welcomed me to Navy Pier.

Chapter 29

AS THE NAME IMPLIED, Navy Pier was a pier. It stretched east into Lake Michigan, three hundred feet wide and ten times as long, boasting a dozen restaurants, several theaters, fifty-plus shops, two museums, a fun house, a miniature golf course, a carousel, and a giant Ferris wheel.

I stood in front of the entrance building, known as the Family Pavilion, and watched people come and go. A minute ticked by. Then two. I was wondering if the Chemist had gotten cold feet, and then the phone rang.

“Is this a recording?” I said.

“Take Grand Avenue east, past the Beer Garden and the Grand Ballroom, to the end of the pier. Look for the tree with the red bow. You have three minutes. If you try anything, people will die.”

“Are you a psychotic bed-wetter?”

The call ended. That was definitely a recording. The Chemist was probably already in place, making sure the scene was clear. I heaved the suitcase up and headed east.

I hadn’t been to Navy Pier since it was renovated about ten years ago, and if I hadn’t been there to deliver extortion money to a mass murderer I might have enjoyed the music, the foliage, the myriad of smells, the distinct carnival atmosphere. Instead, I focused on moving as fast as I could and ignoring the many signals from my body that I should stop moving so fast.

Halfway there, I had to stop to move the strap from one shoulder to the other. My blouse was soaked with sweat, and some blood. My jeans were grass stained, my watch bezel was cracked, and my lower lip had swelled up to football size.

The three-minute time limit passed. Then four minutes. I limped onward, finally making it to the end of the pier at the five-minute mark. Beyond the Grand Ballroom building there was some outdoor seating, a semicircle of flags, and a handful of evergreens. The one in the center, next to the railing that prevented people from falling into Lake Michigan, had a red ribbon tied around the trunk.

I approached it slowly, partly out of caution and partly because slow was the only speed I had left. At the base, covered by dirt, was a white business-size envelope.

I looked around, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to me. Figuring the Chemist wouldn’t try to kill me until he got his payoff, I picked up the envelope by the corners and fished out a piece of paper.

Jack, be a good girl and throw the suitcase into the lake, directly ahead of you. Do it now. Then wait for my call.

I started to laugh. The son of a bitch had actually gotten away with it. He’d been there watching at the Daley Center, then used his auto-dialer to send me running all over the place while he put on some SCUBA gear and waited in the lake for the money to come.

“Reynolds, the Chemist left me a note. He wants me to drop the money into the lake. Where’s the police boat?”

“Burnham Park Harbor, about a mile away.”

“Do they have diving equipment?”

“I think so. Hold on.”

I waited a few seconds. Out on the lake, a tour boat glided peacefully by.

“They have equipment,” Reynolds said, “but it would take them a minimum of ten minutes to get it on.”

So much for that.

“Ask them where he could come up.”

“There are a few harbors, and three beaches, plus he could be on the lake somewhere. There are dozens of boats out there.”

So that was that. There was nothing else we could do.

I walked to the perimeter fence, which only came up to my waist, and set the suitcase over the top. Then I climbed over after it, walked a few feet to the end of the pier, and gazed down into the inky blackness. Ten yards deep, at least. Probably more. I couldn’t see past the first few feet.

But he’d be able to see it, painted bright yellow.

“I hope it lands on your fucking head,” I said, and dropped the bag into the water.

It hit with a big splash, and then sank immediately; of course it did, with twenty pounds of platinum to weigh it down. I stared for almost a full minute, then hopped back over the fence and sat down at one of the outside benches and watched the waves roll in.

Chapter 30

THE CHEMIST BREACHES the surface alongside a pier in Chicago Harbor, less than a mile away from where he picked up the suitcase. He drops the Little Otter—the underwater jet scooter that got him here so quickly—and lets his SCUBA tank, still half full of the nitrox air mix, sink to the bottom. He doubts they’ll be found, but if they are, they can’t be traced to him.

Next, he hangs the bag handle on a mooring cleat, pulls off his flippers, and then eases himself onto the pier. There are some people in a boat a few yards away, but they aren’t looking in his direction.

It’s hard, getting the suitcase out of the lake. The money inside is soaking wet, as is the leather, and he almost pops a blood vessel in his forehead hoisting it onto the pier. Once it’s up, he walks casually over to the Miss Maria K, the twenty- three- foot boat that rents this slip, and removes the black vinyl bag he’d tucked under her cover tarpaulin. Another quick look around, and then he opens up the suitcase and stares at the cash, the platinum, and the felt bag full of uncut diamonds.

“For you, Tracey,” he says aloud. But there’s no joy in his words.

That’s okay. The joy will come later.

It takes him thirty seconds to put everything into his new bag, and then he drops the yellow suitcase back into the water, where it slowly sinks. Getting out of the dry suit is like wrestling with an inner tube, but he manages, tucking it into the nylon bag atop his loot. Wearing only a bathing suit, he slings the bag over his bare shoulder and walks down the pier, to the sidewalk, and into the parking lot, where his car awaits.

After locking the nylon bag in the trunk, he starts the car, waits for the light, and pulls onto Monroe.

He makes a few random turns, watching his mirrors. When he’s sure no one is following him, he reattaches the battery to his buy- and- go cell phone and calls the good lieutenant.

“Daniels.”

“Hello, Jack.”

“Is it you this time, or another recording?”

He smiles. She thinks she’s so clever. If that’s the case, why is he the one with two mil in his trunk?

“It’s me. And it’s also the last time you’ll be hearing from me. You kept your end of the deal, and I’m keeping mine. Today, a prominent Chicagoan is getting married. I helped out with the refreshments. If you don’t intercept them in time, the reception will be really dead.”

He had planned on saying that, but it isn’t as funny out loud than it had been in his mind.

“Whose wedding is it?” Jack asks.

“That’s for you to figure out. Better hurry; you only have a few hours.”

“And that’s it, then? You’re done terrorizing the city?”

“Rest assured that I’ll never poison anyone again.”

“I think you’re lying.”

He smiles. “Believe what you like. I did what I set out to do. Now I’m going to disappear. Think of me, next time you go out to eat.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Good- bye, Lieutenant. I hope I showed you a good time. I had a blast.”

He separates the battery from the phone, and tosses it in the backseat to dispose of later. He would like to feel a sense of accomplishment, of completion, but there is still much to do. The wedding reception is in a few hours, and he wants to be there to watch the show.

Supermarkets and restaurants are easy to sabotage. A reception is difficult. It requires a lot of work, and more than a little luck. But it can be done, if you know how.

Two weeks before the event, call the banquet hall, speak to the banquet ser vice manager, and ask if he would like to switch liquor distributors. Some chitchat will get you the name of the distributor they’re currently using, and even the day of the week they deliver.

Next, wait around the back entrance of the hall for the distributor to show up. Tail him during his route until you have a chance to kill him—many toxins can imitate heart attacks. Then take a look at his invoice clipboard until you find the weekly liquor order for the hall. Make a copy of it. Also make copies of his keys, and take a look in back at how the liquor orders are packaged. Then return everything where you found it. Someone will discover the driver and the truck eventually.

On delivery day, wait for the new driver at an early stop in his route. When he dollies in the boxes of alcohol, he leaves the truck unattended. Use your keys to get into the back of the truck, and substitute your order for the hall’s order. It might not be exactly the same, but who cares? They might make some exchanges when they check the invoice, but enough of the tampered alcohol will get through.

The Chemist finished this last step early this morning. He also noticed that on the banquet hall marquee, there are two receptions scheduled for the day. Fortunately, he poisoned enough alcohol to kill everyone at both weddings. He also tampered with a dozen two-liter bottles of soda, using the jet injector and a tiny dot of superglue to plug the hole so the CO2 wouldn’t escape. Non-drinkers and the kiddies shouldn’t miss out on the fun.

It’s possible that the police will stop it in time. But that’s okay. As much work as this has been to set up, it’s just a diversion.

The real show hasn’t even started yet.

Chapter 31

REYNOLDS PICKED ME UP in the cab after I walked back to Streeter.

“Maybe we should stop by the ER,” he suggested.

“It’s just a fat lip,” I told him, except I said fab lib. I handed him back the SIG and his radio.

“What next, Lieutenant?”

“We need to stop a wedding reception. Know of any big shots getting married today?”

He didn’t need to answer. SWAT guys didn’t read the society column.

Which gave me an idea.

I called information, got the number for the Tribune, and had the front desk connect me to Twyla Biddle, a reporter who did a column about celebrities. I’d never spoken with Twyla directly, but I’d been in her column a few times, mostly in connection with a TV show I’d done some consulting for against my better judgment.

“Lieutenant! Thanks for calling. What have you got for me? Something juicy, I hope.”

Twyla had a deep whiskey and cigarette voice, like Marge’s sisters on The Simpsons.

“Maybe. I need to know what famous Chicagoans are getting married today.”

“Why? What have you heard?”

“Just rumors and innuendo.”

“I make a living on rumors and innuendo. Spill it.”

“Give me a list, and if it pans out, you’ll get the scoop.”

Did reporters even use the word scoop? If they didn’t, Twyla didn’t call me on it.

“Well, the wedding of the week has to be Maurice Williams.”

“Who is that?”

“Former Chicago Cub. All-Star catcher. Abs you could eat a six- course meal off of, and believe me, you’d want to lick the plate when you finished.”

“Who else?”

“William Kent. Owns a lot of real estate, including the Krueger Building. His daughter is getting married to night. And how could I forget Corndog Watkins? Chicago blues legend, marrying a woman forty- five years younger than he is. Reception is to night at Buddy Guy’s Legends.”

I was writing all of this down in the margins of a Time magazine—no one in the cab had any paper.

“Anyone else?”

“Those are the majors.”

“No one po liti cal?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Hold on, I’m at my computer. Let me search through the marriage announcements for tomorrow’s issue.” I faintly heard fingers hitting keys, at a much faster rate than mine ever could. “Let’s see, he’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, she’s a nobody, he’s a nobody, he’s a—wait. The Bains and Harlow wedding. Jeremy Bains is the son of a police captain.”

I’d completely spaced that out. Captain Bains wasn’t at the Daley Center today because his son was getting married. Two weeks ago someone at the District had taken up a fund to buy a gift, a chafing dish or something equally useful.

“That’s all?”

“All that matter.”

“Thanks, Twyla. If I get anything, I’ll let you know.”

“So how are things with you, Lieutenant? Still dating that hunky accountant?”

I wondered how she knew, but I suppose it was her job to know.

“We’re engaged. He proposed a few days ago.”

“Congratulations! And how is that famous PI friend of yours, the one missing his hand?”

“It’s still missing.”

“And how is—”

“I gotta run, Twyla. Thanks again.”

“Take care, sweetheart.”

I ended the call and wondered if I’d see my name in next week’s column. And if I did, if I would save it. I’m not much for collecting things. I didn’t even have any pictures of my first wedding. We hadn’t bothered to hire a photographer. The wedding might have failed, but I still regretted having no pictures of me in my dress, and regretted it on a semi- regular basis.

“Congratulations on the engagement,” Reynolds told me. “Though I have to admit, I was hoping you were single.”

“It’s not me,” I said. “It’s my look. Men are suckers for big, sensuous lips.”

It came out sensubus libs.

Reynolds raised an eyebrow—well, the right half of his unibrow.

“Actually, I think you’re one of the bravest women I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks. And thanks for watching my back.”

We exchanged a meaningless mutual admiration society glance.

“Where to now?” he asked. “Back to your District?”

“The Daley Center. My car.”

Reynolds told the cabbie, and I called Superinten dent O’Loughlin, and ran through the list of wedding possibilities.

“Four teams,” I told her. “We’ll need to check food and drinks, search for traps, interview staff for anything out of the ordinary, and if needed, confiscate everything.”

“That will piss some people off,” she said.

“Not as much as their entire guest list keeling over. We’ll make the two- six the base of operations. The conference room. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“Meet you there.”

“Good. I want my guns back.” I hung up and nudged Reynolds. “Round up your team and as many cops as you can find.” He got on the radio, and I called the Crime Lab. Officer Hajek wasn’t in, but a cop I knew named Dan Rogers was.

“I need four CSUs, fully loaded, at the two- six, thirty minutes.”

“I’ve only got four guys here.”

“You’ve also got a phone. Get more. The superintendent is authorizing the overtime.”

“She is?”

“She will. Haul ass.”

The cab dropped me off, and I drove back to my District. The exterminators had been replaced by a HazMat team, cleaning up the poison in the Rec ords room. Maybe it was oversensitivity on my part, but I could swear the entire building smelled like acrid chemicals, and I tried not to breathe much when I took the elevator to the second floor. The staircase and the bathroom I’d used to wash off the TEPP were being decontaminated, so I had to use the bathroom at the other end of the hallway.

I spent ten full minutes washing off blood and dirt. My mouth was puffy. My hair was a bird’s nest. I’d sweated through my jacket, and ripped the shoulder. In short, I looked like I died yesterday but no one had bothered to inform me. Reynolds was the brave one, hitting on me when I was like this. Maybe he didn’t like bravery so much as he liked scary.

I didn’t feel much better than I looked. I found Advil in my purse, popped three, then combed the knots out of my hair and used half a tube of thirty- dollar lipstick to try to cover up the lip injury. I inadvertently called attention to it instead, like painting a football red. I went a little heavy on the mascara to compete with it, some rouge to highlight my cheeks, and the next thing I knew, I looked like a hooker. A hooker with bad hair who just got her ass kicked.

Fine. No makeup. I scrubbed it all off.

Then I put just a touch back on.

After making myself appear somewhat human, I went to the water fountain and drank like a camel—not the easiest thing to do with a fat lip, but the cold water felt nice. I had a brief spell of double vision, worked through it, and then showed up i. Conference Room A to talk with forty- plus cops, Feds, and others, including the folks from the CDC, USAMRIID, an. WHO.

My speech wasn’t particularly inspiring, witty, or even pithy. But I made up for all of that by being brief.

“I recently spoke with the Chemist. There are four high- profile wedding receptions taking place in Chicago today, and if we’re to take him at his word, he’s poisoned the refreshments at one of them. We need to shut all four of them down until we can figure out which one is the deadly one. I need four teams. Each will have a Crime Scene Unit with full gear, an SRT to check for booby traps and IEDs, and as many officers as we can spare to interview the staff. If possible, let’s get in touch with the wedding parties, ask them if anything unusual has happened in the last few days or weeks.”

Rogers raised his hand. “How can we test for toxins or poisons in the field? We need to take samples to the lab, run them through the GCMS. There will be hundreds of samples.”

“Our guy is touchy about leaving fingerprints. Look for things that have been wiped down, or for glove marks. People at the distillery, distributors, busboys, bartenders, servers, managers—they all leave their latents on bottles of booze. Any bottle that’s clean should be given top priority.”

I spied Rick sneaking into the room and sitting near the back.

“Special Agent Rick Reilly from the Hazardous Materials Response Team of the FBI has worked closely with the Behavioral Science Team to create a profile of th. Chemist. This profile states that since he’s been paid, he will no longer have any interest in harming our city. Is that right, Special Agent?”

Rick stood. “That’s right. The Chemist is probably on his way out of the country right now. We’ve got teams at bus stations and airports—”

“Looking for a soaking wet man carry ing a yellow bag,” I interrupted. “The FBI profile is flat- out wrong, and I don’t want anyone wasting their time with it. The Chemist is still in town. He’s going to try to be at the reception. Maybe as a guest or an employee. Maybe he’ll just watch from across the street. But he’ll want to see it. I’ll need people double- checking the guest lists, new hires, anyone hanging around who shouldn’t be there, plus SRT members to run recon on the locations, to see if anyone is playing I Spy.”

“The profile—” Rick said.

I finished for him. “Sucks. Rogers, Reynolds, divide up your people. Baker, put the teams together. Everyone extra, go where you think you can do some good. I want everyone on headsets. Alpha Team has the Cubs catcher—Baker, you’re in charge. Taylor, you’re leading Bravo Team, and you’ve got the Kent wedding. Charlie Team is Corndog Watkins—Collins, that’s you. I’m heading up Delta and the Bains reception. Keep in touch, keep communicating, and if we find the Chemist, I don’t want to hear any bullshit about letting the guy go.”

Davy Ellis, looking like he’d just stepped off the Ralph Lauren runway, raised his hand.

“The mayor said—”

“The mayor said not to apprehend him during the money drop. The drop is over. Isn’t that right, Superintendent O’Loughlin?”

All eyes locked on the super. Her voice radiated a lot more authority than mine did.

“If we find him, we grab him.”

I adjourned the meeting, and began to work with Baker putting teams together. Rick came up, his pretty- boy looks spoiled by a scowl. He took my elbow and edged me aside.

“Not very professional, Jack.”

“About as professional as telling the super to take my gun.”

“You were going to do something stupid.”

At least he didn’t deny it. But that didn’t make it any less of a betrayal.

“I do a lot of stupid things,” I told him, and let my eyes add extra weight to my words. Rick caught the implication and walked off. There would be no more footsie with Special Agen. Hottie. Good-looking men were nice, but loyalty was a helluva lot nicer.

After my team was or ga nized enough to roll, I tracked down the super, who was in a heated discussion with the PR guy.

“I need my weapons,” I said to her.

O’Loughlin reached into her enormous jacket pockets, pockets so large they belonged on a clown or a mime.

“If you apprehend or kill the suspect,” Davy said, “it could get out that the city knew about his plot, and that we paid him off. Think about the outrage, the lawsuits, the damage to Chicago’s reputation.”

“All I’m thinking about,” I said evenly, “is getting him so more people don’t die.”

“It would be impossible to recover from—”

“I forgot to mention,” I interrupted. “The last time I spoke with the Chemist, he asked me why we hadn’t gone public about the money. I told him to take it up with Davy Ellis o. Ellis, Dickler, and Scaramouche, that you were the one suppressing his story. He didn’t seem happy.”

Ellis turned a lovely shade of pale beneath his perfect tan. Peripherally, I saw the super’s lips twitch, as close as I’d seen her get to smirking. I turned away, tucked my guns into both holsters, and then headed for Chateau Élan on North and Clybourn to ruin Captain Bains’s joyous occasion.

Chapter 32

FROM THE OUTSIDE, Chateau Élan looked like it was designed by an ancient Roman architect with a column fetish. The facade boasted ten of them, thick and white and supporting a vaulted roof. Six columns graced each side of the building, and two held up the marquee on the front lawn, which proclaimed congratulations to Mr. and Mrs. Bains and Mr. and Mrs. Rothschild.

The valet seemed anxious to park my car, until he found out I was a cop and not going to tip. I parked in the valet area just the same—I’d done enough walking for the day. I was followed into the lot by a parade of cop cars, including the Mobile Command bus. When Bains showed up, he was going to have a stroke.

The lobby had a few marble statues, a fountain, and a lot of flowers and plants. I talked to a Hispanic cook, who led me to a comb- over manager named Bob Debussey. Bob appeared ready to cry when I laid out the story for him.

“Oh dear. This is horrible. Oh dear oh dear.”

“Where do you keep the liquor?”

“Oh dear. There’s a wine cellar, and the cooler. Both locked. Oh dear.”

“Who has keys?”

“I do, and my assistant manager, Jaime. Oh dear.”

Between oh dears I gleaned that there were no new hires recently, there haven’t been any strange people hanging around, and they’d gotten their latest liquor delivery this morning.

“I was missing a case of champagne, and a bottle of Oban. The groom’s father specifically wanted that scotch. The driver had the champagne, but had to go back for the scotch. Marty would have never messed up like that.”

“Who’s Marty?”

“The previous driver. Wonderful man. Died a few weeks ago. Heart attack, right after dropping off our order. Oh dear.”

I directed the mob of police entering the lobby to ask questions, take names, secure the perimeter, and search for IEDs. Bob led me, Rogers, and a perky CSU girl named Patti Hunt over to the wine cellar. Hunt was lugging a large blac. ALS box, and Rogers had a kit similar to Hajek’s. Bob fussed with the keys, shaking so badly I felt the wind. When he got the door open, he pointed out the stack of boxes in the near corner, sitting in front of a large wine rack that took up the back wall.

“This is presumptive, guys,” I told the team, “not evidentiary. Get me some clues, and the court case can be built later.”

Hunt found an electrical outlet for the alternate light source, Rogers dug out an aerosol can of ninhydrin, and I snapped on some latex gloves and eased a bottle of Perestroika vodka from the top carton.

“The driver today,” I asked Bob. “Was he wearing gloves?”

“Oh dear. No, I don’t believe so. He brought the boxes in on a dolly. I don’t remember gloves.”

“Is this the bottle of scotch he forgot?” I pointed to the Oban sitting on a wire rack.

“Yes. He brought that to me about an hour ago. Said he was sure he packed it the first time.”

Rogers spritzed the Oban and the vodka, and Hunt switched on the ALS and pointed the silver wand at the bottles, bathing them in green light. Nothing fluoresced.

“It’s at five fifty- five nanometers,” Hunt said.

“Nini is a picky lady,” Rogers said. “Try six hundred.”

Hunt dialed up the spectrum, and the light went from green to orange. It also brought out a dozen yellow prints on the Oban bottle, and three on the vodka.

Rogers looked at them through a loupe.

“Gloves on the vodka, at least seven different prints on the scotch.”

I took another bottle out of the top box, and a bottle out of the box beneath it. Then I went to the shelves and pulled a few random bottles. We did another spray and glow.

“All gloves on the new bottles, prints all over the old ones,” Rogers concluded.

“The distributor doesn’t wear gloves,” I said, “and he packs the liquor himself. These should have prints on them, unless they’ve been wiped down or switched.”

“But they don’t look like they’ve been opened.” Hunt pointed at the cap on the Perestroika. “The safety seal is still on.”

She was right. And the jet injector, powerful as it was, couldn’t shoot through glass. I placed three identical bottles of vodka on the floor and looked at the fill levels. All of them were uneven by a wee bit. But was that the Chemist’s doing, or were all liquor bottles slightly off?

I unscrewed the cap off of one.

“Lieutenant,” Hunt said, “if you’re thinking of taking a shot, that’s a poor way to test for toxins.”

Rogers raised his hand. “I’ll volunteer to try it.”

I squinted at the cap. There didn’t seem to be any signs of tampering. I took a tentative sniff. Smelled like vodka.

“Rogers, pass me that loupe.”

I held it to my eye and saw a tiny crystal winking up at me on the rim. I ran my pinky—my only finger currently lacking a decent fingernail—around the inside of the cap, and felt a bit of roughness.

“Unless the Perestroika master distillers use ground glass as a secret ingredient, I think we’ve found our toxic liquor. What else came with this shipment?” I asked Bob.

“Oh dear oh dear. A few cases of beer, and some pop. It’s all in the cooler.”

I ordered Rogers and Hunt to go with him, and I opened two more bottles, whiskey and rum. Each had overshot their recommended daily allowance of glass. I called the super.

“It looks like Bains is the target. It’s the liquor. I’m going to shut everything down here.”

“I’ll talk to your captain. We can let the reception go on anyway, bait a trap for the Chemist.”

“I was thinking about that, but it’s too dangerous. There might be other things tampered with, and I don’t think Bains wants to use his son’s wedding for a sting operation.”

“Agreed, Lieutenant. I’m glad I put you in charge of this case.”

I was going to remind her that I wasn’t her first pick, or even her tenth pick, but instead I said, “Thanks, but it isn’t over yet.”

I hung up and called the other team leaders to have them look for broken glass under bottle caps. Then it was huddle- time in the lobby for my team.

“We’ve found what we believe to be contaminated liquor bottles. Talk to me, Reynolds.”

“Perimeter is clear. No IEDs, no sightseers for a block in all directions.”

“Rogers?”

“Beer is bad. I looked at the bottle caps under high magnification, there are marks. Some two- liter bottles of soda have also been compromised.”

“What else have we got?” I asked.

A cop named Mathers said, “Nothing out of the ordinary in the kitchen. They had a few deliveries earlier today, nothing strange about them.”

Another named Parker added, “No strangers prowling around. Staff is spooked, but that’s to be expected. Everyone here knows everyone else, no newbies in the group. We did catch two Latinos trying to sneak out the back door, but that’s because they thought we were Immigration.”

“Okay, we’re still going to shut the place down. Mathers, I want you to—”

“You can’t close us!” This from the worrisome Bob, of course. “We’ve got two events today! These people have counted on us to make this the most important day of their lives!”

“Sorry, Bob. Can’t risk it.”

“But you said the kitchen was fine! It’s only the liquor shipment that came today!”

“We can’t take the chance.”

Bob began to cry, then fled the lobby with his hands over his face, but not before running headfirst into a plaster reproduction of Michelangelo’s David. It was more sad than funny. After thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence, I picked up where I left off.

“Mathers, get five guys to bag and tag the liquor bottles. We’re going to have to clean out the pantry, and the staff needs to be tested fo. BT as a precautionary —”

Bob came galloping back into the lobby, with a large pan full of linguini. Noodles hung from his mouth.

He yelled, “It’s fine!” or something similar. Hard to tell with all the food stuffed in his cheeks.

There were no heroic attempts on behalf of my people to tackle Bob and wrench the linguini from his starch hole. No one screamed, “Spit it out, you idiot!” We all just watched, silently, as Bob chewed, swallowed, and didn’t die. When he finished, he held out both arms in a silent ta- da! No one applauded.

“I’m trying the soup next,” Bob said, and trotted off.

Captain Bains chose that opportune moment to call, spitting vitriol and threats before I said word one. When he paused to take a breath I cut in, explaining how everything went down.

“And what’s Bob doing right now?” Bains asked when I finished.

“He’s standing three feet away from me, eating a bowl of wedding ball soup.”

Bob nodded vigorously and gave me a thumbs- up.

“How does he look?”

“Crazed.”

“Sick? Poisoned?”

“Not so far.”

“Tell him if he tries everything on the menu and lives, we’ll go on as planned. And also tell him to run to Costco and pick up a truckload of liquor. My side of the family likes to drink.”

“I’ll let you tell him that. How was the ceremony?”

“The flowers look like shit. One of the big arrangements fell over during the vows, and the ring bearer is still screaming in fright. I’m going to hang the florist by his green thumbs and have everyone in my District take turns beating him with hoses.”

“I’m glad it went well.”

“I’m on my way there. Let me speak to Bob.”

I passed the phone over to the manager, and informed my team that we’d just confiscate the liquor and beverages for now. Then I conferred wit. Reynolds.

“Have you checked in with the SRTs at the other weddings?”

“They all seem to be clear.”

“Call them over here. I want a watch on the property, and I want two undercovers inside checking the guest list. It looks like Bains is going to jeopardize hundreds of lives to make his son happy.”

“Can’t blame the guy. The bond between a father and a child is a powerful thing.”

“Yeah,” I said, conjuring up the image of me and my father in Grant Park. “Nothing can break that bond.”

A few minutes later I had my phone back, Manager Bob was noshing on a Caesar salad with anchovies, and Bains arrived and in no uncertain terms told everyone to get the hell out. I might have put up a fight if it was anyone other than my boss, and I might have even put up a fight with my boss, but the double vision had returned and I was so tired I could fall asleep standing up.

Which is why I left Reynolds in charge and hopped in the car, ready to head home. It was only a little past noon, and I felt like I’d been awake for a year.

I doubted we’d pick up the Chemist today. If he did stop by, all of the police vehicles still in the parking lot would scare him off. But I felt pretty good that we would eventually catch him. He’d gone through a lot of trouble and risk to steal the case files from Rec ords. There had to be something in there worth protecting. And though Alger and his partner were dead, and those files were gone, the information they contained was still available if I dug deep enough.

This wouldn’t end in a dramatic gun battle, or a climactic chase. It would end in a warrant and a quiet arrest. But it would end. I was sure of it.

I took 290, heading back to my house. I was making damn good time too, so good, I might actually make the trip in less than an hour. I would take a shower, maybe do a little napping, then visit Latham.

Which is why it was especially surprising to me when I exited on Harlem and headed north. Bensenville wasn’t north. The hospital wasn’t north. Elmwood Park was north. Elmwood Park, where Wilbur Martin Streng lived.

“This isn’t a good time,” I said to myself.

But I kept going, on my way to visit a man I thought died about forty years ago.

Chapter 33

THE CHEMIST DRIVES PAST Chateau Élan, sees the police brigade camped out in the parking lot, and doesn’t even slow down.

The cops figured it out fast. Very fast. But it doesn’t matter. That’s only a side bet. The big wager hasn’t been placed yet.

He thinks about tomorrow. If everything goes according to the Plan, the death toll will be in the tens of thousands. And there will be drastic afteraffects as well. Panic. Riots. Widespread terror. Crime will spin out of control, with no one to stop it.

It’s more than simple revenge. It will teach the world an important lesson.

And the best part of all is that no one will see it coming.

He heads home to make the final preparations.

Chapter 34

WHAT DO YOU SAY to a dead man? I started with, “Hello.”

Elmwood Park blended into Chicago on the west side. It was small but densely packed, predominantly white middle- class, mostly residential. Wilbur Streng lived in a small beige house on a small piece of property, bordered on either side by equally small houses, at Belden and Seventy- third. There was room for me to park on the street legally, but I chose a hydrant out of habit.

I didn’t need to psych myself up, or check my makeup, or consider what I was going to say. I was on autopi lot, acting without thinking. After parking, I walked up to his door and pressed the bell, and a minute later an old man answered.

I expected some sort of emotion on my part, some sort of internal dam breaking. But I felt nothing. The person standing before me didn’t look anything like the memories, or photos, I had of my father. He was stooped with age, which put him at my height. More liver spots on his head than hair. Thick glasses, and a lot of loose skin on the face and neck. Slightly built, but with a small pot belly.

“Figured you’d come by someday. Might as well come in.”

And then the dam broke. I’d forgotten what he sounded like. Is that odd? To forget a parent’s voice? But when he spoke, I realized I hadn’t forgotten it at all. I could never forget it. That voice had read me countless bedtime stories, had answered my questions about lions and thunder and airplanes, had helped me with my homework, had said I love you so many times. That same voice had bought me three ice creams and never gotten angry.

My father’s voice. Dad’s voice.

I felt my throat begin to tickle and my chest get heavy, but I stayed outwardly calm.

“You...know who I am?”

“Saw you on TV, many times. In the paper too. Your mother finally tell you?”

“She told me you were dead.”

He nodded. “It was easier that way. You coming in?”

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to. Still, my feet followed his into the house, and the door closed behind me with a surreal, otherworldly feeling.

The house was dark, clean. It smelled of lemon polish and cigar smoke. We passed a living room with a leather couch, a TV, an old hi- fi. Paintings on the wall, mostly of wooded landscapes, in heavy ornate frames that were pop u lar in the ’70s. Lots of wood paneling. Lots of wood everything. The kitchen was also done in brown, tile and wallpaper. Tidy, but without any overt personality.

“Would you like coffee? I have some from earlier.”

He indicated the green percolator on the counter. I didn’t want coffee, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable and I wanted to have something to do with my hands.

“Coffee is fine.”

“Cream or sugar?”

“Black.”

He grunted, like he expected that, and took a mug out of the drying rack in the sink.

“Got this machine about thirty years ago. Still brews a decent cup.”

So he didn’t abandon appliances, only families. He handed me the mug, and I was grateful for the warmth.

“Your mother tell you why?” he asked. He sat across from me at the kitchen table.

“She wrote a letter. You said you hated her, hated me, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us ever again.”

Wilbur grunted again.

“Is that true?” I asked.

“No. I was always fond of you, and your mother. It hurt like hell to leave.”

“So why did you?”

“I had to.”

I pushed down the anger, which was gathering like a storm in my head.

“Another woman?” I asked.

Wilbur laughed.

“No. If that were the case, I would have told your mother.”

“So what happened? You woke up one morning, decided you no longer wanted the responsibility?”

Wilbur stared at me for a long time, and for a moment I wondered if he’d died with his eyes open. I was almost ready to reach out and feel his pulse, when he said, “How is your mother doing?”

“She’s doing fine. And you’re avoiding the question.”

“I suppose I am. I’ve...thought about this moment. Many times. You, being here. Sometimes you’re yelling at me, screaming. Sometimes you’re crying. Sometimes you even pull a gun on me. I always start off by trying to explain how things were different back in the sixties. It’s not like it is today. Men were expected to act like men. I could have done the easy thing. I could have stayed and lived a lie.”

Some anger seeped out. “You’re acting like leaving your family was courageous.”

“You asked me if I no longer wanted the responsibility. I always wanted the responsibility.” Wilbur’s eyes got glassy. “The day you were born, I promised to—”

“Stop.”

“—take care of you, forever. I made that same promise to your mother, on our wedding day.”

“Which is why you abandoned us, left us with nothing.” I folded my arms. “You never tried to contact us, never gave us a dime.”

Wilbur stood up, walked to the percolator, and took a fresh mug from the cabinet. He poured himself some coffee, sipped it slowly.

“It was easier to walk out of your lives than have you and your mother deal with...everything. I had to play the bad guy.”

“Why?”

“Because the truth would have hurt more.”

“And what is the truth?”

Wilbur didn’t answer. I decided I’d had enough of this. It was only making me angry. I stood up.

“Thanks for the coffee, Dad. Maybe we can do this again in another forty years.”

“Jacqueline, wait...”

I left the kitchen, walked down the hall, and noticed some pictures hanging on the wall. One was a baby photo of me. I pulled it down and stared at it.

“Why do you have this?” I yelled. “You don’t deserve to have this.”

I wasn’t sure if I should keep it or throw it across the room, when I noticed another picture on the wall, of my father and another man, both wearing tuxedos. By the size of the lapels, this was mid- 1970s. Wilbur was smiling, and so was the other man, who had his arm around my father’s waist.

And all of my anger vanished, as if a trapdoor had been pulled under it. I took the frame off the wall and walked back into the kitchen.

“You’re gay,” I said.

Wilbur opened his mouth, then closed it. He did this a few times, like a fish in a net, before he finally spoke.

“I think I always knew. But I spent the first thirty years of my life denying it. Fighting it. Unable to accept it. Homosexuality was considered a weakness back then. A lack of self- control. Or a disease.”

Wilbur smiled, but it was tinged with pain.

“The University of Chicago had an experimental program at the time. I went once a week to get shocked. Electrocuted. Aversion therapy, they called it. They showed me gay images, had me read gay literature, and then gave me a jolt. Barbaric, by today’s standards. So much has changed.”

“Mom didn’t know?” I asked softly.

“No. And I couldn’t tell her. Not only because of the ridicule she would have gotten from her friends, her family. But it would have really hurt her. She would have felt like it was her fault, that she wasn’t trying hard enough, that she made some kind of mistake. It would have been a much harder rejection for her than me leaving because I was an uncaring bastard.”

I looked at the tuxedo picture again. Saw how happy he looked.

“Did you...”

“I never cheated on your mother. Not once. But I couldn’t give her what she needed. If I’d stayed with you, I would have been living a lie, and we all would have been miserable as a result.”

“But what about me?” I asked, my voice very small.

“Your mother told you I was dead. How could I visit you? I sent money, of course, kept sending it up until you graduated from college.”

Now my eyes were glassy too.

“How responsible of you.”

“I’m sorry, Jacqueline.”

I turned away, unwilling to let him see me cry.

“When I got older. When I grew up. Why didn’t you ever try to contact me?”

“I meant to. I always meant to.”

I wiped my cheeks.

“I have to go now.”

“Please stay.”

I looked at him.

“Forty years, Wilbur. You missed out on my entire life.”

“I can’t tell you how hard it’s been. At least you thought I was dead. I knew you were alive. I’ve spent more time thinking about you than most fathers actually spend with their children. Every morning I’d wake up and think about calling you, about talking to you.”

“But you didn’t call.” The tears were really coming now. “I found out you were alive, and I came. You knew I was alive, and never came.”

“Jacqueline...”

I whispered, “I wouldn’t have cared that you were gay.”

“Please stay...”

“Good- bye, Wilbur.”

I walked out of his tidy little house, went to my car, and cried the entire way to the hospital.

Latham was asleep when I arrived. I held his hand and thanked the universe that he was most certainly heterosexual and decided that when we got married, I wanted to have my reception at Chateau Élan because the staff was certainly dedicated.

And when the wedding was over, I’d send Wilbur a picture of me in my dress and write See what else you missed on the back.

Chapter 35

THE DOORBELL WOKE ME UP. It was still strange to hear a doorbell, having spent my entire adult life in apartments. I peeked at the digital, noted it was almost nine a.m., and calculated that I’d gotten a full eight hours of sleep. After leaving the hospital late last night, I picked up a frozen pizza and a six- pack of Goose Island IPA and finished both of them, then ordered a bunch of crap from HSN that I didn’t need. If memory served, one of the items was a vacuum cleaner that could suck up a bowling ball. This was incredibly important, as most homes in Nort. America are just filthy with bowling balls.

Another doorbell ring. I peeled myself out of bed, wincing because everything hurt, including my head. I had on one of Latham’s T-shirts, big enough to come down to my knees, and I deemed that suitable as greeting wear. That is, until I looked through the peephole and saw who was at the door.

“Hurry up, Jackie! I gotta use the can!”

Harry McGlade. Dressed in the traditional Harry outfit of an expensive suit, wrinkled beyond belief, and a Bogart hat. I rolled my eyes. I’d forgotten today was PoliceFest. Maybe if I didn’t answer, he’d go away.

“I know you’re in there. Your car is parked in the driveway. Open up or I’ll piss in your mailbox.”

I had no doubt he’d do it too. I opened the door.

“Jesus, Jackie, I just spent an hour on the expressway with an Ultra- Mega Big Gulp. My bladder is so full, it’s putting pressure on my heart. Where’s the bathroom?”

“Straight back, to the right,” I told him. “Don’t touch anything. Especially the towels.”

I went into the bedroom and changed into some baggy button- fly Yanuk jeans, Nikes, and an oversized Gap golf shirt. Rather than futz with my hair, I opted for a Cubs baseball cap, pulling my ponytail through the hole in the back. I probably could have used a shower, but I was afraid to leav. McGlade unattended in my home for any period of time.

After washing my face and carefully brushing my teeth—my lower lip was still sore—I found McGlade in the kitchen. Every cabinet was open, and he was poking through a Tupperware container, transferring a handful of something to his mouth.

“These are all you have to eat in this entire house,” he said between bites, “and I think they’re spoiled.”

“Really? I just bought them last week.”

“They taste like ass.”

“The cat likes them.”

He stared at the cat treats and frowned.

“This is cat food?”

“Yeah.”

“Liver and onion?” he ventured.

“Liver and tuna.”

He set the container down on the counter. “You got any mints?”

“No. Sorry.”

“How about floss?”

“Bathroom cabinet.”

He scurried off. I sniffed the treats, shuddered, and put them back in the cabinet. Then I closed all the other cabinet doors, poured a large glass of water, and drank it while silently dreading PoliceFest. Last year it had been held in Indiana, and I’d gone with Herb and his wife at their insistence. It was a crowded, hot, loud event, with carnival rides, face painting, pricey beer and hot dogs, and a lot of macho boxing and shooting contests. I snagged second place in one of the shooting contests, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed myself.

Harry returned, scowling.

“Were you telling the truth about the cat treats?” he asked.

“No.”

He seemed relieved. “They’re not for cats?”

“Yes, they are. But they’re not fresh. I bought them a year ago, and my cat hates them.”

I heard a humming sound, and noted that McGlade had clenched his robotic hand into a fist. While he was annoyed, I hit him with more bad news.

“I’m driving.”

“No way. I’m a guy. We can’t let chicks drive. It’s a form of castration.”

“Well, pick up your balls. We’re leaving.”

I double- checked to make sure Mr. Friskers had food and water, and then walked past Harry and out the front door. He tagged along behind me like a puppy.

“I wanna drive.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Did you see my Vette? It’s fast.”

“I bet.”

“Why can’t I drive?”

“Because I’m driving.”

I got behind the wheel, and Harry sat next to me.

“Your car sucks.”

“I know.”

“Can I park the Vette in your garage?”

“Garage door is broken.”

“Your house sucks.”

“I know.”

I pulled out of the driveway, and Harry began to mess with my radio. Better the radio than listening to him talk. Unfortunately, he switched it off after only listening to three bars of “Freebird” by Skynard.

“Your radio sucks.”

“Let’s try being quiet for a while, okay?”

He lasted a whole two minutes.

“I’ve started to write poetry,” Harry said.

Lord help me.

“That’s nice.”

“It helps me deal, you know, with the pain.”

“VD?” I asked.

“Of losing my hand. There isn’t much physical pain anymore. It’s on permanently. They did a bone graft. Carbon fibers. Want to see where it’s attached?”

“No.”

He showed me anyway, peeling up the latex covering, pointing to his wrist where the scar tissue met the prosthesis. It wasn’t as ugly as I imagined.

“Gotta keep rubbing antiperspirant around the edges, because the latex gets hot and I sweat like crazy. Inside the hand, along with the mechanical parts, are myoelectric sensors, attached to my nerves and muscles. If I concentrate on open”—I heard a mechanical whir, and Harry’s thumb and fingers separated—“and close, the fingers move. Only three of the fingers are actually robotic. The ring finger and the pinky just go along for the ride. It’s pretty strong, though. See?”

McGlade gripped my dashboard with the prosthesis, and his fingers punched right through.

“Harry!”

“Don’t worry. I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

I looked at the damage, realized it was no big loss, and turned onto I-190, passing O’Hare and heading for Skokie. Harry was mercifully quiet for a few seconds.

“So, do you want to hear some of my poetry?”

“No.”

“A short one.”

“No.”

“It’s really short.”

“I don’t care how short it is, I don’t want to hear it.”

A few seconds ticked by.

“Want to see my new phone?”

“No.”

He tugged it out of his wrinkly blazer just the same.

“It’s a phone, a camera, a PDA, and it can even surf the Internet.”

“Have you been tested for ADD?” I asked.

He pressed a few buttons, and a loud feminine moan came from the device.

“This is a good Web site. BubbleBooty.com. It costs twenty bucks a month, but you get free fifteen- second previews of all their movies. So who needs to join?”

More moaning, and then the sound of a donkey braying.

“Or check this out.”

He stuck the camera in my face, and there was a blinding flash.

“Jesus, McGlade!”

“High rez, 1500 dpi. Look at that clarity. I can count the pores on your nose. Well, I could, if I had all day.”

“It’s quiet time again,” I said. “Let’s see if we can be quiet for the whole rest of the ride, okay?”

Quiet time lasted less than a minute.

“Just like the old days, isn’t it, Jackie? Cruising down the highway. Me and you. Young cops with bad attitudes. We had some fun times, didn’t we?”

“Not really.”

I watched peripherally as Harry tried to adjust the air- conditioning vent using his prosthesis, and snapped it right off. He pondered it for a moment, checked to see if I noticed, and then hid it under his seat.

“I don’t regret quitting the force.”

“You didn’t quit. You were kicked off.”

“I don’t miss it. It’s not like PI work. Someone hires me to do a job, I get paid, they’re grateful. Not like being a cop. Too many people hate you. Like all the traps in that house the other night. Someone had to really hate the department to set all that up. I heard it was a cop’s house too.”

Something itched at the back of my head, but I couldn’t quite scratch it.

“This guy has killed a lot of cops,” I admitted. I thought about Sardina, and Roxy, and the two Cicero officers. Plus all of the incidental police officer poisonings; three died at the Sammy’s, and twelve more became sick eating at various locations around the city. Hell, the Chemist even spread his toxins at the German deli only a block away from ...

“The one- five.”

“You say something?” Harry asked. He was using his prosthesis to touch himself in a private place.

“Can you not fondle yourself in my front seat?”

“Just making a minor adjustment. It’s kind of strange, because it feels like someone else’s hand.”

“Shut up for a minute.”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking. Just be quiet.”

“I was being quiet. You’re the one who started talking.”

“Harry, shut the hell up.”

“Boy, you’re bitchy. Don’t they have hormones for after meno pause?”

I tuned him out, concentrating on all of the restaurants and grocery stores th. Chemist had poisoned. As I ticked them off, one by one, I realized that there had been a pattern all along.

“Each store was within a block of a police station.”

“Huh?” McGlade had gone back to adjusting himself.

“The police. The Chemist was targeting the police all along. Even the wedding—Captain Bains’s son. Why the hell didn’t I see it before?”

“Because you’re functionally retarded?” Harry offered. “Going senile? Have Alzheimer’s disease? Personally, I wouldn’t mind Alzheimer’s. You buy one magazine, and you’re entertained for the rest of your life.”

I drew in a sharp breath, having one of those rare moments where everything suddenly came together. If the Chemist truly wanted to hurt some cops, he needed to strike where there was a large concentration of us in a small area.

“PoliceFest,” I whispered.

More than twenty thousand cops, plus another twenty thousand family members and visitors, all in the same place at the same time.

“I think I broke your radio,” Harry said, handing me a knob with his rubber hand.

I jammed down the accelerator. While it wasn’t enough to pin us to our seats, I was pushing eighty soon enough.

“What the hell are you doing, Jackie?”

“I’m praying,” I told him. “Praying that I’m wrong.”

Chapter 36

THE VILLAGE OF SKOKIE covered roughly ten square miles. It was one of Chicago’s larger suburbs, with a population of over sixty thousand, bordering the city on the north side.

I was burning some serious rubber, edging the car up into the nineties, and the. I had to stop very quickly. Traffic had gone from open to insane. The Touhy ramp off of I -94 was backed up for at least a mile, bumper to bumper. All because o. PoliceFest.

“McGlade, grab my cherry—”

I regretted saying it as soon as it breached my lips, but before I could qualify it he’d already answered, “I think I’m about thirty- five years too late for that, Jackie.”

“The red and blue light, smart- ass. In the backseat, on the floor.”

He fished around for it and set it on his lap.

“They still use these things?”

“The classics are still the best. Plug it in and stick it to the roof.”

McGlade put the cord into my cigarette lighter, and it turned on and began to spin, flashing colors.

“My key chain light is brighter than this stupid thing.”

“Just put it on the roof.”

“What is that? Is that a suction cup?”

“The roof, McGlade!”

I hit the gas and pulled onto the shoulder, spraying gravel. McGlade leaned out the window and attached the cherry to the top of my car. When he finished, he sat back down and buckled his seat belt.

“Where’s the siren?” he asked.

“No siren.”

McGlade seemed to consider it.

“Want me to stick my head out the window and go woo- woo- woo?”

I hopped back onto the street, buzzed through the red light, and swung east ont. Touhy, missing a pickup truck by a good two feet.

“Did you pull down the little lever on the suction cup?” I asked, swerving to avoid the SUV ahead of me.

“There was a lever?”

I tapped my brakes, and the cherry bounced off my hood and onto the sidewalk, where it hit a mailbox and splintered into a million little red and blue pieces.

“Hell.” I frowned. “That thing was vintage.”

“Don’t worry about it. You can hire a midget to sit on your roof and hold a lava lamp. You’d get the same effect.”

I passed a Jeep, hit the horn, and took a right onto Lincoln.

“How old is this car?” McGlade asked. “It’s a model made before airbags, isn’t it?”

“Just go limp at impact. It’s the same thing.”

I heard a whirring sound, and chanced a look. McGlade had locked his hand onto the door grip. I smiled, and pinned the speedometer.

“McGlade, what street is the festival on?”

“Pratt and Central Park Avenue. You could drop me off wherever, though. Up here is fine. Or here. Or at that nail salon. I was thinking about doing my nails.”

I zipped past the nail salon, breezed through a yellow light, and hung a left onto Pratt. Then I hit the brakes.

Yellow saw horses blocked off the street, a thick wall of people milling around behind them. Thousands of people.

“Parking is going to be a bitch,” Harry said.

He was right. And because a lot of these folks were cops, all of the hydrants were already taken. I stopped in the middle of the street, dug my ankle holster—complete with AMT—out of my purse, and put my leg up onto the steering wheel to strap it on. Naturally, McGlade had to comment on this.

“You’re pretty flexible for an old chick. Can you put your foot behind your head? I dated this girl once. Well, not really dated.”

I grabbed my purse, hopped out of the car, and waded into the crowd. It was elbow to elbow, a carnival that seemed to go on forever, complete with music and rides and plenty of food. Besides the prerequisite amount of coptosterone, there were also plenty of women and children, and every third person was eating or drinking something. Beer. Lemonade. Corn on the cob. Hot dogs. Nachos. If th. Chemist was going to unleash his toxins at this event, a lot of people would die.

I pushed my way up to a popcorn vendor and asked who was in charge. He had no idea, but offered me a program. I folded out the map and studied the gigantic layout. The information booth was dead center. I moved as fast as I could, which wasn’t very fast at all. I literally had to force my way through people, enduring a slew of unhappy stares and a few off- color remarks.

“So what’s the rush anyway?” Harry had somehow caught up and was right behind me. “You think this poison guy is going to try something?”

“I don’t know. There’s a good chance he did something. This guy hates cops, and here’s a chance to kill a bunch at once.”

“Think he did something to the soft pretzels?”

“I don’t know.”

McGlade shoved a large pretzel under my nose.

“Take a bite, tell me if it’s safe.”

I knocked it aside, pushed over to the edge of the crowd, and walked along the perimeter, which was much quicker.

“Lots of people,” McGlade said. He’d risked it; his mouth was full of pretzel. “Whaddaya think? Thirty thousand? Forty? Be tough to poison this many people.”

Harry had a point. So many different vendors, it would be an impossible feat to hit all of them, or even half of them. If I wanted to kill a bunch of people here, how would I do it? Gas? I spied a helium tank being used to fill balloons. I also noted a cooling- off station, which sprayed a fine mist of cool water onto people who walked beneath it. The problem with either was speed. The poison would have to be slow- acting, so as many people as possible could become infected before panic made the rest flee, or instantaneous, getting as many people as possible at once.

“How about a crop duster?” McGlade said. “He could swoop down, trailing gas.”

Harry pretended his fake hand was an airplane and made zooming sounds as he flew it around. I double- checked the map, decided that this was the midpoint, and forced myself back into the masses. The information booth was appropriately crowded, and I marched to the front of the line and said, “Who’s in charge?”

The guy behind the counter folded his arms.

“This isn’t the end of the line, lady.”

“I’m a cop,” I told him.

“It’s PoliceFest. Everyone here is a cop.”

The people I’d cut in front of echoed the statement.

“Look,” I said, lowering my voice. “I’m on the Chemist case. Have you heard of it? I think he’s here, and he’s going to kill a bunch of people. Now, who is in charge?”

“Jim. Jim Czajkowski. I’ll call him.”

He used the walkie- talkie attached to his belt buckle. A minute later a short, slightly pudgy man with a waxed handlebar mustache stepped into the booth.

“I’m Jim, Skokie PD. What’s going on?”

I leaned in and spoke softly. “We have reason to believe that this festival might be the target of a terrorist attack. Have you noticed anything unusual?”

“Not really. I mean, setting up an event like this is a nightmare. There are always snags.”

“What kind of snags?”

“Well, the music tent has collapsed twice. The garbage cans are filling up faster than expected. Some moron drank too much and cracked open his skull.”

“Are you sure it was alcohol?”

“I’m sure. He got into a drinking contest with his buddies.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary? Problems? Complaints? Maybe from before the festival started?”

“There’s that damn portable toilet truck.”

Where had I recently heard about portable toilets? Herb. He was searching for a stolen truck.

“What about the truck?”

“Parked here real early this morning, right in the middle of everything, but didn’t unload. All of those Porta Potties are sitting up there, just taking up space. We can’t even take them down ourselves, because they’re wrapped up in chains.”

“Show me.”

Jim led the way. Harry once again fell into step behind me, this time eating a hot dog. We walked past a. Tilt- A-Whirl, a ring toss booth, and the aforementioned music tent, which appeared to have collapsed again. Eventually, we wound up behind a row of carny game booths on a small patch of dirt, next to a semi with a flatbed trailer attached. Stacked on the trailer were thirty- six portable toilets.

“Yipes!” McGlade said. “Johns!”

Jim spit onto the grass. “Someone just drove them up and left them there. And look at the way they’re chained together.”

I moved closer and agreed it went above and beyond simply securing them to the trailer. The heavy gauge chains formed a net around the toilets, and there were thick padlocks wherever two chains intersected. It would take an hour just to unlock them all.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Herb.

“Hi, Jack. I heard about the Bains wedding. Nice work.”

“Thanks. That stolen Porta Potti truck, was it a flatbed, red Peterbilt cab?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you at the fest?”

“Bernice and I are in the music tent, watching the volunteers wrestle with the collapsing canvas. Why?”

“I think I found your truck. I’m to the west of you maybe fifty yards, behind the Tilt- A-Whirl.”

“I’ll be right there.”

McGlade had climbed up to the driver’s side of the cab and was peering in the window.

“Hey, Jackie. Maybe you should take a look at this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a clock.”

“Most trucks have clocks, McGlade.”

“This one is counting down. It’s at 18:52...51...50...”

That didn’t sound good. Not at all. I turned to Jim. “We need some tools. Bolt cutters, a saw, anything to get through these chains. Is there a PA system?”

“There’s one in the music tent.”

“Use it. Get some bomb squad guys over here.”

Jim made a face. “If I go on the mike and say we need the bomb squad, people are going to panic. You ever see a human stampede?”

“Announce that it’s time for the Bomb Squad Beer Keg Defusing Contest or something stupid like that. Snag the first guy that shows up.”

Jim trotted off, and I pulled myself up onto the flatbed and cautiously approached one of the portable toilets. It was an aqua green color, made of fiberglass, about seven feet tall, and had a padlock on the door. The thing wouldn’t budge, even when I leaned into it, hard. I wrapped my knuckles on the side and there was a dull thump, like it was full of something. I knelt down and tried to pry away the door using the lower corner. I couldn’t get my fingers in the crack.

But I knew who could.

“McGlade! Come here!”

“Where are you?”

“Next to the toilets!”

“I don’t have to go right now.”

I clenched my teeth, remembered that he had the emotional maturity of a three- year- old, and forced myself to relax.

“Harry, you do want me to talk to the mayor, right?”

He sauntered over and stared up at me.

“What do you need, baby? Moral support?”

“You think you can crack one of these things open using your hand?”

“Maybe.”

He tried to pull himself onto the trailer, but couldn’t get a leg up over the edge. I had to help him.

“Whoa. I need to rest for a minute. Be a good girl and run get me a lemonade.”

“Dammit, Harry, we don’t have time for you to play around. See if you can open up one of these.”

He sighed, crawled over to the toilet, and rolled up his sleeve. I watched, both fascinated and revolted, as he peeled off the flesh- colored rubber, revealing a curved metal claw with one lower thumb and two upper fingers.

“Here, Jackie. Hold my hand.”

He tossed me the rubber cover, and I flinched and it fell at my feet. McGlade didn’t notice. He’d gripped the lower corner of the Porta Potti and I saw his lips whisper, “Close.” The fiberglass made a cracking sound, then splintered inward.

“Aw, Christ. That’s disgusting. Open.”

When McGlade retrieved the claw, it was covered with a brown, pasty goop. He stared at it, scowling, and then tentatively brought it under his nose.

“What the hell is this stuff? Smells kind of like gasoline.”

I walked up to him, though I could honestly say it was the last thing in the world I wanted to do. The stuff on his hand had the consistency of toothpaste, and was a brownish gray with various- sized flecks of white and silver.

“Taste it.” Harry stuck his claw under my chin. “Lemme know if it’s poisonous.”

I shoved him aside and bent down to look into the hole he made. The smell of gas was even stronger, and some of the stuff had poured out onto the trailer. Mixed in with the gunk was a one- inch nail.

“Don’t touch it!”

McGlade and I looked behind us. Jim was hurrying over with a tall black guy wearing a T -shirt that said If I Get One More Restraining Order I’m Gonna Kill Someone.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’m Murray. CPD, bomb squad.”

Murray hopped onto the trailer with much more ease and grace than McGlade, and crouched down next to me. He peered into the hole.

“This is ANFO. Not commercial quality. Looks homemade. But competent. There’s aluminum in here. An accelerant.”

“It also has nails in it,” I said. “Shrapnel?”

“Probably. Shit, that’s bad.”

“Question.” McGlade raised up an arm. “What’s ANFO?”

“It’s a high explosive. Ammonium nitrate fertilizer mixed with fuel oil. It’s what Timothy McVeigh used for the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995.”

“Oh my God,” McGlade said. He put his good hand on my shoulder. “I’m so glad we took your car.”

I thought about the last thing the Chemist said to me on the phone. I had a blast. When he told me he wasn’t going to poison anyone else, that had been the truth.

“Isn’t this hard to get?” I asked.

“A few states have restricted policies for buying ammonium nitrate, and some require additives that make it difficult to weaponize. Unfortunately, Illinois isn’t one of those states. The pro cess isn’t very easy, and it isn’t very well- known, but anyone can learn how to make ANFO on the Internet. Luckily, most people get the proportions wrong and blow themselves up.”

Murray knocked on the next toilet over, and then the one behind it.

“Are all of these full?”

“We haven’t checked. But there’s a timer in the cab.”

“What’s the timer at?”

“Probably about fourteen minutes left.”

He hopped off the trailer bed. I followed him.

“Can you jimmy open a truck door?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

Murray picked up a concrete block being used as tent ballast and crashed it through the driver’s-side window. A moment later he was in the cab, cradling the timer in his hands.

“Bad news. This isn’t the timer. It’s just a countdown clock, probably synched to the timer, to show the detonation time to the driver. I’m guessing the real timer and detonator are buried in one of those porta stanks.”

McGlade laughed. “Heh heh. Porta stank.”

“Can you disarm it?” I asked.

“Maybe, if we could find it in time. It might be nothing more than a few sticks of dynamite and a blasting cap. But it’s buried in one of those things. Opening all of them up, digging through them, could take hours.”

“So what should we do?”

“We have to get everyone out of here.”

“Evacuate?” Jim said. “There are over forty thousand people at this festival.”

“Well, we need to get all of them away from here within the next thirteen minutes and forty- three seconds.”

“How bad is this?” I asked.

“As bad as it gets. When this thing blows, it’s going to kill everyone in a one- mile radius.”

Chapter 37

14 MINUTES

DID YOU SAY a one- mile radius?” Everyone turned to look at Herb Benedict, who was standing behind us. He wore a blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and his plump wife, Bernice, was at his side, equally attired.

“Don’t worry, fatso,” McGlade said. “You’ll probably bounce free of the explosion.”

Herb reached for his hip holster, but his wife held his arm back.

“We need to get everyone away from here.” On impulse I looked around. People everywhere, at least a mile thick. To get all of them a safe distance was—

“Impossible,” Jim said. “We’d never get them all away in time. And if we tried, hundreds would get trampled trying to get away.”

Murray looked scared, which scared me, because bomb guys weren’t supposed to look scared.

“No one will get away in time.” Murray’s voice was soft and low. “A pound of ANFO can make a crater a yard deep and kick debris ninety feet away. We’ve got about eigh teen tons of ANFO here. This thing is maybe ten times the size of the Oklahoma City bomb, and it’s out in the open with nothing to damper the blast but people. Human tissue won’t do much to stop nails moving at thirty- five hundred meters per second.”

Everyone leaned away from the truck, and Jim actually took a few steps back.

“Someone drove it in.” I forced myself to touch the trailer. “Maybe we can drive it somewhere safe. Anyplace around here that might work? Jim, Skokie is your town.”

“I...I don’t know. Look, we all should leave.” Jim was sweating, and he looked ready to bolt. “When this thing blows—”

“Answer the question.” Herb’s voice was hard.

“There’s...um...there’s a few golf courses...”

“What’s around them?” Murray asked.

“Um...houses. Residential areas.”

McGlade snorted. “This entire town is one big residential area. If you’re going to dump this someplace, at least pick a rich neighborhood. They’re insured.”

Herb scowled at him. “You got any better ideas, Lefty?”

“Lake Michigan,” Harry said. “The water absorbs the energy of the blast, and it also creates some new beachfront property.”

Jim shook his head. “The lake is too far away. You won’t make it in time.”

“Rivers?” I asked. “Big holes? Tunnels? Stadiums?”

“Bomb shelters?” McGlade added.

“A river would be good,” Murray said. “ANFO isn’t water resis tant. If it’s soaked, it might limit the force of the blast.”

“How close is the Chicago River?” Herb asked.

“It’s about—wait...the plant. The Northside Water Reclamation Plant.”

“What is that? Sewage treatment?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah. It’s about two miles away. It’s big. And it’s all concrete. Some of those settling tanks are deep too.”

“What’s around it?” Herb asked.

“Some offices, south of Howard Street. On the west, homes, but not too many. North is a country club, east, a factory, but it will be closed today. So will the offices.”

“Okay, Jim, listen carefully. You need to get in touch with the plant, clear them out, and have someone from there call me. You also have to warn the country club and the residents in those houses. Evacuate them, or have them get in their basements.”

I gave Jim my phone number, and he programmed it into his phone and began making calls.

“You’re the one going?” Herb’s chubby face was pinched with anger.

“Yeah,” I said.

He folded his arms. “Since when can you drive a semi?”

“How hard can it be?”

“Can you even drive stick shift?”

Now I folded my arms. “I’ve seen other people. I think I can figure it out.”

Harry shook his head. “Even if you can drive stick shift, a truck is an entirely different animal. It’s a ten- speed manual transmission, and it’s not synchronized like a car.”

“Can you drive this semi?” Herb asked him.

McGlade waved his robotic hand in Herb’s face.

“Sure I can, Einstein. I’ll shift gears with my ass.”

“How about you use that big mouth of yours instead?” Herb said. “I bet it’s been on quite a few gearshifts in the past.”

McGlade’s eyebrows creased, and then he started to laugh. “That one was actually pretty good.”

I put my hand on Harry’s shoulder, drawing his attention. “What if I helped you shift?”

“It’s too hard, Jackie. You have to match the engine revs with the transmission revs. There’s a rhythm to it. You mess it up, you can stall out, or even strip the gears. Plus steering the damn thing is a bitch.”

Herb said, “You’re a coward.”

McGlade nodded. “There’s also that.”

“Harry, if you save forty thousand people, half of them cops, I’m sure the mayor would let you have a liquor license in the middle of the goddamn Lincoln Park Zoo.”

A sly grin formed on Harry’s unshaven face. “In the zoo? You think?”

“I’ve done some calculations.” Murray had a calculator in his big hands. I guess bombies didn’t travel without one. “You’ll need to be a mile away after you leave the truck, so if someone follows you in a car, you’d need at least ninety seconds to get out of there to have a chance at surviving.”

Herb nodded. “I can do that.”

I asked, “Do what?”

“I’ll meet you guys there, drive you to safety.”

“Herb...” Bernice and I said in unison.

“If you two can get the truck to the plant, I’ll be there to pick you up.” Herb kissed his wife on the forehead. “It’ll be okay, dear.”

Bernice put her hands on his cheeks. She’d begun to cry.

“I’m warning you, Herb Benedict. If you get yourself blown up, I’m going to date younger men.”

McGlade raised his hand. “I’m younger. And with me, there’s no risk of smothering to death.”

“How safe is this stuff to haul?” I asked, eyeing Herb to make sure he didn’t shoot McGlade.

“ANFO is pretty stable,” Murray said. “It won’t ignite even if you fire a few bullets into it. It should be safe to transport. Just try to avoid any major collisions.”

“We’ll try our best.”

“Is there anything else I can do?” Murray asked.

“Clear a path from here to the street. We need to get these people out of the way so we can get through.” I looked at Harry. “Are you out or are you in?”

“You sure I’ll get a liquor license?”

“I guarantee the mayor will be there for the ribbon- cutting ceremony.”

McGlade grinned. “Ten- four, good buddy. Let’s get it into gear and put the hammer down.”

“Okay, it’s a go.” I looked at the cab and frowned. “Does anyone know how to hot- wire a semi?”

Chapter 38

9 MINUTES

WE WASTED TOO MUCH TIME trying to start the truck. McGlade tore open the steering column housing and tried crossing several different wires, but all he accomplished was turning the dashboard lights on and off.

Herb stuck his head in the door. “It’s the red wires.”

“I’m crossing the red wires. It isn’t doing anything.”

I watched the timer count down and felt myself getting sicker and sicker.

“Are you sure they’re crossed?” Herb said.

“They’re crossed! You want to squeeze your fat ass up here again and take a look?”

“You’ve got the truck in second gear.”

“It’s supposed to be in second gear. If you don’t stop bugging me, I’m going to stick my claw so far up your—”

From behind us: “Is there a brown wire?”

Someone else had joined the party. A tall woman, young, brunette, tattoos on bare arms, named Ren ée Davidson. Bernice had apparently gone off and brought back someone who knew what the hell she was doing.

“Yeah,” McGlade said. “There’s a brown one.”

Davidson climbed onto the foot platform, next to the driver’s-side door.

“The red ones are the ignition wires, the brown one is the starter wire. Strip the brown one and touch it to the reds.”

“Stripping is kind of a problem one- handed. Porky had to strip the other ones, and he almost got stuck.”

“Let me give it a try,” Davidson offered.

“Sure. We won’t have to grease your hips first.”

McGlade scooted over. Davidson removed the folding knife clipped to her belt, bent under the steering wheel, and five seconds later the truck coughed and roared to life.

“The steering column is still locked,” she said. “You won’t be able to turn unless you break the mechanism. It’s in the ignition.”

“That I can do,” McGlade said. He held his claw over the key switch and said, “Close.” His hand crunched down on the mechanism and cracked it off.

“Can you drive a truck?” I asked Davidson.

Her shoulders slumped. “I’m here with my kids. I can’t take the risk. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t look too sorry, but I really couldn’t blame her. I thanked her for the help and watched her jog off. Herb checked his watch.

“I’ll meet you there, Jack. My car is parked about three blocks away. I have to get moving.”

“Good luck,” I told him.

He nodded, and then hurried into the crowd.

“Don’t run!” McGlade called after him. “Don’t risk the heart attack!”

I ran around to the passenger side, grabbed the side bar, and swung myself up in the seat. I considered putting on my seat belt, and decided there was no point when I had forty thousand pounds of high explosive five feet behind me. Harry closed his door, adjusted his seat, then played around with his side mirror. He glanced over at mine.

“Jackie, can you tilt your mirror forward just a bit?”

I cranked down the window, reached for the mirror, and froze. There, plain as day, was a perfect latent fingerprint, gracing the lower right- hand corner of the mirror glass. The Chemist’s? He’d been fanatical about not leaving prints, but had he gotten a little careless? Especially since he figured the truck would be obliterated in the explosion?

“Jackie, the mirror.”

I held the back and nudged it forward an inch.

“Is that better?”

“I have no idea. Your big gray head is in the way.”

“Just get moving, McGlade.” I fished through my purse, looking for my eye shadow.

“Sure. Get moving. Okay. Let’s see. Gas...bring up the RPM...clutch...neutral...neutral...dammit, Jackie, help me get this into neutral.”

He was trying to use his fake hand, and his claw kept sliding off the shifter ball knob.

“Where is it?”

“The middle.”

I fought with the stick and popped it into the center.

“Okay, I’m hitting the clutch, put it into first.”

I did, and the truck jerked and then began to groan and shudder without actually moving.

“Oops, I’m doing something wrong.”

The truck wasn’t moving, but the engine revved into the red zone and the cab began to bounce.

“McGlade, it’s probably not a good thing to shake up the bomb.”

“I’m thinking...Hold on...”

“Harry—”

“Shit! The trailer hand brake.” He gripped another stick, pulled it back, and the truck lurched forward. “My bad.”

He drove us off the patch of dirt and down the path Murray had cleared, into the throng of people. I found my eye shadow and dabbed the applicator into the purple powder. I was lightly dusting the latent print on the mirror when a tremendous piercing sound shook the floorboards, almost causing me to drop my brush and wet myself. It was McGlade, tugging on the pull cord for the horn.

“Dammit, Harry, I thought we blew up.”

“These people need to get out of my way.”

I peered out the front window and saw a man in a wheelchair in our path, twenty yards ahead.

“Watch out for the disabled guy.”

“I see him.”

We closed to within ten yards.

“You’re heading right for him.”

“He needs to move.”

Five yards. McGlade blared the horn again.

“HARRY!”

We bumped the man, and he went careening off to the side at a very high speed.

“Jesus, McGlade! You hit him!”

“He should have moved faster.”

“He was handicapped!”

“It’s not like I did anything to make his life any worse. He already couldn’t walk.”

My cell phone buzzed, and I picked it up.

“Daniels.”

“Jim Czajkowski told me to call you. I’m Dalton Forrester from Northside Treatment. You’re bringing a bomb to my plant?”

“That’s the idea, Dalton.”

“We supply close to two hundred thousand homes and businesses with fresh water. If you blow up the facility, they could be without water for weeks.”

“Simple math, Dalton. People without any water is a better deal than water without any people. Have you evacuated your staff?”

“Yeah. I was the last one to leave. I’m heading home to my family, five miles away. Is that far enough?”

“It should be. What’s the best place to drop off this payload?”

“It’s a truck, right? Avoid the settling tanks. Those are the round ones. They aren’t very deep, and there is skimming machinery that you could get stuck on. You should sink it in one of the aeration pools. They’re square, about an acre wide, twenty feet deep. That’s where the microorganisms eat all the organic solids. When you turn into the plant off of Howard, go left, to the west. And good luck getting here—the roads are all blocked off.”

Czajkowski moved fast. I thanked Dalton, hung up, and went back to dusting. McGlade hit the horn again, and I heard someone scream.

“Old lady,” Harry said. “I think I missed her. Mostly.”

“McGlade, you need to—”

“Turning onto Pratt. It’s going to be tight. Hold on.”

The truck smacked into two parked cars—sending them off into opposite directions as if they were toys—jumping the curb and screeching onto the asphalt, bee lining for an office building straight ahead. McGlade wrestled with the steering wheel, and we kissed the brick wall, pulled past, and then straightened out onto the street.

“Okay, I’m going to turn onto Hamlin. Get ready to shift. Ready?”

I had turned my attention back to the latent on the mirror. The eye shadow wasn’t fingerprint powder, but it had done a fair job clinging to the oils and making the ridges stand out.

“Jackie! You with me?”

“Yeah, Harry. Say when.”

“Okay, gas...clutch...neutral...shit!”

Ahead of us on Hamlin was a gridlock of cars, none of them moving.

McGlade hit the brakes, and the tires squealed, but the truck groaned and didn’t slow down.

“The hand brake!” he yelled, his claw bouncing off the stick.

I looked out the side window and watched, horrified, as the trailer kicked out to the side and the truck began to jackknife.

Chapter 39

6 MINUTES

SERGEANT HERB BENEDICT, gun in hand, jogs up the sidewalk, past one idling car after another. His own car is pinned between three others, impossible to drive. The streets are jammed, and nothing is moving. It’s like all of Skokie has become a giant parking lot.

He’s looking for a car, any car, that isn’t trapped, but even the intersections are completely congested. A hundred horns are sounding off around him, coupled with angry shouts. He’s still two miles away from the treatment plant, and if he doesn’t find a vehicle quickly, Jack and McGlade are going to die. In McGlade’s case, it’s no big loss. But Jack is like a sister.

Switching to Robbery had been the hardest thing Herb had ever done. He felt like he was betraying, and abandoning, his best friend. He had hoped that Jack would recognize how ridiculously dangerous their job had become, and would follow him. But she didn’t.

She keeps on risking her life for the Job, Herb thought, and here I am, yet again, running toward danger rather than away from it, to try and save her life.

An engine, behind him. He stops and turns, sees a car has gotten sick of the traffic and driven onto the sidewalk. Something older and sporty, a Challenger or a GTO. Perfect. Herb tucks his 9mm into his hip holster and holds up his badge. He can commandeer this car and—

The car accelerates. The driver either doesn’t see him or doesn’t care. Herb yells, but his voice isn’t audible above all of the honking. He realizes the car is going to hit him, and he tries to step to the side.

At the last possible moment, the car swerves right, but it isn’t fast enough, and the back end clips Herb and sends him spinning into a storefront window. He bounces off the glass and slams onto the pavement, where he lies, unmoving, in a growing pool of blood.

Chapter 40

5 MINUTES

PUT IT IN GEAR! ” McGlade screamed, an octave higher than his normal voice. I helped him tug the shifter into second, and the cabshook and then jolted forward. Behind us, the trailer rocked from side to side, but quickly straightened out. This saved us from jackknifing, but didn’t save us from the line of cars fifty yards ahead and closing.

He tugged the wheel to the right, forcing the truck up onto the carefully maintained lawn of an office complex. Harry continued to turn, winding up behind the building in the back parking lot, heading straight for a fence.

“McGlade...”

“Don’t worry. I do this all the time in Grand Theft Auto.”

“That’s a video game.”

“Pac- Man is a video game. GTA is a way of life.”

The semi plowed through the fence with almost no re sis tance, and then we were in a factory loading area.

“Gear down on three. One...two...three.”

I helped him shift into first, and the truck slowed down, allowing McGlade to navigate a sharp turn. We bounced over a curb and woundup on Morse going east. I looked at the countdown clock and felt ill. We were still over a mile away from the treatment plant and heading in the wrong direction.

“Train tracks ahead,” Harry said. “I have an idea.”

McGlade swung the truck left, and we ran parallel to the tracks on the gravel. There was a slight grade, maybe five percent, but the truck didn’t tip.

“Let’s go to second...now.”

The truck picked up speed, and I listened to the RPMs and was able to gauge when to put it into third, and then fourth. The ride was bumpy, and tilted, but we were making good time, and there were no cars blocking our way. McGlade hummed the song “Convoy,” off- key. I once again turned my attention to the latent on the mirror.

“Gimme your phone,” I told him.

“My new one? Why?”

“Just do it.”

“It’s in my right pants pocket. Help yourself.”

I reached for his lap, then hesitated. It was like willfully sticking your hand into a mousetrap. Not having any other choice, I slipped a finger in, shuddering.

“It’s at the bottom. Reach around for it.”

I was about to go deeper when I realized the obvious.

“How could you put anything in your right pocket with a mechanical hand?”

He smiled, sheepish.

“Caught me. It’s in my jacket.”

I muttered assholeunder my breath and quickly found the high- tech phone in his jacket.

“How do I use the camera?”

“Go to the menu first.”

I stared at the device, which looked slightly more complicated than the helm of a nuclear submarine.

“Is this a touch screen?”

“There’s a menu button in the center of the keypad.”

“What’s it look like?”

“It looks like the menu button. It says menuon it.”

“There are six thousand buttons.”

“Give it to me.”

“Harry, keep your eyes on the—”

The wheels caught on the tracks and hopped them, jerking the whole truck to the right. We hit one railroad tie after another in rapid succession, each feeling like it would rip us apart.

“Downshift!” McGlade screamed, while he reached lefty for the hand brake. I fought the ball knob into neutral, then tried to steady the wheel as we slowed down, and finally stalled.

I checked my mirror, and miraculously the trailer was still attached.

“Look.” Harry tore the phone from my hand and pressed something. “There’s the damn menu button. Happy now?”

“I’d be happier if we got moving. We’ve only got—”

A whistle cut me off. It was followed by a familiar ding ding ding sound, coming from the intersection up ahead.

“No way,” Harry said. “No fucking way.”

I squinted into the distance and saw the small black dot of a train.

Chapter 41

4 MINUTES

START THE TRUCK, MCGLADE.”“You think?”

I cursed myself for not telling Jim to also stop all train traffic, but hindsight is always 20/20. Harry stuck his butt in my face and bent under the steering column, fussing with the wires.

“It was brown, right?”

“Yeah, touch the brown to the red.”

“It’s too dark. They’re all brown. Hold on.”

He dug into his pocket—his left one—and removed a set of keys.

“Damn. My key chain light is out.”

“Open the door, McGlade. Get some sunlight in here.”

“This thing had a five- year warranty.”

“McGlade!”

He opened his door and climbed onto the foot stand. I chanced a look at the oncoming train. I’m not a good judge of distance, but I estimated that we had roughly thirty seconds before impact. I had an irrational urge to jump out of the cab and run for it. Or maybe it wasn’t irrational. It was, however, pointless. Frightened as I was, I wouldn’t be able to run a mile in thirty seconds.

I wondered if anything poignant should be playing through my head, about my life or my past or my dreams, but the only thing I could focus on was the fingerprint. If I died, I wanted the Chemist caught. I fumbled with the phone menu until I found the camera selection, and then I held it up to latent, using the WYSIWYG screen to make sure I framed it well.

“I’m touching the wires. Nothing is happening.”

Another train whistle, louder and deeper.

“Are we in second gear?” McGlade asked.

I clicked the picture, then hit menu to access e-mail.

“Jackie! Put it in second!”

I looked up at the train. Real close now. I could see it was Metra—a commuter—probably loaded with people. I grabbed the shifter, but it didn’t move.

“The clutch, McGlade!”

He hit the clutch with his hand, I popped it into second gear, and the truck roared to life. We had maybe ten seconds before the big bang. I heard a painful screeching of the train hitting the brakes, McGlade pulled himself up behind the wheel and revved the engine, and we shifted into first. The truck jerked forward, Harry hit the gas, and he muscled it over the tracks and down the incline, toward the street. The train squealed past.

“No problem,” he said, turning onto St. Louis Drive. “That missed us by at least six seconds.”

I tasted copper. I’d bitten the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.

St. Louis was free of cars, and it was a straight shot to the treatment plant, only a few blocks ahead.

“Your fat partner better be there.”

“He’ll be there.”

I finished typing in Hajek’s e-mail address, which I remembered from the other day, and sent him the fingerprint picture with a note saying Chemist. Then I called Herb. A recording answered.

“The cellular customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try your call again later.”

I tried again. Same result. Third time wasn’t any different. I checked the clock. A little over two minutes left.

Not enough time for us to get away.

If Harry left now, maybe he could find another car to escape the blast in time, or some kind of shelter like a basement.

“You need to get out, McGlade.”

“Get out of what?”

“The truck. I can’t get in touch with Herb. If all the streets are as backed up as Hamlin, he’s not going to be there on time.”

Harry looked at me.

“So we just leave the truck here, in the street?”

“No.” I swallowed. “I’m taking it to the plant by myself.”

“Gotcha. Nice knowing you, Jackie.”

He swung open his door.

Two seconds passed. Five. But he didn’t leap out.

“Dammit, Harry, get the hell out of here.”

I shoved him. He didn’t budge.

“Harry! Go!”

McGlade closed the door.

“Fatso will show up. I can’t stand that guy, but he’ll find a way.”

“What if he doesn’t? Don’t you want to live?”

McGlade drummed his fingers across the top of the steering wheel.

“Remember the end of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? Where they both run out of the building to face the entire Bolivian army, and then the movie freeze-frames because you know they’re both going to die?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Wasn’t that the coolest?”

I understood what he was saying, and found myself getting a little choked up. “It was pretty cool, Harry.”

McGlade turned to me, and winked.

“Last stop just ahead, Butch.”

Harry turned right onto Howard Street, and we faced the sprawling sewage treatment complex. At least half a mile long, and maybe three-quarters of a mile wide, on a big patch of very green land.

We hung a left onto the access road, passing two towering brick buildings connected by a massive black air pipe, which stretched over our heads and into the distance like a monorail. The entrance was surrounded by trees, probably planted there to disguise the community eyesore. They should have planted flowers instead. The smell of sewage and waste overpowered us when we pulled onto Howard, and steadily increased the closer we got. Ripe was a good word. Revolting was even better.

“You think we got it bad?” Harry said. “At least we don’t have to work here.”

“Go left. We’re looking for the aeration tanks.”

“Those round ones?” McGlade pointed to a group of eight settling tanks on our left, each the size of a large swimming pool.

“No. Ahead of us. That big one.”

It looked like a small, filthy lake, except it was a perfect rectangle, and the stuff floating on the surface wasn’t algae.

“What should we do?” Harry asked. “Jump out and let the truck coast in?”

“That’s probably the best way.”

“Should I slow down?”

I noted we were going about twenty miles an hour.

“Why bother? If we hurt ourselves, we won’t feel it for long.”

McGlade aimed the truck for the water, and we both opened our doors.

“If there’s an afterlife,” he said, “you owe me some sex.”

I looked down at how fast the ground was moving, reminded myself that fear didn’t matter at this point, and jumped from the cab at the same time as Harry.

Chapter 42

90 SECONDS

I HIT THE PAYEMENT like a paratrooper, ankles tight together and knees bent. It did nothing to cushion my fall. I skidded across the pavement like a skipping stone and then turned a cartwheel or two onto the grass. When the world stopped spinning, I knew I’d done something bad to my right ankle, and I had a scrape across my left palm that looked like I’d taken a belt sander to it.

I sat up, my head screaming at me. It took me a few seconds to find the goose egg, near my crown, leaking blood. I’d lost my Cubs cap.

Gagging screams to my left. McGlade, pulling himself up out of the aeration tank. He looked like a mud monster, rising from the swamp. He lumbered toward me, spitting out brown water, and as he got closer I noted he had several multicolored things stuck to his body.

“You’ve got a...condom on your shoulder.”

He looked at it, and flicked it off with his claw.

“Yuck. And what the hell is this plastic thing?”

“It’s an applicator.”

“Do I want to know what it applies?”

“Probably not.”

The truck had almost completely sunk. Bubbles were still coming up from the cab, and the impact waves had disturbed the entire pool, sloshing filthy water up onto the land. Mission accomplished. But I was having a hard time feeling any sense of accomplishment. Even dampened by the water and the concrete, the blast would destroy this entire plant. We were as good as dead.

McGlade rubbed some muck off his face and gave me a lecherous grin.

“So...about that sex you owe me.”

I checked my watch. “We’ve only got fifty seconds left.”

“I only need thirty.”

“Sorry, Harry. Not even if you weren’t covered with human waste.”

He pouted.

“Come on, Jackie. I’ve always known you had a little thing for me.”

I started to laugh. “You’re the one with the little thing.”

McGlade started to laugh too. And then we were hugging each other, laughing like fools, and I noticed he was angling me toward the truck, like a shield, which made me laugh even harder.

“You’re such an asshole, McGlade.”

“You love me. Admit it.”

“I admit nothing. I—”

A sound, to the south. Mechanical. Rumbling. Growing louder.

“A he li cop ter.” McGlade shielded his eyes from the sun and peered into the distance. “Son of a bitch.”

“I’ll second that.”

As it came into focus, I saw it was a Chicago police chopper, coming at us fast. Real fast. I looked at my watch. We had fifteen seconds left.

“WE DON’T HAVE TIME TO LAND!”the megaphone boomed, and I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

Herb.

“GRAB THE LADDER! WE CAN ONLY MAKE ONE PASS!”

Harry and I watched as a rescue ladder unfurled below the landing skids. The bird swooped in low, the bottom of the ladder sparking against the pavement. It was coming so quick, it would knock out our teeth, or yank our shoulders from our sockets. I decided I could live with either.

At nine seconds until detonation, the ladder hit us with the force of a car wreck. I’d been aiming to get my arm in between the rungs, and I did it, getting a smack in the chest that knocked the wind out of me and probably broke a few ribs. I was jerked off my feet, and so was Harry. The he li cop ter began a rapid ascent, but it was too fast, too much G force, too much wind re sis tance, and I just couldn’t hold on.

My grip failed, and as I began to fall I wondered what would kill me first, the ground or the explosion.

Chapter 43

4 SECONDS

I DIDN’T FALL. McGlade—stupid, offensive, obnoxious McGlade—wrapped his legs around my waist in a fireman rescue, and I squinted through the rushing air and saw his mechanical hand locked tight onto a ladder rung.

We climbed even faster, the treatment plant getting smaller and smaller until the cloud cover made it disappear. I held on to Harry’s waist, and looped an elbow around the ladder.

And then the world exploded.

It wasn’t a bang. More like a whoomp. Beneath the clouds came a searing flash of light, and then a wall of hot air and detritus, which rocked the whirly- bird like a toy boat in a hurricane. We tilted to the side until the ladder was actually higher than the propeller, back the other way, and into a spiral that once again broke my grip, but not Harry’s. I squeezed my eyes shut, unsure which way was which, only that I was alive for a little while longer and damn grateful for it.

Then the storm passed. The chopper regained control and began a steady descent that took a tremendous amount of strain off of my muscles and joints, making hanging on almost child’s play. We crept down past the clouds, and I looked toward the treatment plant and saw a giant column of smoke where it used to be. But the houses to the west, and the businesses to the south, seemed intact. It was strangely quiet, and I realized the explosion had knocked out my hearing, which for some reason was more peaceful to me than frightening.

We landed on the country club green, though it wasn’t actually green anymore. Sludge and waste and debris was spewed across the golf course, making it look like a dump. It was still coming down from the sky too, a foul black drizzle mixed with smoke and tiny bits of dirt.

When my feet touched land I cried out in pain from five different places at once, but I was in better shape than McGlade. His prosthesis was soaked in blood, which had leaked from where it was attached to his stump, and his shoulder was noticeably dislocated. Eyes closed. No movement at all. But his legs remained locked around my waist.

“Harry!” I yelled, barely able to hear my own voice.

A dozen things flashed through my mind. Had he been hit by some shrapnel? One of the nails from the bomb? Some sort of internal injury? A fast- acting disease from the raw sewage he’d flopped around in?

I gave McGlade a shake, and one eye peeked open.

“Is it over?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Did we live?”

I nodded again.

He smiled. “For a moment there I thought we were in trouble.”

I smiled back. “Nice work, Sundance.”

“You soowe me some sex.”

I disentangled myself from Harry and managed to stand up, albeit painfully. A few yards away, the he li cop ter powered off and a beaten- up Herb hopped out. He hobbled over to us, his face awash with concern.

“Jack! Are you okay?”

He came to me, approaching slowly, and I threw my arms around his shoulders and hugged him.

“Thanks, Herb.”

I felt his strong arms patting my back. “Somebody’s gotta save your ass.”

After the male- bonding, I pulled away and sized him up. Herb didn’t look much better than I did—skinned knees, bleeding head, torn shirt.

“What happened?” I asked.

“A little car trouble. Nothing serious. I was lucky my phone didn’t break; I wouldn’t have been able to call for the chopper.”

I heard a very faint sound. It was music, some heavy metal song from the eighties.

“Speaking of.” Herb pointed. “Your pocket.”

I stuck my hand in and pulled out Harry’s phone, surprised it had survived. I’d have to pick up one of these things.

“Daniels,” I answered.

“Lieutenant? Is that you? It’s Hajek, at the crime lab. Are you the one that sent me the fingerprint from this phone?”

“Yeah. What have you got?”

“I got a trace. It belongs to a postal worker named Carey Schimmel.”

I knew that name.

“He was the guy who delivered the extortion letter to the superintendent’s office, the one covered in BT.”

And it suddenly made sense why the Chemist was so paranoid about leaving prints. Postal workers are government employees, and they get fingerprinted when they’re hired. Schimmel’s prints were on file. I remembered his brief statement, and then wanted to kick myself.

“He said he wore gloves. But there were no other prints on that letter, other than from people at police headquarters. Dammit, how did we miss that?”

Hajek groaned. “It was staring us right in the face. A dozen people in the post office would have touched that letter, left some prints. But none of them did, becaus. Schimmel was the only one who handled it. Did we even check to see if headquarters was on his route?”

“No,” I said, feeling like an ass. “Does he have a record?”

“No, he’s clean. But I’ve got his current address. He lives in Forest Glen.”

That was a Chicago neighborhood on the north side, only a few miles away.

“Call the super. Get a warrant. We’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Hold on, I’m sending you a JPEG of his driver’s license picture.”

I shared the information with Herb, and the chopper pi lot, a woman called Leaky. She radioed base to get coordinates. Next, I approached Harry, who appeared to have successfully snapped his shoulder back into place, but not without consequences. He was moaning, and tears had left some clean trails in the filth on his cheeks.

“Got any morphine on you, Jackie? Or crack?”

“You’ll get some help soon, Harry.”

“Going to drop me off at the hospital?”

“No. You’re staying here.”

“No I’m not.”

“We’ll send an ambulance for you.”

“I’d like that, but I have to come with.” He pointed to his mechanical hand, still locked on to the ladder rung. “It won’t come off.”

Against Herb’s protestations, we helped McGlade into the bird.

“No grab- ass,” Harry warned him.

“I’ll try to restrain myself.”

“No reach- around either, Sir Eats- A-Lot.”

“I did save your life. How about a thank- you?”

“Be honest. The reason you came charging in here so fast is because you thought I had a cruller in my pocket.”

“God, you’re an asshole.”

Once we were airborne, I played with Harry’s phone and managed to access the Internet. After sifting through an extraordinary number of e -mails that involved porn, much of it the chunky booty variety, I found the picture from Hajek. Carey Schimmel was an average- looking white male, thirty- five years old, dark blond hair, and brown eyes. I remembered those eyes. They were the same eyes I saw in Rec ords.

I Googled “Carey Schimmel” and got a hit that referenced a lawsuit from five years ago. An old newspaper article:

SLAIN WOMAN’S BOYFRIEND LASHES OUT

Merle and Felicity Hotham of Cicero settled out of court today in a wrongful death suit brought against the city of Chicago. The Hothams claimed the police department’s late response to a 911 call resulted in their daughter’s death.

Tracey Hotham, 29, died last August at the hands of convicted murderer Marti. Welch, during an attack that lasted over fifty minutes. Hotham reportedly dialed the 911 Emergency number just as Welch entered the Chicago apartment she shared with her fianc é, Carey Schimmel. She was beaten, raped, and strangled in a 53- minute ordeal that ended just before the police arrived.

Sources say the settlement, an undisclosed sum, was well below the two million dollars in damages originally sought. Schimmel was reportedly outraged at the announcement, calling the parents “cowards,” and was removed from the courtroom when he began to chant “the system doesn’t work.”

Welch, sentenced to life for the attack, is currently serving time in Jolie. State Prison.

I shared this with Herb.

“I’d be pissed too,” he said. “But not enough to poison half the city and try to blow up forty thousand people.”

We set down a block away from Schimmel’s house, in an empty public baseball field. I checked my ankle holster, which still held the AMT. Leaky unlocked the he li cop ter’s anti-riot arsenal, and offered Herb a 40mm multi-launcher with ten nonlethal beanbag rounds. The large silver canisters were packed with gunpowder, but instead of a lead bullet or buckshot, the projectile was essentially a small, woven Hacky Sack. It hit with enough velocity to knock down a three-hundred-pound linebacker.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” Herb asked. “You look pretty banged up.”

“I’ll manage. How about you? This is a long way from Robbery.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Herb dropped the final cartridge into the weapon’s cylinder and snapped the breach closed. “You think he’s still in town?”

I thought about the Chemist, hating the police so much that he spent years planning this elaborate revenge scheme.

“I’m sure of it. He needed to hear the boom.”

“How about the warrant?”

“Probable cause. We believe that retired CPD officer Jason Alger is being held inside Schimmel’s residence against his will.”

“That works for me.” Herb grinned. “Partner.”

He helped me out of the chopper, and we went to go pay the Chemist a visit—one he wasn’t expecting, and definitely wouldn’t enjoy.

Chapter 44

THE EXPLOSION IS SPECTACULAR. Standing in his backyard, Carey Schimmel actually feels the ground shake beneath him, and he’s seven miles away. The Chemist has been dreaming about this day, this moment, for so long, and it has finally arrived.

After six years, three months, and fifteen days, he’s finally fulfilled.

He watches the smoke cloud drift upward for several minutes, then goes back into the house and turns on the television to see the devastation up close.

The first reports are sketchy, but he expected that.

“Something has exploded in the village of Skokie. We’ll have more information as reports come in.”

There is much speculation. A gas line? Terrorists? The first cameras on the scene show smoke and wreckage. He micro waves some popcorn and waits expectantly for the video of the slaughter to be broadcast.

CNN has a special report. So does Fox. Channel 5 and channel 9 interrupt the regularly scheduled programming with breaking news. But no one knows anything. He wonders if he should call, help them out. Maybe he’ll do that tomorrow, from the cabana he’s renting in Mexico. Reveal everything about the Chemist, and what Chicago has covered up.

“I got them, Tracey,” he says. “I got them good.”

This is how revenge tastes, and it is delicious.

“Just in, the source of the explosion has been pinpointed to the Northside Wate. Reclamation Plant, on 3500 West Howard Street. So far, there have been no reported casualties.”

The smile freezes on Schimmel’s face. What is this, a cover-up? A government conspiracy?

He watches it, live. There’s the plant, blown up. The debris, scattered all over the street. Is this some kind of old footage, used to spin the truth?

No. These are definitely pictures of Skokie, and it’s happening right now. But how could they have figured it out? How could they have—

There’s a banging on the front door. “Carey Schimmel, this is the Chicago police!”

Schimmel doesn’t think, he acts. He assumes they’re also covering the back door, so he enters the kitchen, climbs onto the sink, opens the window, and crawls out face-first. The money is still in the house, but he isn’t considering the money. Escape is not an option. He means to kill as many cops as he can before they take him down.

He rolls onto the lawn and runs to the greenhouse. To get his jet injector. To make his last stand.

Chapter 45

FREEZE!”Schimmel didn’t freeze, and I didn’t fire; he was ten yards away and moving fast, and with the short-barreled AMT I’d just be wasting bullets. The quick glimpse I caught didn’t reveal if he had any weapons or not.

“Herb! Around back!”

I limped in pursuit. My ankle was swollen from the truck leap, but the pain was minimal compared to my resolve. I wasn’t going to let this guy get away.

He stopped in front of the greenhouse—a large glass structure that took up much of his backyard—and fussed with the door. I closed to within twenty feet and yelled, “Hands in the air!” He didn’t comply, and I fired twice, but he was moving fast and crouching down, and I missed both shots. He was inside his garden of death before I could adjust my aim.

Herb met me at the greenhouse entrance, told me to stand back, and pumped two beanbag rounds through the locked door, shattering the glass. I went in first, my weapon in a two-handed grip, and was enveloped by moist heat.

It was big, bigger than it seemed from the outside. About the size of a small house, with opaque plastic partitions serving as walls. All around me were plants, rows and rows of plants, some of them as high as the glass ceiling. Flowers, in every imaginable color, trees, vines, even a table covered with brownish moss. It smelled fragrant, tropical, and the sweat had already broken out on my brow.

There were plenty of places to hide. The safe thing to do would be to wait for backup. Or maybe burn the entire structure to the ground. The foliage looked harmless, but I knew better. Each lovely bit of flora promised a different, horrible death.

I moved slowly, keeping my elbows tucked in, trying not to touch anything. Herb lumbered in a few steps behind me, and he went left while I stayed right. We would work the perimeter first, moving in opposite concentric circles until we reached the center.

I crept past a bed of striking red flowers, but restrained myself from gathering up a bouquet. Beyond them was a large compost heap, a refrigerator, a workbench, a pallet of stacked brown boxes—

I froze, my feet growing roots.

“Oh, Jesus.”

Those weren’t boxes. They were beehives. And the bees noticed my arrival, several hundred of them swarming out of the box and over to me, to investigate the intruder.

I tried to remember everything I’d ever learned about bees, and I’d learned a lot since almost dying from that sting years ago. They were attracted to sugar, and perfume. They attacked the color black. They attacked when provoked. They hated sudden movements, or loud noises. After a bee stung you, its stinger pulled out and it died, but the stinger continued to pump poison into your body. Bees were attracted to CO2, to your breath. Each year, a hundred people in the Unite. States were killed by bees, mostly because of allergies like mine. Once a bee stung you, it released a pheromone that made other bees sting in the same spot. But all the experts agreed that if you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.

All of these things swirled through my head as the bees buzzed around me. One landed on my bare arm. Another flew into my face, bouncing off my nose. I held my breath, shut my eyes, and tried to stop trembling. I needed to back up, to get out of there, but my feet wouldn’t move. This was so much worse than the cockroaches. This was worse than anything I’d ever encountered. I was too scared to even speak.

Buzzing, so close to my ear that I flinched. Bees on my hands now, on my neck, on my face. Some of them crawling. Some of them content to just stay there and find the best place to sting.

“Afraid of bees, Lieutenant?”

I squinted, saw the Chemist standing next to the hive, about eight feet away from me. He had a jet injector in his hand. I raised my gun.

“If you shoot, they’ll sting you,” he said. “These are very ill-tempered bees. I don’t like keeping them around, but pure honey has quite a lot of botulism spores in it. It’s not the easiest bacteria to culture. Required a lot of trial and error. Years of it, in fact. I’ve been stung dozens of times. Painful. Normally I don’t come in here without my netting on. Why are you so frightened? Are you allergic?”

I was trying to aim at his center mass, but my arms were shaking too badly and I couldn’t steady the gun. I was completely, utterly helpless. A bee landed on my lip and tried to crawl up my nose. I flinched, and almost started to cry.

“Allergic, I bet. You look absolutely terrified. Quite a change from the tough cop on the phone. I tell you what—I’m going to do you a favor.”

He took a slow step toward me, and I felt my knees begin to buckle.

“This is loaded with ricin”—he held up the jet injector—“derived from the castor bean. It will kill you quickly. I can’t promise it will be painless, but it is a much better way to go than anaphylactic shock, gasping for breath.”

Another step closer. Now my knees actually did give out, and I fell onto my butt. The bees didn’t like the sudden movement, and their buzzing became louder.

“What did you do?” the Chemist asked me. He seemed oddly calm. “Did you drive the truck out of the festival, to the plant?”

I nodded, forcing myself to do something. I thought about bravery. I’d been afraid many times before, but never to the point where it had incapacitated me. Even while in the truck, facing certain death, I’d been able to function. Why should a few lousy bees turn me into an invalid?

“Where is the rest of your squad? I only saw the fat guy. Only two of you came for me?”

I said, “More are coming,” and surprised myself by how strong it came out.

“I’d better hurry then. I was thinking this was a final siege, an Alamo. But if it’s only you two, then I can kill you both and get away. Then I can start all over again.”

He raised the jet injector and took another cautious step forward. I brought up the AMT. My hand was no longer shaking. If I died, I died. Once I accepted that, a lot of the fear went away.

Schimmel paused, looking unsure.

“If you shoot me, they’ll sting you.”

“Fair trade,” I said, my teeth clenched.

“Jackie! Duck!”

I looked to my left, and saw McGlade standing a few yards away, holding a semiautomatic in his left hand. He fired six times. Predictably, all six shots missed Schimmel, the bullets burying themselves into the stacked wooden beehive.

The bees weren’t happy. Innately sensing their attacker, they swarmed on Harry.

I rolled backward just as Schimmel sprayed a cloud of ricin at the space I used to occupy. He jumped to the right, then scurried away to the rear of the green house.

I continued to crab-walk backward, to get away from the bees, but they pretty much ignored me, focusing their wrath on McGlade. He ran past me, a cloud of bees around him, and then doubled back and went in the opposite direction, the whole time screaming, “THEY’RE BITING ME! THEY’RE BITING ME!”

A BOOMto my right, and a sharp cry. Beanbag rounds were used to induce what law enforcement officers called “pain compliance.” They weren’t lethal, but they hurt so badly you wished they were. I limped after the sound and saw Schimmel writhing around on the ground, next to a small aquarium. The jet injector lay a few feet away. Herb was standing over him.

“Where’d you hit him?” I asked.

“Stomach. Want me to peg him a few more times?”

“No need. I think he’s been subdued.”

Schimmel moaned, doubling up into the fetal position.

“You got cuffs?” Herb asked.

“No. You?”

“No. There’s probably something back in the chopper. I’ll—”

The Chemist rolled up to his knees and reached for the aquarium beside him, lifting. Before he had a chance to throw it at us, Herb fired another beanbag into his legs.

Schimmel fell, the aquarium crashing down on top of him, dumping water and rocks and brightly colored shells onto his body.

He gasped once.

And then he began to scream.

Chapter 46

IFOUND OUT LATER THAT the brightly colored creatures in that aquarium were called cone snails, and their toxin was among the most poisonous in the animal kingdom.

The snails apparently hadn’t liked their environment being disturbed in such a rough fashion, and moments after landing on Schimmel, they showed their disapproval.

First came screaming. Then convulsions. Then spitting blood.

Carey Schimmel died right before the ambulance arrived, but I think their four-minute response time would have pleased him.

Along with the ambulance, the police arrived in full force. Crime scene units. The SRT. K9 units. I think they came for closure more than anything else, to see the corpse of the man who had caused them so much pain. Though the police dog did sniff out a corpse in Schimmel’s compost heap—one that was quickly ID’ed as retired cop Jason Alger, as evidenced by his missing fingers.

As the paramedics loaded a very puffy-looking Harry McGlade into their truck, I asked them to wait a moment so I could speak to the annoying guy who once again wound up saving the day.

“Nice job, McGlade.”

“Thankth.”

His pronunciation wasn’t too good, because while he was running around screaming, a bee had flown into his mouth and stung his tongue.

“Where’d you get the gun?” I asked him.

“Chopper. Took it from the cockpit when you guys were playing around with the launcher.”

“So your hand wasn’t stuck on the ladder?”

He smiled, looking a lot like a lumpy pumpkin. “I knew you’d need my help.”

I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll speak to the mayor as soon as I get back to the office. I’ll make sure you get your bar.”

He shook his head. “No bar.”

“I thought you wanted a liquor license.”

“I’m not a bar owner,” Harry sputtered. He stared at me, hard. “I’m a private eye.”

I grinned. “What happened to being a poet?”

“I’m that too. Want to hear one?”

“If it’s quick.”

“This one is called ‘Grandma.’ Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

“My grandma wears a diaper. I really hate to wipe her.”

He waited for my reaction. “Stick to private investigation,” I told him, then went off to find Herb. He was just getting off the phone with his wife.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked.

“Starting tomorrow, I’m back in Homicide. Bernice said it would be selfish of me to waste all of this talent i. Robbery.”

We embraced. It felt good.

“Welcome back.”

“She also said there were zero casualties. The plant and the water absorbed most of the blast. The mayor of Skokie is giving her, me, you, and that idiot McGlade keys to the city.”

“I’d settle for a new purse. Mine blew up in that truck.”

“It could have been a lot worse.”

“Are you kidding? That purse was a Gucci.”

Herb offered to share a cab back to Skokie, to pick up our cars, but I couldn’t pick up my car without my car keys, which were in my purse. Along with all of my cash and credit cards.

“Can you even get in your house?” Herb asked.

“No.”

“You want to stay with us tonight, until you get everything worked out?”

I looked past Herb to Special Agent Rick Reilly, who was headed in our direction.

“No need,” I said. “I know someone who won’t mind giving me a ride and putting me up for the night.”

“You sure?” Herb asked.

I thought about it. Thought about it really hard.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”

“Okay. I’ll see you soon, partner.”

“Bye, Herb.”

He waddled off, and I waited for Rick to approach.

Chapter 47

THANKS FOR CALLING ME. I know we didn’t part on exactly the best of terms.”

The Eisenhower Expressway was packed as usual, even on a Sunday. But rather than frustrate me, the stop-and-go traffic had a rhythm to it that was kind of soothing.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I told him. “I just needed a ride and a place to sleep.”

“I understand.”

We were silent for a while.

“Are you hurt?”

“A little. Twisted my ankle, got a bump on the head.”

He took his right hand off the steering wheel and went to touch my head. I flinched away from it.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s...too soon. We need to take this slow. I’m not even sure if this is the right thing to do.” I laughed humorlessly. “Mom is going to hate me.”

Wilbur smiled. “Your mother is a tough cookie, but she could never hate you.”

“She sure hates you.”

“Staying would have been bad for her. She wasn’t getting the love she deserved, and I was holding her back.”

“How do you mean?”

“She always wanted to be a police officer. Talked about it when we were dating. But when we got married, she dropped the subject. Married women don’t have careers, she said. I’m a wife and a mother now.When I left, I offered to support both of you. Your mother took child support, but she wouldn’t take alimony. Proud woman. Strong. Like you.”

“Wilbur, I’m really not comfortable with you talking about me like you know me. How do you know I’m strong?”

“I know.”

I turned away from him, closed my eyes until we arrived at his house. I thought about Rick, about his final attempt at the Schimmel residence to make a play for me, and how empty it felt. Then I thought about Latham, about the opportunity I’d blown by not immediately saying yes to his proposal, and if there was anythin. I could do to make it up to him.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew the car door was opening. Wilbur held the door, grinning foolishly.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. I didn’t want to seem grateful.

“It’s a pleasure. Are you hungry?”

“No. Just tired.”

“I have an extra bedroom. It hasn’t been used in a while, but I have some clean linen in the closet.”

I restrained myself from saying thank you, and followed Wilbur into his house.

“It’s the last door at the end of the hall. Let me get you some fresh sheets.”

I frankly didn’t care if the sheets were fresh or soiled, as long as they weren’t covered with bees. I was so tired I could sleep on anything. But when I entered the room and flipped on the switch, all of my exhaustion disappeared.

There were three large picture frames on the wall, each containing dozens of photographs in individual borders. And I was the subject of every picture.

The first frame was all from my youth. Baby pictures. School pictures. I’d seen most of them before, in my mother’s photo albums.

But the second frame contained entirely new pictures. New to me, at least. They were from my teenage years. I wasn’t posing for any of these; they’d been taken from the side, from behind things like cars or trees, or from a distance using a long lens. There were a few closer, clearer shots; pictures of me at my high school graduation, college graduation, police academy graduation, shaking the mayor’s hand.

In the third frame, my wedding. My eyes welled up. I had no wedding pictures, and to see me in my wedding dress was an unbelievable gift. It was a little blurry, as if taken in a rush, but I touched the glass and a sob escaped my throat. Next to it, me walking down the aisle, with Mom. Exchanging rings wit. Alan. Even one of us kissing.

“Oh, my. I’m sorry, Jacqueline. I should have told you about those.”

I looked at Wilbur, standing in the doorway with some folded sheets. “You were...at my wedding?”

“I had to stay in the background. I didn’t want your mother to see me. Jacqueline, I don’t want you to think that I’m some kind of crazy stalker—”

“And at my graduations?”

“Yes. I didn’t mean any harm. I was so proud of you and—”

I opened up my arms and held him, held him so tight, I thought I might break him.

“You actually do care, don’t you?”

“Of course I care. You’re my daughter. I never stopped loving you.”

I sniffled, rubbed my eyes, regained a little composure.

“I missed you at my wedding.”

“I was there. Hiding in the shadows.”

“I missed dancing with you. I remember thinking, at the reception, that there was no father-daughter dance, and it made me sad.”

Wilbur said, “Hold that thought,” and then turned on the clock radio next to the dresser. An oldies station came on, a classic Sinatra tune. Wilbur bowed.

“May I have this dance?”

I giggled, suddenly feeling like a little girl again. “I think I can squeeze you in.”

He was a better dancer than I was, and after a few failed attempts at spins, we settled for holding each other and moving in small circles.

“You know,” I said, “I’m seeing someone else now.”

“Who?”

“His name is Latham.”

“The accountant? The one from the Gingerbread Man case?”

I held him at arm’s length.

“How do you know about that?”

“Want to see my scrapbooks with all of your press clippings?”

I laughed, hugging him again.

“Maybe later, Dad.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I said, putting my head on his shoulder. “Later, for sure.”

Epilogue

Three Weeks Later

I WATCHED LATHAM FROM BEHIND. He was standing between a set of parallel bars, his effervescent physical therapist urging him to take another step. He did, followed by another, and another, until he reached the end of the bars and had to turn around. I walked up behind him and kissed his cheek.

“Hi, honey.”

“Are you here to save me, Jack? It’s like a prison camp. Terrible food, unbearable torture.”

“Can I borrow him for a minute, Julie?” I asked the therapist.

“Just for a minute. Then we have to do our sets.”

Latham rolled his eyes in mock horror. “God, I hate sets. Carry me out of here, Jack. I don’t need to walk anymore. Walking is overrated.”

“Latham, I need to be serious for a moment. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

I breathed deep, let it out slow.

“I know we said we weren’t going to talk about engagements and marriage until you’re a hundred percent again. But that’s not working for me.”

Latham stared at me so deeply I felt he could read my thoughts.

“What are you saying, Jack?”

I clapped my hands once, and the mariachi trio entered, filling the hospital gym with music. Latham grinned at me when I got down on one knee. I was much more ner vous than I thought I’d be.

“Latham Conger, I care about you more than any man I’ve ever met, and I don’t want to wait to be engaged because every minute we’re not together is a minute I’m dying inside.”

“Really? Dying inside?”

I took his hand and tugged the ring out of my pocket. A gold band with a single diamond set inside. I was scared, but if I could handle bees crawling all over me, I could handle anything.

“Will you—”

“Wrong hand, Jack.”

I grabbed his other hand.

“Will you—”

“Wow, that’s a nice ring.”

“Latham Conger,” I said, loudly so he wouldn’t interrupt me again, “will you marry me?”

He smiled at me, and my heart melted.

“Yes. I will.”

Acknowledgments

FOR MY THIRD JACK DANIELS THRILLER, RUSTY NAIL, I was on tour for more than three months. I visited over six hundred bookstores in twenty-seven states, and drove 13,500 miles. While touring, I met more than eleven hundred wonderful booksellers, and promised I would thank them in the ac knowledgments of this book. After all, you do all the work!

If your name was accidentally omitted or misspelled (it’s not my fault, I swear!), e-mail me through my website, www.JAKonrath.com, and we’ll fix it for future editions of Dirty Martini.

Thank you so very much for all of your help. Without you, I wouldn’t be where I’m at today. Booksellers rock!

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Fenning, Rebeca Ferreira, Cindy Ferris, Dwayne Fields, Robert Figel, William Fike, Dick File, Marylin Filipowicz, Charlene Fink, Jill Fische, Marilyn Fisher, Sarah Fisher, Nancy Fitzgerald, Kate Fitzgerald-Lewis, Nancy Flanagan, David Fletcher, Kim Fletcher, Cheri Flood, Gabrie. Flores, Jane Flowers, Kathy Forbes, Jessica Ford, Nancy Foust, David Fox, Christina Foxley, Cathy Frashuer, Zack Frederick, Becky Freed, Maria Frick, Al Friscia, Alfonso Friscia, Barb Frivance, Joyce Frommer, Branden Frost, Tary. Fry, Pam Fullord, Bill Fulton, G.K., J.W. Gaberdiel, Paul Gagne, Wendy Gale, Deb Galloway, Mary Ellen Gan, Geoff Gannon, Daniel Garcia, Emily Gardner, Gar. Garletts Jr., Charlie Garnet, Natalie Garofalo, Mary Garst, Vivian Gatti, Ashley Gaus, Laurel Gauthier, Sarah Gay, Cheryle Wasson Geeding, Josh Gerding, Alicia Giacin, Joy Gibson, Sarah Gielhoff, Nora Gilchrist, Doc Gillespie, Jo. Gingery, Wgwen Ginocchio, Meredith Giordan, Tamryn Glaser, Paula Glass, Melani. Glemser, Larry Glock, Molly Glock, Kevin Gocoran, Paul Goebel, Mike Goehrig, Norman Goldman, Evelynn Goldner, Irma Gomez, Kathy Goodkin, Mario Goodson, Cindi Gordon, Nancy Gottardi, Jonathan Grabis, John Grady, Chris Graham, Susa. Gramea, Adam Gramty, Cyndi Grant, Rich Grant, April Graves, Julie Gray, Bo. Green, James Green, Selene Green, Jason Greene, Justin Greene, Francisc. Gregory, Steve Gresson, James Griffin, Sean Grimes, Leo Grody, Molly Groome, Dustin Gruss, Sandy Gruszynski, Carole Guerra, Rae Guerrieri, Brannon Gullatt, Elizabeth Gunn, Richard Gurley, Barb Gurtor, Susan Gusho, Eduardo Gutierrez, Anne H., Lisa Hailes, Mary Haina, Anne Hall, Denis Haly, Barbara Hames, Loui. Hanemaun, Tonya Hanigan, Michael Hargett, Emily Harkins, Michael Harkins, Pau. Harkins, Scott Harkins, Kim Harmon, Betty Harrigan, Liz Harrington, Charit. Harris, Cheryl Harris, J. Scooter Harris, Jackie Harris, Kim Harris, Wood. Harris, Doug Hart, Jennifer Hart, Danielle Hartle, Phil Hartman, Linda Hartung, Bob Haslett, Brandi Hasting, Kim Hatcher, Michael Hatton, Jessie Hausmann, Janice Hawkins, Chelly Haycraft, Tim Hayes, Stephanie Hazeelrig, Janice Hecht, Stuart Hecht, Jason Heflin, Christina Heid, Maryann Heide, Knut Heimer, Jo. Helfand, Judy Helie, Maria Helms, Barbara Henderson, Clyde M. Hennessey, Mar. Hennessey, Ann Hennessy, Jennifer Henry, Samantha Hepburn, Fred Herbst, Glori. Hernon, Michele Herrmann, Tina Hessen, Kay Hessman, Linda Hetz, Tavi. Highsmith, Lisa Hilgenberg, Andrew Hill, Susan Hillman, Carmaletta Hilton, Daniel Ho, Jonathan Hobgood, Dan Hochman, Riett Hoffmann, Jennifer Hogge, Anni. Holden, Carol Holko, Pat Holland, Kat Horace, Jay Horgan, Melissa Horn, Kati. Hosie, Ralph Houch, Ralph Houck, Beth-Ann House, Melissa Hovis, Bruce Howard, Michael Howard, Jim Huang, Bonnie Hudson, Lindsay Huff, Mary Hugger, Ashley Hughes, Marie Hughes, Beverly Humphrey, Eddi. Humphrey, Hugo Huns, Daniel Hunt, Sarah Iddings, Toni Imhoet, Edie Indrisk, Mike Infonte, Mike Jackman, Carolyn Jackson, Jacquelyn Jackson, C. Aime. Jacobs, Marla Jacobson, Bill Jankowski, Julie Jawor, Jason Jefferies, Steve. Jensen, Brittany Jobe, Gordon Jochem, Paul Johnsen, Andrea Johnson, Bronwy. Johnson, Diane Johnson, Edie Johnson, George T. Johnson, John Johnson, Kare. Johnson, Kim Johnson, Rozanne Johnson, Sean Johnson, Toni Johnson, Rober. Johnstone, Bev Jones, Cheryl A. Jones, Jessica R. Jones, Kee Jones, Michel. Jones, Sheena Jones, Sue Jones, Jeanie Joran, Alise Jordan, Chris Jordan, Jeffrey Joseph, John Jowle, Benjamin Juares, Steve Jurczyk, Kelly Justice, Jef. Kalina, Shannon Kane, Mitchell Kaplan, Ty Karnitz, Richard Katz, George Henr. Keen, Linda Keller, Robyn Kellison, Jennifer Kelly, Jodi Kelly, Jacki Kendall, Craig Kennedy, Stormy Lee Kennedy, Lucelle Kenny, Alex Kerr, Kenya Kidder, Joe Kill, Mike Kilroyne, Christine King, Barbara A. Kiser, Paul R. Klein, Karen Knopp, James Knowles, Kim Knowlton, Jennifer Knox, Pam Knudtzon, Connie Kocian, Crissy Kokes, Brent Koontz, The. Kotroba, Barb Kovacs, Pam S. Kowalski, Greg Kozatek, Kelly Kramer, Lynn Kramer, Emily Krasner, Asya Krasteva, Roger Krause, Roberta Krinsky, Linda Krumrai, Vicky Kugler, Kitty Kunkel, Kim Laime, Kathy Lajoie, Lianne Lajoie, Cath. Lakin, Heather Lamothe, Paul Landry, Phillip Landry, Maria Landsberg, Hele. Langelier, Rebecca Langley, Sue Lanham, Matt Lappa, Ananne Lara, Michell. LaRose, Emma Larson, Dee Laskoars, Rebecca Lasky, Michele Lauber, Lis. Lauerman, Tim Lause, Rand Laverty, Jennifer Lavuie, Vicki Lawrence, Clar. Lazarek, J. Lea, Laura Lee, Brianna Leech, Ms. Kirby Vi Leeds, Amanda Lemco, Tracy Lemmo, Charlie Lemoine, Ki. Leonard, Jesse Levi, Beth Lewis, Kristyn Lier, Keller Lindsay, Ron Lindsey, Michale Link, Sue Little, Laura Loeb, Jeri Loebach, Juli Loker, Joni London, Don Longmuir, Jenn Longmuir, Teresa Lopez, Robin Lubnow, Jamie Lucas, Ji. Lucas, Richard Lum, Robert Luna, Kimberly Luthin, Patricia Lynch, Jef. Macanovich, Kevin Macey, Scott Machennan, Andrew Mack, Daniel J. Madison, To. Madden, Jaret M. Maloney, Steve Maloney, Joedan Maltin, Darlene Manchester, Yolanda Mangham, Blake Mann, Michael Marino, Kay Marlin, Lauren Marques, Brend. Marrujo, Tony Marshall, Ashley Martin, Cassandra Martin, Miranda Martin, Jaso. Martinek, Celia Martiniez, Joseph Masella, Heather Massie, Tammy Mathews, Stev. Matson, Drew Matthews, Michael Mattox, Lisa Maye, Matt Maye, Emily Mayer, Melanie Maynard, Greg Mayyou, Nicole Mazzone, Mike McBride, Billy McCall, Gar. McCammon, Kermit McCarther, Alice McConekey, Ollie McCullom, Audrey McCune, Debbie McDonald, Kelly McElligott, Ruth McElwain, Vicki McFiggen, Fran McGeever, Bill McGhee, Brenda McGhee, Kathie McGrath, Erin McGuire, Venus McKinley, Lisa McKown, Sara. McLaughlin, Theresa McNaughton, Tracy McPeck, Julie McPhail, Brian McTague, Ro. Mellen, Gail Meno, Andi Mercier, Joy Merdan, Mary Metz, Kari Meutsch, Jen. Meyer, Sue Michael, Debbie Miksch, Georgia Milionis, Barb Miller, Joann. Miller, Judy Miller, Sheila Miller, Philip Millies, Jason Milligan, Elish. Minsal, Rich Mirabelle, Jennifer Miron, Carolyn Mitchell, Jo Ellen Mitchell, Katricia Mitchell, Matt Mitchell, Raymond Mixon, Christopher Mize, Derek Moady, Maggie Moeller, Kelly Molloy, Laura Monegan, Chatham Monk, Fabian Montano, Renee Montgomery, Nancy Moore, Loana Morales, Laura Morefield, Teresa Moreno, John Mori, Karen Morin, Angela Morris, Cori Morrison, Bria. Morrissey, Jim Morton, Theresa Mowry, Ian Moyer, Matthew Moyer, Sean Mulligan, Mary Murch, Elizabeth Murphy, Ann Murray, Heather Musilca, Dave Musto, Matthe. Nace, Sandy Nagle, Irene Natoli, Margo Naus, Andrew Neci, Cindy Needham, Justi. Neese, Anne Nelson, David Nelson, Lance Nelson, Stacy Nelson, Danielle Neuffer, Alison Newman, Amani Newton, Tracy Nicholas, Kimberly Nicholson, Mike Nieken, Mary Ann Nilsson, Jessica Norton, Susan Novtny, Marni Ockene, Tory O’Connor, Jen Odon, Dienne Ogletree, Amber O’Kelly, Carolyn Oliver, Gunda Olsen, Jessica O’Malley, Matt O’Neill, Scott Orman, Jose Ornelas, Jessie Oulahan, Rusty Page, Alyssa Paglione, Kendrah Palk, Traci Paquin, Doreen Parish, Stephen Parisi, Arlene Parker, Melissa Parks, Jenn Pasquinelli, Bill Payton, Constance Pearce, Toi Pearson, Ryan Peel, Angelina Perdomo, Michael Perkins, Rich Perrin, Paul Pessolano, Barbara Peters, Mike Pettier, Charlotte Philips, Emily Phillinger, Cind. Phillips, Jennifer Phillips, Tess Phillips, Jane Pickering, Mike Pieczynski, David Pildner, Heather Planert, Charlie Podell, Tom Polakowski, Kath. Policicchio, Heather Polk, Michael Pollard, Kerri Pomfret, Taura Pool, Paig. Poores, Jodi Pope, Josh Pope, Mark Porter, Sherry Potter, Damien Power, Carol. Pozmanter, Brian Prater, Shawna Prested, Dan Preston, Mary Prfhoda, Adam Price, Margaret Price, Vivian Priest, Dawn Prudenti, Jeff Putnam, Wink Qursgard, Jos. Rachlin, April Rager, Jenna Raich, Rosemary Rambo, Keith Ranalli, Tamm. Randolph, Bill Rankin, Bob Rathbun, April Ray, Sara Rebennack, Jean Recapet, Cindy Reid, Kristin Reis, Debbie Repass, Kathy Rettinger, Jimmy Rholerson, Ric. J. Rhymbant Jr., Jody Rice Kirby, Leah Richey, Johnathan Richez, Clinto. Rickards, MK Riddell, Kathie Riddle, Amber Ridinger, Sherri Riffel, Heather M. Riley, Christine Rillo, Crystal Rinehart, Margie Ringel, Richard Rivellese, Sherise Rivera, Terry Robare, Amy Deming Robb, Stanley Roberson, Darcy Roberts, Him Robins, Jacob Robinson, Roger Rodriguez, Linda Roe, Linda Roebuck, James M. Roemele, Charli Rogers, Kath. Rogers, Jessica Roland, LeAnne Rollins, Michelle Romano, Jennifer Romesburg, Patricia Rooney, Michael Rosczak, Michelle Rose, Theresa Rosinski, Chad Rouch, Jayne Rowsam, Alexis Roy, Catherin. Rozmarynowycz, Harley Ruda, Bob Rudman, Jessica Russler, Louis Russo, Bob Ryan, Christopher Ryan, Mart Sadler, Sage, Melinda Salonga, Patricia Sanders, Carri. Sasville, Cale Satterlee, Natalie Sawyer, Dolores Scanio, Christina Scatchell, Erin Schaeffer, Alisa Schnaars, Fred Schodey, Fred Schooley, Marya Schrier, Brian Schropp, Carol Schubert, Joseph Schutz, Eric Schwendeman, Phil Scopa, George Scott, Robin Scott, Joyce Sebek, Bob Seibel, Brad T. Seibel, Larr. Seigel, Jane Selavka, Angelica Serrano, Pete Sesko, Susan Sewell, Jerem. Seybert, Sara Shaffer, Glori Shanda, Sharron Shannon, Razra Shariff, Jonatha. Shaver, Kelly Shaw, Rachel Shaw, Peter Sherman, Patrick Shingleton, Penn. Shipley, Jim Shoaf, Kim Shoop, Sally Shrago, Kim Shriver, John Shurtleff, Christine Siegrist, Matt Silver, Jason Simon, Jessic Simon, Tina Simone, Caro. Simpson, Joanne Sinchuk, Marcy Singer, Bob Siwiecki, Marggie Skinner, Gre. Skipworth, Paul Skotarski, Anne Smiley, Adam N. Smith, Alisha Smith “Amarie,” Edward Smith, Karen Smith, Kathy Smith, Kimber Smith, Marlin Smith, Matthew Do. Smith, Melissa Smith, Peggy Smith, Robert T. Smith, Sandra Smith, Stephani. Smith, Terri Smith, Ruth Smyrl, Elaine Smyser, Julie Snow, Karenne Snow, Mario. Sokolowski, Carlos Solorzano, Robert Sommerville, Sarah Sonnett, Adlinmari. Soto, Kendra Soule, Jamey Sovey, Eric Sroka, Grag Stahl, Mike Stancombe, Michael Staples, Pamela Starkovich, Frank Staseik, Eileen Stauffer, Mega. Steele, Chad Stegmiller, Ulrike Steiert, Brian Stepanic, Paul Sternburgh, Catherine Stevens, Jodie Stevenson, Paula Stewart, Ellen Stewert, Kathlee. Stilwell, Jennifer Stone, Andrea Storiale, Brenda Strong, Jim Stroup, Mik. Stuart, Stephanie Suer, Irene Sullivan, Mike Sumser, Greg Swanson, Meliss. Swart, Patti Swift, Stephanie Swisher, Shelle Takacs, Angela Tarbett, Mar. Tatz, Kelly Taylor, Lelia Taylor, Moe Taylor, Susan M. Taylor, Derek Teixeira, Patts Templeton, Lee Anne Test, Melissa Theel, Joanna Thomas, Kate Thomas, Shumara Thomas, Ryan Thomley, Evelyn Thompson, Bonnie Jeanne Tibbetts, Ann. Tingo, Andrew Todd, Chris Tokar, Anne Tokos, Christina Tomaselli, Lorenz Tomassi, Jennifer Tomczak-Moore, Shalor Toncray, Brian Torbert, Jessica Torres, Rich Torres, Jani. Torzillo, Amanda Toth, Tina Trevaskis, Erie Trevina, Tom Trotter, Monic. Tsuneishi, Freeman Turley, Tegan Twedt, Jeannie Tyler, Kurt Van Buren, Pat Va. Deusen, Fred Van Patten, Jan Van Skiver, Karen Vanan, Doug VanderSys, Pat Vann, Daniele “Danni” Vargas, Ann Varwig, Isabel Vasallo, Kimberly Vater, Kristrin Vates, Jessic. Vera, Tracie Vettel, Linda Vetter, Vince Vieceli, Christina Villa, Caro. Villaverde, Steven Viola, Margia Wagner, Sue Wakeman, Brian Walker, Katherin. Wall, Karen Wallace, Harold Waller, Brandon Walsh, Lisa Walston, Abby Walters, Drew Watson, Hazel Watson, George Way, Susan Weaver, Cari Webb, Joolee Webb, Matthew Weeks, Brad Wees, Darlene Weir, Jeff Welch, Debbie Wells, Kriste. Wells, Matt Welsh, Eleanor Wenger, Beth Wentworth, Bill West, Sue Westmeyer, Amy Wheeler, Barbara Whetstone, Ann White, Ron White, Dale Whitham, Bra. Whitmire, Alan Whitson, Megan Whitt, William Wildly, Denise K. Williams, Jo. Williams, Kelly Williams, Kim Williams, Sandra Williams, Tabbetha Williams, Rhonda Williams-Snell, Matt Wilson, Meredith Wilson, Jeannette Wilson-Bell, Jason Wingate, Pat Winter, Hal Wishman, Flo Witalka, Chris Wolak, Ja. Wolferman, Kathi Wolff, Debbie Wood, Rob Wood, Rushton Woodside, Wendy Worth, Mary Wright, Nancy Bass Wyden, Pat Wynn, John Yezzi, Corryn Young, Rosemar. Young, Ted Zabawski, Sherry Zabikow, Yassar Zacks, Elisabeth Zak, Scot Zellman, Paul Ziebarth, Dan Zimmeran, Gina Ziria, and Henry Zook.

There were also many folks who helped me out by inviting me into their homes, helping me tour their cities, or buying me food.

Huge thanks to the following:

Paul Abruzzi, Tasha Alexander, Wayne Thomas Batson, Bill Blume, John Bodnar, James O. Born, Stacey Cochran, Jim Coursey, Linda Darter, Charlie Davidson, Karen Dionne, Rebecca Drake, Moni Draper, Jane Dystel, Barry Eisler, Davi. Ellis, JT Ellison, Miriam Goderich, Lynne Hansen, Sean Hicks, Adam Hurtubise, Bill Johnson, Cynthia Johnson, Elizabeth Krecker, Rhonda Lukac, Steve Lukac, Terrie Moran, Bob Morris, Karen E. Olsen, Barbara Parker, PJ Parrish, MJ Rose, Tom Schreck, Steve Schwinder, Jason Sizemore, Alexandra Sokoloff, Jef. Strand, M.G. Tarquini, Robert W. Walker, Leslie Wells, James R. Winter, Beck. Zander, and Rick Zander.

And also, big thanks to the fans. Without you, Jack and I wouldn’t have this incredible career. You folks are the best!

ALSO BY J. A. KONRATH

Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail

Praise for
Dirty Martini

“In Dirty Martini, Jacqueline ‘Jack’ Daniels is back, this time fighting a devious criminal who terrifies the entire city of Chicago...Konrath’s latest should be taken straight, no chaser needed.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Mix Konrath’s witty repartee with edge-of-the-chair suspense, over-the-top killing devices, and action that never takes a breather, and you have Konrath’s latest white-knuckle thriller. Not to be missed.”

—Library Journal

“Like Jeffrey Deaver, Konrath ratchets up the suspense until readers don’t dare stop flipping the pages; the characters are sharply drawn; and the dialogue sounds like real (though funny) people talking...Konrath clearly understands the importance of creating a believable, interesting villain.”

—Booklist

“It’s difficult as hell to balance wit with suspense and horrific violence with humor, but J.A. Konrath manages the feat deftly in his ‘Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels’ series of thrillers. Jack is a smart, sexy copy with a rocky personal life and a career that pits her strength and skill against the worst kind of evil—and she not only triumphs, but does so with humor and style. Spend some time with Jack and the people in her life; I can promise you, you won’t regret it.”

—Kay Hooper,
author of Blood Dreams

“A phenomenal thriller that never disappoints.”

—Lloyd Woodall,
Borders Group, Inc., Ann Arbor, Michigan

“J.A. Konrath has done it again. I’ve read every book, and I still want more.”

—Norman Goldman,
Barnes & Noble, Encino, California

“Dirty Martini changed my life. I don’t buy food or drinks any more, and I haven’t left my house in months. A scary, fantastic book.”

—Greg Swanson,
Waldenbooks, Peru, Illinois

“Filled with suspense, action, and comedy, and will leave you laughing out loud.”

—Paul Pessolano,
Borders, Snellville, Georgia

“I have never enjoyed a book more—it had me laughing so hard I was crying.”

—Jim Munchel,
Borders Express, Camp Hill, Pennsylvania

“J.A. Konrath’s best one yet.”

—Heather M. Riley, Borders,
Rockford, Illinois

“Jack is smart, tough, and totally believable. Dirty Martini goes down smooth.”

—Dave Biemann, Mystery One,
Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Praise for
Rusty Nail

“Tougher than Kay Scarpetta, smarter than Stephanie Plum, Jacqueline Daniels rocks.”

—Alex Kava,
author of A Necessary Evil

“A heady mixture of chills and chuckles. You’ll drain this libation in a single sitting!”

—Julia Spencer-Fleming,
author of To Darkness and to Death

“Finely honed characters and a plot blessed with more twists than a drunk on a bender, J.A. Konrath has stirred up another addictive suspense novel that will leave readers salivating for more—and more.”

—Gayle Lynds,
author of The Coil

“Rusty Nail is twisted and violent, creepy and clever, fast, frightening, and funny. This is not your Granny’s thriller.”

—Anne Frasier,
author of Before I Wake

Praise for
J.A. Konrath’s previous novels

“Excellent smart-mouth thrills...my advice: Take a long sip.”

—Lee Child,
author of One Shot

“Snappy dialogue. Powerful action. A fabulous character to spend time with.”

—David Morrell,
author of Creepers

“Tough, gritty, and surprisingly touching.”

—M.J. Rose,
author of The Delilah Complex

“Violent thrills...engaging characters, true guffaws, and tighly knit subplots.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Konrath creates the perfect blend of pulse-pounding thrills and side-splitting humor.”

—David Ellis,
author of In the Company of Liars

If you loved

DIRTY MARTINI,

be sure to catch

FUZZY NAVEL,

J. A. Konrath’s latest

Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery,

coming in July 2008 from Hyperion.

An Excerpt, chapters 1 and 2, follows.

4:38 P.M.
KORK

IT’S QUIET IN THE SUBURBS. The only sound is from the cab that has dropped me off, making a U-turn at the dead end, then heading back down the quiet, winding road. Its taillights quickly disappear, swallowed up by the multitude of trees.

I walk up the driveway and look at the house. It’s a ranch, laid out in the shape of an L, occupying half an acre of green lawn speckled with fallen leaves. There’s a double-car garage, the door closed. I see Mom through the front bay window. She’s sitting in a rocking chair and reading a book—how much more stereotypical elderly can you get? I check the front door, and as expected it is locked.

I walk around the side of the house, running my hand along the brown brick, passing windows that should probably be washed. This is a big departure from the Chicago apartment. A lot more space. A lot more privacy. I’ve discovered that privacy is important. No neighbors for more than a quarter mile is a good thing. With all of the tree coverage, it’s like being in the middle of the woods, rather than only five miles away from O’Hare Airport.

I stop at the back porch—a slab of concrete with the obligatory lawn chairs, a wrought iron sun table, and a veranda—and I close my eyes, breathing in the cool autumn air. Somewhere, someone is burning leaves. I haven’t smelled that since my youth. I fill my lungs with the scent and smile. It smells like freedom.

The sliding glass patio door is open, and I decide to give Mom a lecture about that. Just because the suburbs are safer than the city doesn’t mean that all of the doors shouldn’t be locked.

I walk into the kitchen, catch the odor of home cooking. A pot is on the stove. I check the contents. Stew. I pick up the spoon, give it a stir, take a little bite of potato. Delicious.

Mom yells, “Jacqueline?”

I consider answering her, but decide a surprise is in order instead. I take out my gun and tiptoe into the hallway.

“Jacqueline? Is that you?”

I look left, then right, scanning for the psychotic cat that lives here. He isn’t around.

“Jacqueline, you’re frightening me.”

That’s the point, Mom.

I peek around the corner and see that Mom is standing up. She’s in her seventies, short hair more gray than brown, her back bent with age. She’s wearing a housedress, something plaid and shapeless. Mom’s eyes dart this way and that way. They settle on me, and she gasps.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“Did I scare you? You shouldn’t leave the back door open, Mom. God only knows what kind of weirdos can get in.”

Mom’s chest flutters, and she says in a small voice, “I know who you are. My daughter told me all about you.”

She reaches for the phone, but I’m on her in three steps, giving her a firm slap across her wrinkled face.

“I’m going to ask you this one time, and one time only. And then I’m going to start hurting you.”

I smile, knowing how it makes the scar tissue covering most of my face turn bright pink, knowing how horrifying it looks.

“Where’s Jack?”

4:57 P.M.
MUNCHEL

THE TARGET IS two hundred and eighty-three yards away. James Michael Munchel knows all about mil dots, and how to calculate distance with the reticle, but he’s using a laser measuring unit instead. This isn’t cheating. A sniper can and should use every bit of technology available to him in the field, whether he’s on a roof in Dhi Qar, Iraq, or crouching behind some shrubs in the Chicago neighborhood of Ravenswood.

Munchel is sitting on the lawn, legs crossed, the tip of his Unique Alpine TPG-1 rifle peeking out through the leafy green dogwood. He arrived here two hours ago, but had selected this spot three weeks earlier. The house is unoccupied, and Munchel has pulled the For Sale sign out of the lawn and set it facedown. Realtors probably won’t stop by this late. If one does . . . well, too bad for her.

Munchel is wearing a camouflage jacket, leggings, and black steel-toed boots he bought at the army/navy surplus store on Lincoln Avenue. He can’t be seen from the sidewalk fifteen feet away. Munchel knows this for a fact, because he’s done several dry runs prior to today. He’s practically invisible, even if someone is staring right at him.

To avoid arousing suspicion, Munchel didn’t walk here in full camo. He came in street clothes—jeans and a blue shirt—and awkwardly changed while crouching behind the dogwood, putting his civvies in the black two-wheeled suitcase he towed along.

Munchel scratches his stubble, then peers through the Leupold scope, which has been zeroed out at two hundred yards. The crosshair is slightly above and to the right of the target’s head, to adjust for the wind and the bullet drop. He’ll never admit it, but he doesn’t understand how to determine MOA—minute-of-angle. He can fake it online, while posting on the sniper message boards, but he doesn’t really know how to calculate the actual degrees. In the forest preserve near his house, Munchel can hit a target from five hundred yards and keep the grouping within a four-inch radius. Who cares what the MOA is? It’s good shooting no matter how you calculate it.

The target has his back to Munchel. He’s in his living room, on the first floor of the two-flat, sitting at the computer. Just like he is every day at this time.

Predictability is a killer.

The blinds hanging in the large, three-section bay window are open, and Munchel can see straight down the hallway, all the way to the back of the house. He nudges the rifle slightly, to check what the target is surfing.

Pornography. Some weird shit with chicks wearing rubber aprons and wielding whips.

Freak, Munchel thinks. Deserves everything he’s about to get.

Munchel glances at his watch, a Luminox 3007, the same kind that Navy SEALs use. Less than a minute left. Munchel’s hands start to shake, and he realizes he’s breathing heavy. Not from fear. From excitement. All the training, all the planning, it all comes down to this moment.

The butt plate is snug against his armpit, his face is tight against the cheek pad, the safety is off. The aluminum gun chassis is on the concrete planter behind the dogwood, a hard surface that ensures the gun will stay steady. Munchel takes a deep breath, lets it out through his teeth. His ears tell him there is no traffic coming, which is essential because he’s shooting across the street—it would be bad if a car entered his line of fire at the moment of truth.

The target stands up, walks toward the window, seems to look right at him. Impossible, of course. He’s much too far away, too well hidden. But it’s still unnerving. Munchel chews his lower lip, begins the countdown.

The target turns. Munchel completely empties his lungs and waits . . . waits . . . waits . . . then squeezes the trigger with the ball of his finger, trying to time it between heartbeats like he’s read about online.

There’s a loud CRACK. The target’s head explodes, and he pitches forward.

Munchel sucks in some air and lets it out as a laugh. How ridiculously easy. He checks to see if anyone around him noticed the gunfire. The sidewalks are clear. No one opens a door and sticks their head out. Everything is completely normal, just an average fall day in the city.

He reaches for his canteen—also an army/navy store purchase—and slurps down some purple Gatorade. His untraceable prepaid cell phone vibrates, and he stares at the number. It’s Swanson. Anxious to see how it went, to meet at the rendezvous point and brag over beer and chicken wings.

Munchel ignores the call. He has other ideas of how to celebrate.

A streetlight comes on, its sensor activated by a timer. Munchel loads a round, aims, and takes it out. That’s two shots now. Still, no one seems to notice. How disappointing.

He takes out his phone and dials 911.

“I was walking down Leavitt and heard someone shooting. I think my neighbor has been killed.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“He’s at forty-six fifty-two. I think someone shot him.”

“Can you give me your name?”

Munchel hangs up, sips more Gatorade, and hunkers down to wait for the police to arrive.

Copyright

Copyright © 2007 Joe Konrath

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

Mass Market ISBN: 978-0-7868-9125-2

EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9781401388157

FIRST MASS MARKET EDITION

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Fuzzy Navel

A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery

Fuzzy Navel

J.A. Konrath

This book is for George Dailey,
whose unwavering friendship and support
make him worth several times his weight in gold.
Or, in his case, barley.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Front Matter

4:38 P.M. KORK

4:57 P.M. MUNCHEL

5:32 P.M. JACK

6:12 P.M. JACK

6:21 P.M. MARY

6:42 P.M. JACK

6:46 P.M. MUNCHEL

6:49 P.M. JACK

6:53 P.M. MUNCHEL

6:54 P.M. KORK

6:56 P.M. JACK

8:02 P.M. KORK

8:15 P.M. JACK

8:18 P.M. SWANSON

8:22 P.M. JACK

8:30 P.M. JACK

8:38 P.M. KORK

9:03 P.M. SWANSON

9:07 P.M. JACK

9:08 P.M. HERB

9:09 P.M. MUNCHEL

9:10 P.M. JACK

9:21 P.M. PESSOLANO

9:22 P.M. JACK

9:28 P.M. JACK

9:31 P.M. PESSOLANO

9:34 P.M. MARY

9:56 P.M. SWANSON

10:00 P.M. HERB

10:06 P.M. PESSOLANO

10:11 P.M. JACK

10:13 P.M. KORK

10:15 P.M. JACK

10:22 P.M. MUNCHEL

10:25 P.M. JACK

10:31 P.M. PESSOLANO

10:33 P.M. HERB

10:43 P.M. JACK

10:42 P.M. KORK

10:46 P.M. SWANSON

10:49 P.M. JACK

10:52 P.M. PESSOLANO

10:54 P.M. JACK

11:00 P.M. PHIN

11:03 P.M. KORK

11:07 P.M. JACK

11:09 P.M. MARY

11:11 P.M. MUNCHEL

11:18 P.M. PHIN

11:31 P.M. KORK

11:36 P.M. JACK

11:44 P.M. PHIN

11:46 P.M. KORK

11:46 P.M. PESSOLANO

11:47 P.M. MARY

11:49 P.M. PHIN

11:49 P.M. JACK

11:49 P.M. MUNCHEL

11:53 P.M. JACK

11:53 P.M. KORK

11:53 P.M. MARY

11:55 P.M. MUNCHEL

MIDNIGHT JACK

12:07 A.M. PHIN

12:08 A.M. MUNCHEL

12:09 A.M. JACK

12:11 A.M. KORK

12:15 A.M. JACK

12:17 A.M. KORK

12:23 A.M. JACK

1:24 A.M. KORK

1:38 A.M. JACK

4:57 P.M. JACK

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by

Copyright

FUZZY NAVEL

1½ oz. peach schnapps

3 oz. orange juice

Pour schnapps in a rocks or
old-fashioned glass filled with ice.
Add orange juice.

4:38 P.M.
KORK

IT’S QUIET IN THE SUBURBS. The only sound is from the cab that has dropped me off, making a U-turn at the dead end, then heading back down the quiet, winding road. Its taillights quickly disappear, swallowed up by the multitude of trees.

I walk up the driveway and look at the house. It’s a ranch, laid out in the shape of an L, occupying half an acre of green lawn speckled with fallen leaves. There’s a double-car garage, the door closed. I see Mom through the front bay window. She’s sitting in a rocking chair and reading a book—how much more stereo typical elderly can you get? I check the front door, and as expected it is locked.

I walk around the side of the house, running my hand along the brown brick, passing windows that should probably be washed. This is a big departure from the Chicago apartment. A lot more space. A lot more privacy. I’ve discovered that privacy is important. No neighbors for more than a quarter mile is a good thing. With all of the tree coverage, it’s like being in the middle of the woods, rather than only five miles away from O’Hare Airport.

I stop at the back porch—a slab of concrete with the obligatory lawn chairs, a wrought iron sun table, and a veranda—and I close my eyes, breathing in the cool autumn air. Somewhere, someone is burning leaves. I haven’t smelled that since my youth. I fill my lungs with the scent and smile. It smells like freedom.

The sliding glass patio door is open, and I decide to give Mom a lecture about that. Just because the suburbs are safer than the city doesn’t mean that all of the doors shouldn’t be locked.

I walk into the kitchen, catch the odor of home cooking. A pot is on the stove. I check the contents. Stew. I pick up the spoon, give it a stir, take a little bite of potato. Delicious.

Mom yells, “Jacqueline?”

I consider answering her, but decide a surprise is in order instead. I take out my gun and tiptoe into the hallway.

“Jacqueline? Is that you?”

I look left, then right, scanning for the psychotic cat that lives here. He isn’t around.

“Jacqueline, you’re frightening me.”

That’s the point, Mom.

I peek around the corner and see that Mom is standing up. She’s in her seventies, short hair more gray than brown, her back bent with age. She’s wearing a house dress, something plaid and shapeless. Mom’s eyes dart this way and that way. They settle on me, and she gasps.

“Oh my God,” she says.

“Did I scare you? You shouldn’t leave the back door open, Mom. God only knows what kind of weirdos can get in.”

Mom’s chest flutters, and she says in a small voice, “I know who you are. My daughter told me all about you.”

She reaches for the phone, but I’m on her in three steps, giving her a firm slap across her wrinkled face.

“I’m going to ask you this one time, and one time only. And then I’m going to start hurting you.”

I smile, knowing how it makes the scar tissue covering most of my face turn bright pink, knowing how horrifying it looks.

“Where’s Jack?”

4:57 P.M.
MUNCHEL

THE TARGET IS two hundred and eighty-three yards away. James Michael Munchel knows all about mil dots, and how to calculate distance with the reticle, but he’s using a laser measuring unit instead. This isn’t cheating. A sniper can and should use every bit of technology available to him in the field, whether he’s on a roof in Dhi Qar, Iraq, or crouching behind some shrubs in the Chicago neighborhood of Ravenswood.

Munchel is sitting on the lawn, legs crossed, the tip of his Unique Alpine TPG-1 rifle peeking out through the leafy green dogwood. He arrived here two hours ago, but had selected this spot three weeks earlier. The house is unoccupied, and Munchel has pulled the For Sale sign out of the lawn and set it facedown. Realtors probably won’t stop by this late. If one does…well, too bad for her.

Munchel is wearing a camouflage jacket, leggings, and black steel-toed boots he bought at the army/navy surplus store on Lincoln Avenue. He can’t be seen from the sidewalk fifteen feet away. Munchel knows this for a fact, because he’s done several dry runs prior to today. He’s practically invisible, even if someone is staring right at him.

To avoid arousing suspicion, Munchel didn’t walk here in full camo. He came in street clothes—jeans and a blue shirt—and awkwardly changed while crouching behind the dogwood, putting his civvies in the black two-wheeled suitcase he towed along.

Munchel scratches his stubble, then peers through the Leupold scope, which has been zeroed out at two hundred yards. The crosshair is slightly above and to the right of the target’s head, to adjust for the wind and the bullet drop. He’ll never admit it, but he doesn’t understand how to determine MOA—minute-of-angle. He can fake it online, while posting on the sniper message boards, but he doesn’t really know how to calculate the actual degrees. In the forest preserve near his house, Munchel can hit a target from five hundred yards and keep the grouping within a four-inch radius. Who cares what the MOA is? It’s good shooting no matter how you calculate it.

The target has his back to Munchel. He’s in his living room, on the first floor of the two-flat, sitting at the computer. Just like he is every day at this time.

Predictability is a killer.

The blinds hanging in the large, three-section bay window are open, and Munchel can see straight down the hallway, all the way to the back of the house. He nudges the rifle slightly, to check what the target is surfing.

Pornography. Some weird shit with chicks wearing rubber aprons and wielding whips.

Freak, Munchel thinks. Deserves everything he’s about to get.

Munchel glances at his watch, a Luminox 3007, the same kind that Navy SEALs use. Less than a minute left. Munchel’s hands start to shake, and he realizes he’s breathing heavy. Not from fear. From excitement. All the training, all the planning, it all comes down to this moment.

The butt plate is snug against his armpit, his face is tight against the cheek pad, the safety is off. The aluminum gun chassis is on the concrete planter behind the dogwood, a hard surface that ensures the gun will stay steady. Munchel takes a deep breath, lets it out through his teeth. His ears tell him there is no traffic coming, which is essential because he’s shooting across the street—it would be bad if a car entered his line of fire at the moment of truth.

The target stands up, walks toward the window, seems to look right at him. Impossible, of course. He’s much too far away, too well hidden. But it’s still unnerving. Munchel chews his lower lip, begins the countdown.

The target turns. Munchel completely empties his lungs and waits…waits…waits…then squeezes the trigger with the ball of his finger, trying to time it between heartbeats like he’s read about online.

There’s a loud CRACK. The target’s head explodes, and he pitches forward.

Munchel sucks in some air and lets it out as a laugh. How ridiculously easy. He checks to see if anyone around him noticed the gunfire. The sidewalks are clear. No one opens a door and sticks their head out. Everything is completely normal, just an average fall day in the city.

He reaches for his canteen—also an army/navy store purchase—and slurps down some purple Gatorade. His untraceable prepaid cell phone vibrates, and he stares at the number. It’s Swanson. Anxious to see how it went, to meet at the rendezvous point and brag over beer and chicken wings.

Munchel ignores the call. He has other ideas of how to celebrate.

A streetlight comes on, its sensor activated by a timer. Munchel loads a round, aims, and takes it out. That’s two shots now. Still, no one seems to notice. How disappointing.

He takes out his phone and dials 911.

“I was walking down Leavitt and heard someone shooting. I think my neighbor has been killed.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“He’s at forty-six fifty-two. I think someone shot him.”

“Can you give me your name?”

Munchel hangs up, sips more Gatorade, and hunkers down to wait for the police to arrive.

5:32 P.M.
JACK

MY PARTNER, Sergeant Herb Benedict, crams the last mini chocolate donut into his mouth, wipes a hand across his gray mustache, and then tries to heave his bulk out of the less-than-comfortable confines of my 1984 Chevy Nova. He has to rock, twice, before he gets enough momentum to break the tug of gravity between his ass and the seat.

“Thanks for not judging me,” he says as we approach the yellow police tape.

“Because you ate two packages of donuts even though your doctor put you on a high-fiber diet?”

Herb nods. “Man cannot live on bran alone, Jack. Every day, as a snack, my wife mixes me a high-fiber sugar-free weight loss shake. Then she adds even more fiber.”

“Sounds healthy.”

“You want some? I got a zipper bag in my pocket full of the stuff. It’s like drinking a stalk of wheat.”

Dried leaves in shades of gold, red, and brown blanket the sidewalks. The cool air carries a crisp, woodsy scent. Spring and summer smell like garbage and sewage. Winter, like car exhaust. Fall is the only time of year Chicago smells nice.

The setting sun casts long shadows on the street, and ours walk ahead of us. I like September because the climate is moderate, and because I have brown hair and brown eyes, and 85 percent of my clothing matches this particular season.

“Does your wife know you’re snacking between nutritious meals?” I ask.

Herb’s basset hound jowls are turned down: his serious face. “She suspects. Last night she found some powdered sugar on my tie. I spent twenty minutes trying to convince her it was heroin.”

A rookie guards the crime scene, keeping away reporters and gawkers. Young, curly hair, eyes intent. I don’t recognize him, and he doesn’t recognize us, asking for ID. This is perfectly acceptable. I’m wearing a pumpkin-colored Anne Klein jacket with a red chevron pattern, taupe Armani pants, and rust Gucci pumps. He probably thinks I’m a waif runway model looking for my photo shoot. Well, a retired one, maybe. There aren’t too many fashionistas in their late forties.

I open my clutch—a Wal-Mart purchase, but hey, it matches the outfit—and remove my star, flashing it at the noob.

“Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Homicide. This is Sergeant Benedict.”

The rookie—his name tag reads Sakey—doesn’t seem impressed with either my rank or my outfit, but he lets us pass. We walk into the first floor of a two-flat vintage brownstone, the space already crawling with cops: uniforms, plainclothes, and techies taking pictures and video. I feel my stomach go sour, something that has been happening more and more whenever I visit a crime scene. Without letting Herb see, I remove a roll of antacids out of my jacket pocket and pop three. Not that I fear showing weakness in front of my partner. My concern centers around the fact that my antacids are mint flavored, and Herb likes mint. I haven’t discovered a flavor that Herb doesn’t like, even though I’ve looked. I only have a few tablets left, and I don’t want to share.

“She’s just trying to look out for you, Herb,” I say.

“I know. But I have a feeling that the extra years this high-fiber diet may allow me to live will get cancelled out by the amount of time I spend on the john.”

Herb and I each take some plastic booties out of the box by the door and slip them over our shoes. There are gloves as well, and I snap one on.

The house isn’t very well lit, one thrift shop floor lamp and a living room chandelier with two bulbs not working. The CSU has brought in a portable halogen light, which illuminates the space to operating room brightness. There’s a computer desk, empty pop cans, fast-food wrappers, and CDs randomly strewn over the top. The monitor is a flat screen, and there are speakers screwed into the walls. A red beanbag chair which doesn’t match the red shade of the sofa which doesn’t match the red shade of the drapes. The TV is an older model, sitting on a cheap pressboard cabinet. The walls are bare except for a poster of a topless Jenna Jameson.

The victim is a male Caucasian, average build, sprawled out facedown on the floor. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else. His blond hair is matted with blood, and a halo of red has soaked the beige carpeting around his head. I’ve seen enough gunshot wounds in my day to recognize the cause of death.

I crouch down, squint at his right hand. In the webbing between his thumb and index finger there is a black tattoo of a tombstone. Written on its face is a number five with angel wings on it.

A bulge in the back of the vic’s pocket appears wallet shaped, and I tug it out with a gloved hand. Driver’s license shows me a picture of a man named Robert Siders who resides at this address. The hair seems the same. I pass the wallet to Herb, bend down, and gently turn the deceased’s head to the side. No one looks like their driver’s license picture, but in this case I can’t even make a comparison—the victim’s face has been blown off.

The wallet holds thirty-three dollars, a check stub from a local oil and lube place, and a wrinkled time card signed by the manager of same garage. No credit cards.

Without prompting, Herb yanks out his cell, calling Dispatch. I stand up, take a few steps away from the body, and let my eyes sweep the room while Herb speaks into the phone.

Sakey—the curly-haired rookie who carded me earlier—walks up next to me and peers down at the body.

“Roommate got angry,” he ventures.

“One-bedroom apartment,” I say. “No roommate.”

“Girlfriend, then.”

“No girlfriend. The house is messy, badly furnished, and there’s a poster of a porn star on the wall. No woman would live here.”

Sakey folds his arms and puts a hand on his chin. I watch the wheels spin. “Okay, drug deal gone bad. Dealer shot him in the face.”

“No drugs. He’s got ink on his hand. Prison tattoo. Did five years, got paroled. There’s a signed time card in his wallet—he needs to turn it in to his PO, which means he’s getting random drug tests. If he’s holding down a job, he’s keeping clean.”

He nods. “Fine, we check for former associates. One of them must have came in and—”

“No one came in,” I say.

Sakey raises an eyebrow. “Then who shot him in the face?”

“No one shot him in the face. They shot him in the back of the head.”

“I’ve seen GSWs. He clearly was shot—”

“By a high-velocity rifle in the back of the head,” Herb finishes for him, snapping his cell phone closed. “Higher velocity causes a shock wave in tissue, which makes big exit wounds.”

“Record?” I ask Herb.

“In for ten and out in five. One count unlawful restraint. One count deviate sexual assault. One count aggravated criminal sexual abuse.”

“Our vic is a rapist,” I say, staring down at the body. “Herb, get the information on the woman he assaulted, and her family.”

“You think they hired a hitter?” Sakey asks.

It’s the first assumption he may have gotten right, but he says it to my back—I’m already at the window facing the street, letting my eyes roam back and forth, up and down. I find it at nose level.

The bullet punched through neatly, leaving a hole the size of a dime. No cracked pane or shattered glass—another indicator of a very fast round. I stand in front of it and face the apartment, looking from the window to the victim, and then down the hallway. I follow the path, scrutinizing the far wall, and locate the bullet’s final resting place; another small hole, this one ringed with specks of blood.

I scan the CSU officers in the room and see one that I know, Dan Rogers. I call him over.

“Bullet wound up over here,” I tell him. “But before you dig it out, I need to borrow your laser pointer.”

I have no idea if he actually has a laser pointer in his box full of stuff, but he does, one of those thin models the size of a AA battery. I jam it into the depression in the wall, have Herb stand next to the window, and spend a minute lining up the holes.

“Who was first on the scene?” I ask Sakey.

“Beat cop named Rory. Out in back losing his lunch.”

“Do you know when the call came?”

“A minute or two after five. Multiple 911s.”

I nod, then throw him a bone. “Want to help find the hide?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

I point to Jenna. “That poster still has the cardboard backing, so it should be stiff. Take it off the wall and meet us outside.”

He immediately hops to it. I leave the house, put my plastic booties and latex glove into a different box by the entrance, then organize three teams of uniforms to do door-to-doors, checking for wits. When that’s finished I take out a slim note pad from my clutch and jot down: 911 tapes, PO, priors, family, and freelance assassins/ViCAT. Much as I loathe to get the FBI involved, their database will give me access to similar murders.

Herb and I meet Sakey where we’d originally found him, near the police tape. He doesn’t seem pleased to be carrying a poster of a topless woman. Especially since there’s a crowd of onlookers, including a few members of the press.

“Why did I bring this?” he asks.

“Hold up the poster,” I say.

Sakey does as he’s told, and the TV cameras catch his frown. “They’re filming us.”

“No they’re not,” Herb says. “They’re filming you. You’re the one waving around the giant picture of the naked lady.”

Sakey’s unhappy face deepens, but he keeps the poster raised. “Now what?”

“Follow us,” I tell him.

We push past the crowd, ignoring the questions being shouted at us, and stand on the opposite side of the street. I hold Sakey’s shoulders, moving him left and right until the red dot from the laser pointer appears on Ms. Jameson’s stomach. The TV crews creep closer, capturing our every move.

“Man,” Sakey groans. “My mom watches the news.”

Herb waves at the cameras and says, “Hi, Mrs. Sakey.”

I tap Sakey on the back. “Just keep the dot on the poster and keep walking.”

Sakey marches on, though he doesn’t seem thrilled about it. Like many beat cops, he’s probably fantasized about getting into Detective Division, working a major homicide. I guess I’ve deglamorized it for him.

We continue walking, following the sidewalk about a hundred yards down, then hop over a waist-high wrought iron fence surrounding a duplex. A slight breeze with a pinch of winter chill tussles my hair. Sakey’s blows around as well, then springs right back to his original curls. I wonder what conditioner he uses.

“What’s a hide?” Sakey asks. He holds the poster in front of his chest, the dot now on Jenna’s hip.

“Where a sniper shoots from,” Herb answers. “Now the problem is finding the catway.”

“What’s a catway?”

“About eight pounds.”

Sakey doesn’t laugh. Neither do I, having heard that joke several dozen times during the years Herb has been my partner. He also can’t pass a cemetery without quipping, “People are dying to get in there.” I never laugh at that one either.

We walk along the front of the building, up to a cluster of evergreen bushes. They’re thick enough to hide a man. My gun comes out, a .38 Colt Detective Special snubby, my sights locking on the plant. A quick peek inside finds the bush to be devoid of snipers.

“Found brass,” Herb says. He grunts, kneeling down on the lawn, teasing a spent cartridge into a clear plastic evidence bag with his fingernail. It’s gold, shiny, almost three inches long.

“Three oh eight?” Herb guesses.

“I don’t think so. Read the bottom.”

Herb squints at it, peering down the front of his nose and making a farsighted face.

“The writing is scratched out.”

Sakey nods his head and says, “Smart.”

I’ve corrected him enough today, and he spared me the indignity of walking down the block with a nude porn star, so I don’t give him a lecture. Instead I tell him to tape off the area and find out where the homeowners are so they can be informed their house is now part of a crime scene.

“You sure they aren’t home?” Sakey asks.

I point. “Morning paper is still on the porch.”

He looks at me with what might be admiration, then goes on his way.

“Don’t forget your date,” Herb calls after him.

Sakey picks up the poster and takes it with him, making sure Jenna faces him rather than the press. I turn my attention back to the bush, not expecting to find anything else, and being surprised when I see a white business card on the ground. I ask Herb for another bag and use the barrel of my Colt to nudge it inside. The front reads:

ONE MORE DEAD PERVERT

Courtesy of

TUHC

The ink on the card is slightly smeared, and the edges have a fine perforation to them. The killer probably printed it himself using his home computer and those blank business card sheets available at office supply stores.

I frown, not liking this at all. In my experience, killers who leave messages aren’t likely to stop any time soon. I have a bad feeling that there’s more to this than hiring a mercenary to avenge a rape.

I stare back at the apartment, viewing the line of site. Perhaps two hundred yards. With the proper rifle, not a difficult shot at all. My mom, a former Chicago cop herself, used to have a Winchester Model 70 she’d inherited from her father. During my teenage years we’d go on afternoon excursions down to southern Illinois farmland and regularly hit ears of corn from four hundred yards, and probably farther, with thirty-aught-six rounds. She’d sold the gun de cades ago—not much use for long arms in an urban environment.

Herb gives the card the same treatment he gave the bullet, holding it at arm’s length to read it. Glasses are in his future.

“TUHC?” His voice registers the same displeasure I feel. “I hate it when they leave us notes.”

My cell buzzes. I free it from my inner jacket pocket and slap it to my face.

“Daniels.”

“Lieutenant? This is Bobalik, Homicide from District 20, Ravenswood. Heard you got a sniper.”

“News travels fast.”

“Let me guess—one shot to the head, through the window from a few hundred yards away, vic was a sex offender?”

News must travel even faster than I thought.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I’m at a scene on Leavitt,” she says. “Victim’s name is Chris Wolak. Same MO.”

“Got a time of death?” I ask.

“Call came at a few minutes after five.”

Ravenswood is a Chicago neighborhood about five miles away from us, but Bobalik’s victim died at the same time ours did. I frown at the obvious conclusion.

“It gets better,” Bobalik says. “Guess what happened in Englewood at the same time?”

“One more dead pervert,” I say, quoting the card.

I fill Bobalik in on the details, then hang up and relate everything to Herb.

“Three snipers,” he says. “Jesus. Why don’t we ever get the normal cases? A guy gets drunk, shoots his neighbor for playing his radio too loud?”

I look at the business card again and wonder the same thing.

6:12 P.M.
JACK

ON THE CAR RIDE to Ravenswood my phone rings again. I inwardly cringe, hoping it isn’t another sniper death. The fates smile; it’s my fiancé.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” Latham asks.

I picture him in his office, wearing a snazzy suit. Red hair. Green eyes. Boyish smile. Broad shoulders and trim waist. That leads to me picturing him without the suit. I almost say something dirty, but don’t want Herb to hold it over my head for the rest of my life.

“Your timing is perfect,” I say into the phone. “Are you calling to accept my mother’s kind invitation?”

“I’ll do my best to cram in as much of Mom’s home cooking as I possibly can.”

I live with my mother in the suburb of Bensenville. That’s a big no-no for Chicago cops (living outside the city, not living with your mother). But the mortgage is in her name and so far I haven’t been caught. I love Chicago, but Mom wanted a more laid-back lifestyle and I wanted to keep an eye on her because she’s getting up there in years. So we bought a cute little ranch house in a woodsy area and I braved a daily one-hour car ride to and from the Job.

It’s about as much fun as it sounds. To make up for the commute, I get to experience the joy of weeding, painting, home repairs, cutting the lawn, tarring the driveway, cleaning the gutters, and countless other homeowner tasks that I so enjoyed living without when I had an apartment in Wrigleyville.

But at least Mom is happy.

Since Latham proposed, Mom has been inviting him over more and more, foisting food, drink, and conversation on the poor guy. It isn’t easy for Latham. Not just the travel back and forth from the city, but he had a bout with botulism earlier this year and hasn’t fully recovered. He still retains some residual paralysis in his legs, and an aversion to food in general.

Thankfully, the paralysis doesn’t extend to his other parts.

“It will be a few hours,” I say. “I’ll be tied up until at least seven or eight. Can we eat at nine?”

“That’s fine. I’m on my way there now. I promised Mary we’d play some rummy.”

“Mom guilted you into coming early?”

“Not at all. I enjoy spending time with your mother. Besides, we play for money. I’ve already won her pension, now I’m going for her Social Security.”

I smile. “Mom told me she was up sixty bucks.”

“She cheats, Jack. She looks all cute and harmless, but she’s a wily one. I think she deals from the bottom of the deck.”

Can a woman ask for anything more than her future husband hanging out with her mom? Plus he’s caring, funny, attractive, and he puts up with me. Good sex sealed the deal.

“See you later,” I say. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Jack.”

“Love you more.”

“No, I love you more. See you to night.”

He makes a kissing sound and I grin and make a kissing sound back, then we hang up. I glance at Herb, who does a good job of ignoring me by occupying his mouth with a chocolate power bar. Herb insists he snacks on these for energy, even though he has more than enough energy already stored in the extra eighty pounds of fat he carries around.

“That probably doesn’t have much fiber in it,” I offer.

Herb licks some chocolate off his fingers. I once asked Herb what the difference was between power bars and regular candy bars, and he told me that power bars had more calories.

“For energy,” he’d said.

When he had his heart attack a while back, he was the only one who seemed surprised.

“I thought we had an unspoken agreement, Jack.” He’s taken on a superior tone. “You don’t question my eating habits, I pretend to ignore it when you make kissy-face on the phone.”

“I don’t make kissy-face on the phone.”

“Yes you do. And for your information, this power bar does contain fiber. It’s in the caramelized peanuts.”

I snort. “The wrapper has more fiber.”

“I’m eating that next.”

This long-dead horse has been beaten many times, so I change the subject. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking about the last crime scene?”

Herb’s turn to snort. “Yeah. Welcome to amateur night.”

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. “What kind of shooter grinds the engraving off the bottom of his bullets? Think about the misfires.”

“He should be more worried about shooting himself in the face while he’s filing it down. A pro would simply pick up his brass.”

“A pro would also know we would find the slug. Hell, anyone who watched TV knows the word ballistics.”

I left the cartridge with Rogers to take to the crime lab. He ID’ed it by sight, without needing to use acid etching to bring out the markings. A .338 Lapua Magnum. A caliber specifically designed for sniping, and hopefully unique enough to be able to track. I have a team doing just that.

“And did you see his hide?” Herb shakes his head. “Can you imagine the guy, squatting in a bush, facing the sidewalk?”

If you want someone dead, it’s relatively easy to ring his doorbell and shoot him in the chest when he answers. Much easier than shooting him from two hundred yards down the street at a scheduled time.

“This isn’t just about the death,” I say. “This is a game. A bunch of knuckleheads playing soldier, getting their kicks shooting sex offenders long distance.”

I leave the next part of my thought unspoken—that a knucklehead could kill you just as easily as a pro. In some cases, they’re even more dangerous. Soldiers are taught patience and discipline. An amateur takes unnecessary chances and makes big mistakes, exposing more people to risk. This TUHC group might be easier to track down than an expert hired gun, but they might also hurt a lot of innocents before that happens.

My phone rings again. I find it on my seat without taking my eyes off the road.

“Daniels.”

“Is this Jacqueline Daniels?”

A female voice, rote and professional.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is the Heathrow Facility, you’re on the list of people to inform.”

The Heathrow Facility is a maximum security center for the criminally insane. I’ve sent a few people there over the years. The arresting officer is always called if one of the inmates dies. They’re also called when an inmate is released, or escapes.

“Who is this regarding?” I ask.

“Alexandra Kork.”

A feeling overwhelms me, like the shower has gone from hot to cold. Kork is one of the most dangerous people alive. I’d met her under another name, and her entire family consisted of psychopathic killers. She almost murdered me, and several people I cared about, in horrible ways.

“What about Kork?” The words are hard to get out, sticking in my throat like chicken bones. A dozen thoughts run through my mind at once, the most pressing being Please don’t tell me she escaped.

“Alexandra Kork died this morning.”

I blow out air through my mouth, and my shoulders sag.

“It appears to be a suicide,” the woman continues. “She set herself on fire with some aerosol spray.”

That sounds like Kork. She’d kill herself in a horrible way like that.

“Are you sure it’s her?” I ask. “One hundred percent sure?”

“The body was badly burned, but we confirmed it with dental records.”

I picture Alex’s face, pretty as a model’s when I met her. Not pretty at all after we tangled. She’d gotten close, fooled me completely, made me doubt myself unlike I ever had before.

One of the things I’ve learned as a cop is that everyone considers themself the hero in the story of their life. Even bad guys who killed children and blew up hospitals believed they were good guys. Everyone can justify their actions. Everyone believes they’re in the right.

Kork was different. She knew she was the bad guy, that her actions were evil. It didn’t bother her at all. Or maybe it did. Maybe she finally realized what an awful person she was, and couldn’t cope with it.

“Ms. Daniels? Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s no next of kin listed. Would you like us to release her remains to you?”

“No. The state can bury her. Thank you for calling.”

I hang up and pop a few more antacids.

“Are those mint flavored?” Herb asks.

“Alex Kork is dead,” I tell him. “Suicide at Heathrow.”

“World is a better place without her in it. Gimme one of those antacids.”

I pass the roll to Herb, thinking about the last words Alex had said to me.

“You beat me this time. But it isn’t over.”

It’s over now, Alex. You’ve haunted me in countless nightmares, but you won’t haunt me anymore.

Not ever again.

6:21 P.M.
MARY

“WHERE’S THAT PSYCHOTIC CAT you have?”

Mary Streng stares hard at Alex Kork. The woman who broke into their house is taller than Jacqueline, with broader shoulders. Her body is angular rather than curvy, and Mary can see the muscle striations in her bare forearms. Alex has straight black hair, shoulder length. This woman might have been pretty once, but the left side of her face, from her chin to her missing eyebrow, is a knot of pink scar tissue, puckered with patchwork skin graft zigzags and pockmarks from countless stitches.

“At the vet,” Mary answers. “Bitten by a dog.”

Alex winces. No—it only looks like a wince because the ruined half of her face stays immobile. It’s actually a smile.

“That’s a shame. Such a cute kitty, being mauled by a big, bad canine.”

“He’ll be fine,” Mary says. “The dog isn’t expected to recover.”

Alex sits on the sofa next to Mary. She’s tucked her gun—a small-caliber revolver—into the back of her jeans, which rankles Mary.

I’m an old lady, and she doesn’t consider me a threat, Mary realizes.

It’s true, and it hurts. Sharp as her mind still is, her body has grown old and weak. Osteoporosis is shrinking her. Rheumatoid arthritis has turned her hands into agonizing claws. Her figure, once a perfect hourglass, is now shaped more like the box the hourglass came in. What she would give to be young again, just for a minute, to show this young punk—

“Are you sizing me up?” Alex asks.

Mary lowers her eyes.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you, Mom. Or I’ll start knocking you around.”

Mary stares at her, projecting defiance instead of fear. Alex’s face twitches into a half smile. Up close, the scars are white and look like rubber.

“I know you used to be a cop,” Alex says. “I bet this really makes you feel helpless.”

Mary doesn’t answer. Jacqueline has told her all about Alex and her nightmarish family. Like most cops, her daughter kept her fears hidden away. But Mary knew that Jack feared Alex. And now she can see why. This scarred woman sitting next to her doesn’t have a soul. Something, some vital part, is missing from Alex. The part that makes her a human being.

Mary had only seen it once before, more than forty years ago, on the Job. A homeless man had killed his friend over half a bottle of wine. Mary had hit the offender with her billy, over and over, but he wouldn’t go down. He just continued to stare at her with those black, bottomless eyes. Eyes without a trace of humanity. Eyes that dared her to kill him.

The same eyes Alex has.

“I bet it hurt,” Mary says, “when my daughter tore your face off.”

Mary doesn’t see the blow coming—it’s too fast. But she feels it, the fist connecting with her mouth, the explosion of pain in her lips, her head snapping back. She had been punched before, in the line of duty, but never so hard or so viciously.

Then Alex is standing over her, running a hand through Mary’s gray hair in a warped parody of kindness.

“Maybe later I’ll show you how much it hurts,” Alex says.

And Mary Streng realizes she’s going to die.

It isn’t as scary as she thought it might be. She’s lived a long, full life. She’s done everything she ever set out to do. She’s made some mistakes, of course. Some big ones. A failed marriage. A child out of wedlock, put up for adoption when she was still a teenager. A feud with her mother that never got resolved before she died. But Mary managed to forgive herself, to learn from her errors, to keep on going. She knew she could meet death—even an unpleasant death—with grace and dignity and no regrets.

But this isn’t just about her. Alex also wants to kill Jacqueline.

That scares Mary to the core. Mary would die for her daughter. She’d also want to die if her daughter were killed. Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children, and Jacqueline is too good a person to be murdered at the hands of this lunatic.

She has to warn Jacqueline. Has to make sure Alex can’t get her.

“Do you bake?” Alex asks.

“What?”

“I know it’s a stereo type, that all old women bake. But do you?”

“Yes,” Mary says.

“What do you bake? Cookies? Bread?”

Mary doesn’t like these questions. They seem too intimate. She forces herself to say, “I make pies.”

“What kind of pies?”

“Peach. Cherry. Apple. I was going to make an apple pie today, for after dinner.”

“You’ve got all of the ingredients?”

Mary nods.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Alex says. “Let’s make a pie.”

Alex takes Mary’s hand, leads her into the kitchen. Mary doesn’t understand where this is going, what Alex’s ulterior motive is. But she has no choice other than to let it play out.

“What do we do first?”

“There’s some dough, in the refrigerator.”

Alex opens up the large stainless steel door and takes out a bowl with a wet towel covering the top. Mary stares at the gun in the back of Alex’s jeans. She needs to get closer.

“This the dough?” Alex asks.

Mary nods. “Yes.”

“It’s done rising, or what ever?”

“Yes.”

“What else do we need?”

“Apples. Brown sugar. Lemon juice. Flour.”

“You want to lend a hand here, Mom? This pie isn’t going to make itself.”

It’s silly. Mary has been slapped, punched, and threatened, and she stayed stoic. But a simple act of baking makes her eyes well up with tears.

Maybe it’s the perversion of a normally enjoyable activity. Mary loves to bake. It’s one of the simple joys of life. But being forced to by this murderer makes the whole experience seem tainted, dirty.

Alex acts normal the whole time. She rolls out the dough. She slices the apples. She’s chatty and cheerful and asks many questions about the process. But she never lets down her guard and gives Mary a chance at the gun.

Jacqueline loathes baking, has no patience for it. Mary hasn’t baked with her daughter since she was twelve years old. That fact makes this experience even worse. Mary should be bonding with her daughter, not with a psycho.

“Why do you bake if it makes you so sad?” Alex asks.

Mary wipes her face with the back of her hand, furious with herself for showing weakness.

“Or are you just upset because this is the last pie you’ll ever make? There’s a last time for everything, Mom. At least you can savor it, knowing it’s the last time.”

“The oven is done preheating,” Mary says. “Put the pie on the bottom rack.”

Alex obeys. Then she pats the excess flour off of her shirt and laughs at the cloud it makes.

“You never baked with your mother?” Mary asks.

“I might have. I don’t remember. When I was small, Father tied her to a beam in the basement and whipped her until she died.” Alex pops a stray apple slice into her mouth. “He made me help him, made me beat her.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been horrible.”

“Not really. He let me rest when I got tired.”

Alex turns away, looks past the living room, out the large bay window facing the street. “Does Jack still drive that shitty Nova?”

Mary doesn’t answer, sees a car coming up the driveway.

Not Jacqueline’s.

Oh, no. It’s Latham.

Mary takes a deep breath, ready to scream out a warning, but Alex is on her, tearing at her house dress, pulling off a sleeve and shoving it past her split lips, wadding it into her mouth. Then the gun is out again, pressed up against Mary’s temple, and they both wait in silence for Latham to come in.

6:42 P.M.
JACK

LEAVITT STREET BUZZES with activity. As in the previous crime scene, cops and onlookers surround the house, a walking, talking wall. The media already arrived, two news vans sending live feeds to their networks. I park in the center of the street, since nothing is getting through anyway. Herb extricates himself from my car with much grunting, but I refrain from making any jokes involving power bars or extra energy.

It’s dark now. Dark and cold. The streetlight in front of the house isn’t working, but there are enough emergency vehicles with their headlights on to provide adequate illumination.

We push through the crowd, duck under the cordon, and head for the house. This one is bigger than the two-flat we just left, a single-family home with a giant bay window in front. Through the open blinds I can see cops milling around inside. Herb and I don our booties and go in, seeking out Detective Bobalik to get an update.

She directs the crime scene from the front room, standing a few feet away from Chris Wolak’s body on the floor. I pause, taking everything in. Ten, maybe twelve police officers in the room, most of them CSU. Decor is retro Norman Bates, stuffed ducks and pheasants and animal heads adorning the walls and shelves. A computer desk, the monitor showing porn. A large leather sofa. A framed picture of a smiling man holding the antlers of the buck he shot. An entertainment stand, TV, DVD, stereo. I examine the bay window, find the bullet hole, see the crowd outside looking back at me.

Bobalik is short, wearing glasses, and has really good hair, the kind that moves when she moves.

“I want ALS done before the ME arrives,” she says to her team. “Bruen, organize the door-to-door. Let’s move, people, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here.”

I walk to her, my hand extended in greeting, and then her head explodes.

It looks a lot like someone kicking a pumpkin. The top of her scalp comes off, spins through the air, and bounces off the TV. A fine mist of blood rises up around her shoulders and hangs there even after she crumples to the floor.

“Down!” I yell.

A tug at my waist. Herb tackling me even as I dive for the carpet.

Another shot.

The bullet rips through Bruen’s chest, blood erupting from the exit wound, splashing the wall several feet behind him.

Screaming. From in the house. From the street outside.

I look right. Herb on the floor, between me and the window.

The carpet below me is cold and damp.

Another shot.

A CSU member falls, the round slicing through the sofa he hides behind, taking a hunk out of his neck.

I look left. The victim, Chris Wolak, face-to-face with me, except there isn’t much face left. A white male, in his thirties, a hole in the back of his head, just like Rob Siders.

I’m lying in his blood.

Another shot.

A detective. On the floor next to me, only a few feet away. The bullet enters his hip, exits up through his neck. A long way for a slug to travel through tissue.

We’re not safe on the floor.

I scream, “Get away from the window!”

A uniform stands up, runs for the hallway.

Another shot.

A miss.

He makes it to the end of the hall.

Another shot.

He dives to the floor.

No—he doesn’t dive. Blood volcanoes out of his back.

Herb gets to his feet, attempting to make the same run.

“Herb!” I yell.

He gets two steps down the hall.

Another shot.

The bullet smacks the wall, stripping off wood paneling.

Two more steps.

Another shot.

Over Herb’s head, destroying a dome light.

Two more steps, and he’s next to a door.

Another shot.

Herb falls through the doorway.

“Herb!”

Silence.

I roll, away from the vic, hands tucked to my chest.

Bump into Bobalik. Roll over her.

Another shot, tearing up the carpet where I was a second ago.

I continue rolling, angling toward the window.

Then I ram into the wall. The wall the window is on.

Out of the line of fire. Safe.

I reach up for the turning rod on the blinds, twist it, closing the slats on the window nearest to me, blocking the sniper’s vision.

Another shot. Through the window.

Then another, higher up.

The blinds fall off the wall, clatter to the floor.

“Herb!” I yell with everything I have.

Herb doesn’t answer.

Another shot.

Then another.

The gunfire isn’t hitting the house. I open up my clutch, remove a lipstick, one that has a tiny mirror on the case. My back to the wall, I angle the mirror so I can see out the front window.

Most of the gawkers and media have fled. Cops are behind cars, weapons drawn. Handguns and shotguns, nothing long enough to hit a shooter two hundred yards away. Some are shrugging on bulletproof vests—Type IIIA—which won’t offer any protection against high-velocity sniper rounds. A .338 will punch through them like they’re tissue paper.

Another shot.

I watch a patrolman’s head snap back—he’s behind the trunk of the patrol car, and the bullet slices right through the metal.

I turn back to the room. Five cops down in here, plus the original victim. Five more cops tucked into corners and behind furniture. Plus me. And Herb, if he made it.

I know it will take a minimum of ten minutes for the Special Response Team to gear up and arrive. They’ll have rifles, and heavier body armor.

But in the meantime, we’re ducks in a pond.

I try again. “Herb!”

A second passes.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Then, “Jack!”

I blow out a pent-up breath, a million kinds of relieved.

“Are you okay?” I yell.

“Yeah! My wife called, hysterical. Saw us on TV. She said she’d hold you personally responsible if I’m killed.”

I wonder if I should call Latham. Perhaps I won’t have another chance.

I push back the maudlin thoughts, focusing on how to escape. I glance at the door, so far away. Then I lock eyes with a stag head, hanging on the wall.

Chris Wolak is a hunter. He’ll have long guns.

“Herb! Check to see if there are any rifles in there.”

“Hold on.” The pause lasts forever. Then, “Found a gun locker. Need to break it open.”

Another shot.

A crime scene techie, crouching behind the entertainment stand, wails like a siren, clutching the remainder of his foot. The pain must be unimaginable.

“Keep your head down!” I order the techie.

His keening cry goes on and on, and he rocks back and forth with his knee pressed to his chest, his head peeking out over the coffee table.

“Keep your—!”

Another shot.

The techie slumps to the ground, bleeding from the shoulder. A bad wound, gushing fast. He won’t live until the SRT arrives. He needs medical help now.

I’m not the type who prays, but I beg the universe for Herb to find a rifle.

6:46 P.M.
MUNCHEL

MUNCHEL PAUSES TO ADD another hash mark to the butt of his rifle, using a black permanent marker. That makes nine so far. The number pleases him, but he’s angry at himself for missing that fat cop, the one who came late to the party. Moves pretty fast for a porker. He arrived with that good-looking split-tail who parked in the middle of the street. That pisses Munchel off. Why should cops be able to park wherever the hell they want to? It’s bullshit.

Munchel checks his watch, figures he has a few more minutes before reinforcements arrive. Maybe he’ll have another chance at Fatty, and the double-parker.

His cell rings. Swanson again. Munchel picks up.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Swanson is yelling, his voice high pitched and girlish. Not a soldier’s tone at all.

“Hi, Greg. You at the rendezvous point, sucking down a cool one?”

“You asshole! You’re live on CNN!”

“Cool.”

Munchel pulls the bolt back, ejecting the empty cartridge, then jams it forward to force another round into the chamber of his TPG-1. He peers through the Leupold scope. All the cops in the street are hiding or have run off. Of course they have. An entire platoon is no match for a single skilled sniper. Munchel can shoot the petals off a daisy at three hundred yards. Killing cops at less than two hundred is child’s play.

“What if they catch you?” Swanson whines like a baby.

Munchel’s voice is pure Stallone. “If they take me, it won’t be alive.”

Munchel puts his face against the cheek pad. Aims. Fires. Another head shot. He rubs his shoulder—it’s getting sore, even with the built-in recoil damper—then he uses the marker to draw the tenth kill line on the stock.

“We’re going after perverts, not cops!”

Munchel looks down, sees he’s dropped the cell phone. Swanson is still bitching. He picks it up.

“You say something, Swanson?”

“You’re going to ruin it for us!”

“Relax,” Munchel purrs. “I’ll make sure I kill all the witnesses.”

“You dumb son of—”

Munchel hangs up. He doesn’t need Swanson, or anyone else, telling him what to do. James Michael Munchel knows what to do. No matter what anyone else thinks. No matter who they are.

The memory comes, unbidden, and Munchel frowns.

“Military bastards,” he says to himself.

He doesn’t like to dwell on his rejection by the armed forces, but he dwells on it every day. All those stupid tests he had to fill out, being told by the recruiter that there were no wrong answers. A bald-faced lie. Obviously there were wrong answers, or else he’d be in a foxhole in Baghdad right now, killing insurgents.

Munchel chambers another round, imagines it’s Osama in the crosshairs, not some stupid pig.

BANG!

That makes eleven, plus the original target. He doubts any marine sniper could do better. Another hash mark on the rifle. Pessolano will probably have a shit-fit when he sees how he marked up his precious gun. Maybe Munchel can buy the rifle from him. He respects Pessolano, because Pessolano actually toured, saw combat in Desert Storm. Pessolano always wears yellow shooting glasses, those high-contrast ones that block out blue light. Pessolano is hard-core, but he needs to lighten up. Him and Swanson both.

Munchel looks in the suitcase, finds the pair of yellow glasses he bought from that late-night infomercial. He slips them on, but they make everything too bright and give him an eyestrain headache. He takes them off again. Real snipers don’t need fancy sunglasses.

Another glance through the scope, and Munchel grins.

Fat Boy is back. And it looks like the cop found a rifle. Some dinky little model, but a rifle nonetheless.

This might be interesting.

Munchel works the bolt, takes aims, and squeezes the trigger.

6:49 P.M.
JACK

MY PARTNER’S LEG crumples beneath him when the bullet hits. He cries out, pitching forward, the rifle slipping from his grasp and taking flight.

Herb tumbles to the floor. The gun remains airborne, spinning like a Frisbee, the barrel aiming my way.

I bunch up my shoulders and cover my face—not much protection against a dropped weapon, but a reflex action.

The rifle bounces onto the floor without going off. But it’s ten feet away from me, directly in the line of fire.

So is Herb.

I tug out my .38, aim where I’d seen the muzzle flash over a hundred yards away, and fire twice.

My bullets won’t hit the mark. A snub-nose revolver isn’t accurate beyond twenty feet. But Herb needs time to crawl back into hiding, assuming he can still move.

I press my back against the wall again, not wanting to leave my head exposed longer than necessary, and see Herb dashing across the carpet on all fours like a coked-up squirrel. Maybe those power bars have something to them after all. He makes it back through the doorway, leaving a spotty trail of blood.

“How bad?” I call to him.

“Calf! I’ll be okay! Did you get the rifle?”

I stare at the weapon. Ten feet away might as well be a hundred.

“I’m working on it!”

I survey the room. Other than the injured techie, who is rapidly bleeding out, only four people are still alive: two uniforms, two plainclothes. I’m ranking officer, but I’m not about to order any of them to go after the rifle. Especially since I’m the closest one to it.

I imagine the sniper. Probably crouching in a bush, as the other had. Peering through a scope, his sites locked onto the fallen rifle, waiting for someone to try for it.

I’ve used scopes before. At distances longer than fifty yards, the slightest movement by the shooter throws them off target. If I distract him, then move quickly, I’ll have two or three seconds before he finds me again.

Theoretically at least.

Or I can sit tight and wait for the cavalry to arrive. But I don’t know if the injured cop can last that long. And I’ve had enough of people dying on my watch.

I look to my left, see a small end table. Metal, solid, manageable. I kick off my heels and holster my gun. Then I lift the table above my head, aim at the window where the last bullet went through, and heave it hard as I can.

Before it hits the glass I’m in motion…bending down for the rifle…hearing the window shatter…grabbing the barrel and hugging it to my chest…digging my bare heels into the carpet to change direction in case the sniper was tracking me…skidding…

Falling onto my ass.

The pain travels from my coccyx straight up to my neck like a lightning bolt, prompting instant tears and an immediate surge of panic.

I’m sitting directly in the sniper’s sights. And he has an even clearer view of me now, because the window sports a large hole where the table broke though.

Though I don’t remain still for longer than a second, it feels like a week, and my ears burn and my forehead gets hot where I imagine a bull’s-eye to be, where the shot is going to hit.

The shot doesn’t come.

I pull the gun closer to my body, drop my right shoulder, and quickly roll back to my original hiding spot alongside the window.

Herb says, “I had seven heart attacks watching you do that.”

I look down the hallway, lock eyes with Herb in the mirror reflection of a music CD he’s holding out the doorway. He’s using it like I’d used the lipstick, to see around the corner.

Rather than respond, I do a quick inspection of the weapon. A Dakota rifle. Fixed sights. A twenty-four-inch barrel. Bolt action. I check the magazine. Three .458 rounds, plus one already chambered. I tuck the butt into my armpit and sight through the scope, aiming at the ceiling.

The lens is cracked, and bent to the left side.

“Scope’s dead,” I call to Herb. “Any more back there?”

A pause. Then, “No.”

“Bullets?”

“I didn’t see—”

The crack of the shot makes me flinch, and the CD disintegrates in Herb’s hand. I look around the room at my men. They’re hunkered down, terrified. I need to get them out of here. But I can’t if they’re too scared to move.

“Looks like our sniper isn’t a music fan,” I say. The joke sounds forced, mostly because it is.

“I can’t blame him,” Herb says. “I don’t like John Denver either.”

I unscrew the scope from its mount and toss it aside. Then I swing the barrel around, toward the street.

“Hold up another one.”

“I could only find his greatest hits album.”

I suck in air, blow it out hard, my cheeks billowing.

“How about Neil Diamond?” I yell.

I rest the tip of the barrel on the windowsill, an inch away from the glass. Not the best way to steady a rifle, but all I can manage given the situation.

“No Neil. Is Jim Croce okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“Time in a Bottle, or You Don’t Mess Around With Jim?”

I’m about to tell Herb I don’t care, but I reconsider. “Time in a Bottle,” I yell.

I was never a fan of sappy love songs.

I stare down the street, waiting for it. The sniper’s muzzle flashes before I hear the shot. The CD explodes.

“I couldn’t save Time in a Bottle,” Herb says.

I line up the sights, fixing them slightly above my target, knowing the bullet will travel in a parabolic arc.

“I’m going to fire four shots, four seconds apart,” I tell the room. “So you have between twelve and sixteen seconds to get the injured, and yourselves, out of the house. There’s an ambulance on the corner of Leavitt and Leland. You can get there using parked cars for cover. Understood?”

I count five yeses, including a weak moan from the injured techie. One voice is conspicuous in its absence.

“You too Herb.”

“No way. I’m liking this CD collection too much. When was the last time you heard the Kingston Trio?”

“That’s an order, Herb.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Goddammit. If Herb died his wife would kill me.

“Fine. Hold up the other Croce CD, then stay hidden. We go after I fire my first round. Everyone get ready.”

I hold the rifle tight against my armpit and rest my chin on the stock, sighting down the barrel. I test the trigger pull, apply enough pressure to barely move it. Then I wait, breathing slow and easy so it doesn’t throw off my aim.

It doesn’t take long. The killer can’t resist showing off his marksman skills, and he blows away the second Croce CD.

“Go!” I tell the room.

Then I squeeze the trigger.

6:53 P.M.
MUNCHEL

MUNCHEL GRUNTS in satisfaction after the CD shatters, and then he moves the scope ever so slightly to watch the split-tail. He’s ready for her to fire back. Hell, he wants her to fire back. That’s why he didn’t kill her when she went for the rifle, even though he had a bead on it. Confirmed kills are great, but real snipers must also contend with return fire. The cops in the street, they’re all too far away, their guns not powerful enough to reach him. There’s no threat or danger.

He wants a little danger. And the ultimate danger is when you go up against another sniper. An anti-sniper.

Munchel doesn’t expect her to come close to him. Her rifle is a toy compared to his, and she doesn’t even have a scope. But this will be a much better story to tell Swanson and Pessolano if the cops send a few rounds his way.

“Show me what you got, baby,” Munchel says, baring his yellow teeth in a grin.

When her first bullet connects with the concrete planter he’s resting his gun on, Munchel jerks like he’s had acid thrown in his face. He drops the TPG-1 and ducks down.

How the hell did she make that shot?

“Lucky,” he says aloud, his voice cracking.

As the word leaves his lips, another shot blasts into the planter, tossing up stone chips, burrowing a hole into it.

Munchel backs the hell away. He checks his clothing. Why isn’t the camouflage working? Is she using night vision?

A bullet zips over his head, its wind practically parting his hair before burying itself into the building behind him. He hunkers down even lower, thinking he should be returning fire, knowing he should, but too scared to move.

One more shot, and the planter shatters, large chunks falling to the ground, a puff of dirt forming a cloud that settles in his eyes and on his lips.

Munchel holds his breath, waiting. His bladder feels like a water balloon being squeezed in a vise. Sweat pops out of his body in places he didn’t even know he had pores. He doesn’t dare move, convinced that she can see him.

A full minute passes.

He wonders if she’s out of bullets, or simply toying with him. Maybe she has the shot, has him all lined up, and is enjoying watching him squirm.

Sirens, in the distance. Munchel knows that must be SWAT. He needs to break camp, get the hell out of here. His heart is thumping. His mouth is dry. His palms feel like he just soaked them in water. He’s more scared than he’s ever been in his life.

But he’s also exhilarated.

This is what combat is like, he thinks.

The feeling is intoxicating.

Munchel knows the news cameras are rolling, knows that the split-tail can see him, knows that what he has in mind might be suicidal. But he decides to go for it anyway.

No one expects a pinned down man to charge. So Munchel charges.

The suitcase in one hand, the TPG-1 in the other, he sprints across the sidewalk, across the street, daring the woman cop to shoot him. He knows to zigzag, to make himself a harder target. He maybe even yells a little, an animalistic war cry, the sound of a hero facing certain death.

No bullets hit him. No one even shoots at him. Munchel pauses behind a car to catch his breath, marveling at his own bravery. It’s dark, and the streetlight he shot out earlier helps him hide in the shadows. But if the cop has some sort of optical enhancer, it’s possible she can still see him.

The sirens are getting closer. He needs some kind of distraction, something that will confuse the night-vision goggles the woman cop must be using.

He unzips the suitcase, removes one of two whiskey bottles. Inside is kerosene mixed with laundry detergent. Poor man’s napalm. Munchel would have preferred real napalm, or a grenade, but he couldn’t get those. He tried to order some, on the Internet, and the prick took his money and didn’t send him shit. Hopefully the homemade stuff will be good enough.

Munchel unscrews the bottle cap and shoves in a braided wick from a camping lantern. He uses a Zippo to light the wick and then shouts, “Semper fi!” as he throws the flaming bottle at a parked SUV. It bounces off the hood and shatters on the sidewalk, soaking someone’s lawn with liquid fire.

He doesn’t stop to acknowledge his handiwork. He’s on the move again, tugging the suitcase behind him in a crouch, changing direction several times, making it to the Chevy Nova parked in the center of the street.

The split-tail’s car. He considers using his second Molotov cocktail to set it ablaze, to teach her a lesson, but changes his mind and reaches for something else instead. Something electronic, that Pessolano let him borrow.

This woman is a worthy opponent. It isn’t enough just to destroy her car. Munchel wants to best her. To beat her. And he’s already formulating a plan on how to do just that.

He turns on the device and attaches it to the underside of her rear bumper. Then he lights the second bottle of napalm, yells “Recon!” and chucks it at a patrol car.

Munchel runs back the way he came, slipping between houses, making it to his car a block away. It had taken him almost forty minutes of circling to find that parking space, and even though he was clearly the required twenty feet away from the fire hydrant, he still got a ticket. Assholes.

Rather than dwell on it, Munchel throws the suitcase and the rifle into the backseat, hops behind the wheel, and beelines for the rendezvous point, imagining Pessolano and Swanson watching his heroics on CNN and cheering him on.

6:54 P.M.
KORK

JACK’S BOYFRIEND LATHAM is kind of cute. Red hair, a strong chin, broad chest. He doesn’t cry out when I crack him in the nose with the butt of my revolver, and doesn’t beg for his life when I stick the business end under his chin.

“On the sofa, next to the old lady.”

He complies, but takes his time, fixing me with what he probably thinks is a cold stare. He’s about as menacing as a teddy bear. If he wanted to learn cold stares, he should have grown up in my family.

“When’s your girlfriend getting home?” I ask.

He reaches out, holds the woman’s hand. Doesn’t answer. Which pisses me off.

I’ve lost track of how many people I’ve killed, but I know I’ve killed men for annoying me less than Latham is doing right now. But I don’t want to do anything permanent until Jack gets home and is able to watch. So I settle for smacking him with the gun again.

I hit him pretty good, opening up a cut on his cheek, and he refuses to meet my eyes. So much for the tough guy act.

“I don’t like repeating myself,” I say.

“She told me nine.” His voice is soft, dull. “She’s on a case.”

I check my new watch. Heathrow didn’t allow watches. Or jewelry. Or makeup. Or bras. Or shoes. We had our unisex cotton pants and top, and slippers with flimsy rubber soles. I could understand them keeping security tight. A few of the women in there were crazy. But my minders confused insane with feeble-minded. Big mistake.

My watch tells me I have about two hours left before Jack arrives. I’m hungry. Maybe I can get Mom to serve me some of that stew she’s making. I also haven’t gotten fucked in forever. The last time was with my so-called husband, and he was as in effective in bed as he was at everything else. I eye Latham’s broad shoulders, trim waist, then move my eyes lower, to his crotch. I wonder if he is up for the job. I know from experience that a man sometimes has problems getting it up when a gun is jammed in his mouth.

But when they can manage, the sex is mind-blowing.

Later, I decide. One more thing that Jack can watch.

“Who else is hungry?” I ask.

I smile, not the easiest thing to do when you’ve lost most of the nerves and muscles in half of your face. Mom grimaces. Latham stares at the floor.

“Both of you, stand up. Slow and easy. If you move too fast, or if I get the feeling you aren’t going to behave, I’ll shoot your knees.”

They stand, and hero boyfriend puts his arm around Mom’s shoulders. It’s touching, the warmth. Really. When the time comes, I don’t know which one I’ll kill first.

No need to think about that now. We have all night. And what a night it will be. These aren’t the only guests I’m inviting to this party. With some duct tape to keep everyone manageable, and some delivery pizza, we could keep this going for a few days.

First things first, Mom can serve some dinner. And I can warm loverboy up for our floor show later on. He looks to be the loyal type. Tough to break.

But I’ll break him. When I was growing up, Father used the stove for more than just cooking. He used it for punishment. Showed me up close and personal all the ways a stove can make a person scream.

And I’m more than happy to share the knowledge.

6:56 P.M.
JACK

WHILE I FIRE at the sniper the cops in the house clear out, carrying their injured team member. Herb comes up behind me, and we watch through the window as they make their way down the street. They join the others who were lucky enough to have gotten away, to the end of the block where the ambulances are.

We also watch our perp run around in jerky patterns, dragging a suitcase behind him and holding a huge sniper rifle, occasionally yelling something incoherent. He stops twice to throw homemade bombs at cars. Each one bounces off and causes a small fire on the sidewalk.

“This might very well be the world’s stupidest criminal,” Herb says.

I’m out of rifle ammo. Herb and I pull our ser vice pistols, keeping the perp in our sights. Though he keeps zigzagging and ducking down, he would have been a cinch to shoot if he came within our range. We could even have nailed him without looking, because he kept whooping like a drunken sports fan, giving away his location. Unfortunately, he stays at least fifty yards away the entire time, and eventually disappears between two houses, running off into the night.

Herb and I meet the Special Response Team in front, and I send them in the direction the sniper had gone. By that time the small fires have almost extinguished themselves, and the cops who’ve been in hiding come out and attend to the dead.

The sniper might have been an idiot, or a lunatic, or both. But he still managed to kill ten of my men. I maintain a brave face for the TV cameras, but each time I see a body bag being loaded into an ambulance my throat closes up.

My boss, Captain Bains, arrives in a patrol car. He has his dress blues on, ready to make a statement for the press. Deputy Chief Crouch, the superintendent’s right hand, is also present, setting up interviews with everyone involved. I’m first in line.

I’m bone tired, but I know I’ll be debriefed over and over again for the next few hours, and there’s no way to postpone it. I go back into the house and use the bathroom, doing a mediocre job washing off the blood. Then I call home, get the answering machine. Leave Mom a message that I won’t make dinner to night. I also call my long-suffering fiancé to let him know he’s welcome to stay the night, and I’ll make it up to him by cooking breakfast in the morning. I get his voice mail. Perhaps he and Mom are in a heated match of rummy.

Internal Affairs shows up—a bystander had been nicked by police crossfire. It wasn’t by me, but they take my gun anyway; standard operating procedure so ballistics can rule out my bullets as the lethal ones. I’m too numb to argue. My phone rings, and I excuse myself for a minute.

“Jack, it’s an emergency.” Mom sounds frazzled. “You need to come home.”

“Mom? Are you okay? What’s going on?”

I’m talking to a dead line. I call back. Get the machine. Call again, get the same results. Try Latham once more, go directly to voice mail.

What the hell?

“I need to check on my partner,” I tell the IA guys. Then I catch up with Herb as two paramedics assist him into the ambulance. The assistance involves a lot of lifting and grunting.

“I need a favor, Herb.”

“No problem. I’ll make a copy for you.” He taps his jacket pocket, which held the Kingston Trio CD. “And yes, it’s got ‘Tom Dooley’ on it.”

I lean closer. “I need you to cover for me, for a few hours. The deputy chief wants answers. The Feds are coming, probably to compare this to every other sniper incident in the past seven hundred years. Plus I’m going to have to tell the same story again for IA.”

“Are you going to tell them I stole folk rock?”

“No. I’m going to tell them to talk to you first. I just got a weird call from my mother, and something’s not right. I have to run home. And as you’re well aware…”

Herb finishes for me. “You live in the suburbs, even though you’d be fired if they found out, and even though there were many perfectly nice single-family homes in my neighborhood.”

“I’ll be two and a half hours, tops. Just make sure they don’t go to my old apartment.”

Because then they’ll know I don’t live in the city anymore.

“Take three hours,” Herb says. “I use a lot of adjectives when I tell stories.”

I pat his shoulder. “Thanks, Herb. Good luck with those stitches.”

“If my wife asks, I didn’t get shot. Tell her I was bitten by a monkey.”

“Sure. She’ll buy that.”

“She’s terrified of monkeys.”

“Wouldn’t a dog be more realistic?”

“She loves dogs. If it’s a monkey, I’ll get sympathy sex.”

I speak to the deputy chief and inform him I have a family emergency, but he can debrief my partner at the hospital. I promise I’ll be back within an hour. Which is an outright lie, because I live an hour away.

During the ride to the suburbs I obsess about my mother. If something happened to her, why hasn’t Latham called? Or perhaps the emergency has to do with Latham, and Mom is too shocked to go into details.

I’m overwhelmed by mental snapshots of death: car accidents, strokes, heart attacks, earthquakes, floods. Are they en route to the ER? Is that why they couldn’t pick up the phone? It can’t be a fire, because the answering machine keeps going on—a fire would destroy the line.

Is it something to do with my father? Mom never forgave Dad for leaving us, and while I’ve been trying to rebuild a relationship with him, she refuses to acknowledge his existence. Maybe Dad had shown up at my house, which would cause Mom to go supernova.

Or is this something more insidious?

I look at my cell, find the call from the Heathrow Facility. The caller ID indeed reads HEATHROW, but maybe that can be faked. I dial 411, get the same number, and let them patch me through. I speak to three different people, all of whom confirm that Alexandra Kork is dead as dead can be.

Okay. I’m being paranoid. Even if Alex were alive—and she isn’t—she still didn’t know where I live.

Maybe Mom saw the sniper shootings on television and is simply worried about me. Not picking up the phone is a guarantee I’ll rush home.

Or maybe Latham has some sort of surprise planned. I think of the mariachi band he hired when he proposed, and a smile breaks through my mask of worry. He truly is a sweetheart.

I get off the expressway on Route 20, heading for York Road. What ever the emergency is, I’ll find out soon enough.

My thoughts momentarily shift to the shooter. Finding sex offenders is a snap—thanks to Megan’s Law, anyone can log onto the Internet and access the National Sex Offender Registry and get their names and addresses. But if this is some sort of warped vigilante group, why kill cops? Did the sniper simply get carried away? Or is he really out of his mind? And are his two partners just as unbalanced?

I turn left down my twisty road, heading home. I hear the dead leaves crackling under my tires, see glimpses of the moon through the canopy of trees, and wonder what Mom loves about this neighborhood so much. Can it even be called a neighborhood? We’ve never met our nearest neighbor, who lives a quarter of a mile away. Come Halloween, I wonder if parents drive their children house to house for trick-or-treating. If I had kids, I’d drive them—to the city.

Thinking of children makes me think of Latham, and I get sort of gooey inside. I pull into the driveway and park next to his car, convinced that this emergency probably has to do with Mom fudging points in their card game, or burning the apple pie. I do a quick mirror check, finger comb my hair, and hop out of my Nova.

The front door is locked, and the front room is dark. I notice a light in the kitchen through the bay window. I unlock the door and go in.

“Mom? Latham?”

I smell food. Stew, and some sort of baked goods. Maybe I’m right about the pie after all.

Mom is in the kitchen, sitting at the table. It takes me a second to realize she has duct tape over her mouth and around her arms, and then something appears in my peripheral vision, something blindingly fast.

I duck, but not quickly enough, and get knocked to the floor, my vision all lopsided and swirly.

“Welcome home, Jack.”

I can’t focus, but I recognize the voice.

Alex is alive.

And that means we’re all going to die.

8:02 P.M.
KORK

JACK’S MOMENT of realization is priceless. It’s an expression of fear and helplessness, and it’s so raw and honest that I feel like a peep-show voyeur watching it.

I want to hit her again, to turn her fear into pain. But there isn’t any need to rush. Better to play it safe, make sure she’s restrained first.

“Handcuffs,” I say.

Jack doesn’t answer. I don’t think she’s trying to defy me. I think she’s so scared she can’t even speak. I give her a kick in the ribs to help with her articulation.

“Handcuffs,” I repeat. “You’ll have plenty of time to be scared speechless later.”

“Purse,” she says.

I follow her eyes, see an ugly clutch on the floor. I keep the gun on her and walk over to it. There are handcuffs inside, but no gun.

“Where’s that little toy Colt you carry around?”

“Internal Affairs. Had a shooting to night.”

I wonder if she’s lying, then notice that she has blood on her skirt, her shirt. Looks like Jack has had a busy night.

It’s about to get busier.

“Cuff your hands behind you,” I say, tossing her the bracelets.

She complies, sneaks a look at Mom. I wait for Jack to say something like “Let her go, this is between us” or “If you touch her, I swear I’ll kill you” or something equally meaningless. She surprises me by saying nothing. Perhaps she knows it won’t do any good. Or perhaps she’s saving her energy because she knows she’ll need it later. For screaming.

I allow them their mommy/daughter moment, then wrap my hand in Jack’s hair and jerk her to her feet. It doesn’t take much effort. At Heathrow, I was able to catch up on two things—soap operas and exercise. The last time I’d encountered Jack, I’d been soft.

There isn’t anything soft about me now.

I check to make sure Jack’s hands are cuffed, then shove the revolver into the back of my pants. I’m still holding her hair, and I bring her face close to mine, letting her see the scars up close.

“See what you did to me? For a while, I wished you’d killed me. I bet you’re wishing the same thing right now, aren’t you?”

Jack stares back at me, but her eyes are glassy. She’s fighting to keep it together.

“It took a long time for the pain to go away,” I continue. “The state doesn’t have the best plastic surgeons, as you can see. They had to graft on some skin from my leg. It actually grows stubble. Can you feel it?”

Jack tenses, strains to pull away. But my muscles are big and strong and it’s like restraining a child. I rub my scarred flesh against her perfect cheek, letting her feel the pointy little hairs that used to be on my calf. She stops struggling. Her muscles relax. Jack knows she can’t fight me, knows I can do anything I want to her.

I’ve been waiting a long time for this.

“Where’s Latham?” Jack asks, meek, submissive.

“We’ll get to him in a minute. First we need to call some old friends.” I find her cell phone in her purse. “Is Harry on here?”

Jack nods.

“You need to convince him to come over.”

“No.”

I half smile, make a fist, and hit Jack in the gut so hard she spits up food she ate last year. While she’s doubled over, I walk over to Mom.

“I understand the reason you’re holding out,” I say, standing behind Mom’s chair. “You figure that you’re going to die anyway, so why should you be helpful? That’s not the correct mind-set. What you should be thinking about is all the things I’m going to do to you before you die.”

Jack coughs, spits. “You’ll do those things anyway.”

“Of course I will. And eventually I’ll get my way, and you’ll call Harry. I know you’re tough, Jack. Maybe if it was only me and you, maybe you wouldn’t call. But we’ve got other people involved here.”

I hold Mary’s hand, her wrists bound to the chair with tape.

“I’ve heard arthritis is agonizing. I poked around in the medicine cabinet earlier. Mom is taking some major pills, isn’t she?”

I swivel the chair around, give Mom a frown that only appears on half of my face.

“I hope you’re not turning into a junkie. That’s a road you don’t want to go down. No matter how bad the pain gets.”

I begin to squeeze her hand. Her eyes get wide, and I watch her shake with the effort not to make any sound.

“Look how brave your mother is, Jack. Trying to hold it in.”

“I’ll call,” Jack says.

“I wonder if she’d scream if I broke a few fingers.”

“I’ll call!”

I release Mom’s hand, give the old gal a pat on the head. Then I drill my eyes into Jack. She’s pale, and appears close to collapsing.

“Convince him to come over here. Do I need to make any more threats?”

Jack shakes her head.

“Don’t look so devastated,” I say to Jack. “We’re just getting started.”

8:15 P.M.
JACK

MOM AND I ARE as good as dead. It’s just a matter of how much we suffer before Alex kills us.

Seeing Alex again stunned me. Instead of acting, of fighting back, I’d been caught off guard. That opportunity has passed. But I might be able to create another one with Harry McGlade.

I need to somehow convince Harry there’s a problem, without alerting Alex. Unfortunately, Harry’s intelligence falls somewhere between a chimpanzee and a crescent wrench. This is going to take some finesse.

Alex dials the number, presses the speaker phone button, and holds it to my mouth.

“Harry’s Den of Dyslexic Sex, where you can duck my sick. Harry speaking.” His voice is nasally, Chicago through and through.

“Hi, Harry. It’s Jack.”

“Jackie! Good to hear from you. Looking for work? Since that Joliet thing I’ve been swamped. I could hire you part-time. You’d do some paperwork, answer some phones. I’m paying seven fifty an hour, clothing is optional.”

Harry McGlade is a private investigator. A hundred years ago he used to be a cop, and my partner. I didn’t like him much then, and don’t like him much now, but he keeps popping up in my cases. Harry’s tough to get rid of. Like an oil stain. Or a wart.

“Look, McGlade, if I asked you to come over to my house right now, as a personal favor, would you do it?”

“No can do to night, Jackie. I’ve got a date with a very special lady. Very special. And if I cancel without giving her twenty-four hours notice, she charges my credit card anyway.”

I glance at Alex. She rolls her eyes, then points her gun at Mom. Even though I don’t have anything left in my stomach, I feel it rumble.

“Harry, I…I broke up with my boyfriend. I’m feeling kind of alone, kind of vulnerable.”

“I get it. You’re a chick, so you need to get laid to feel loved. I’m happy to step up to the plate.”

That hurts to even think about.

“I just need a friend right now. Can you come over?”

“For sex, right? I don’t want to be one of those guys, you cry on his shoulder, piss and moan for two hours, then I leave with snot on my tie and a trouser trout I have to smack around during the car ride home.”

Someone owed me an Academy Award, because somehow I say, “Yes, Harry McGlade. I want to have sex with you.”

Come on, you big dummy. You know there has to be something wrong.

“Pardon my skepticism, Jackie, but that didn’t sound right to me.”

Thatta boy, McGlade. Reason it out.

“Can you ask again?” Harry continues. “But using dirty words?”

Unbelievable.

“Just come over,” I say.

“You mean make like Ward Cleaver and discipline the Beaver?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“Say it.”

Even if he saves my life, I’m still going to kill him.

“Come over, Harry, and discipline the Beaver.”

“Are you drunk, Jackie? Is liquor impairing your judgment? Because I’m fine with that.”

“I’m not drunk, Harry. I just need you here.”

“I knew it. I knew those years of insults and dirty looks masked your true feelings. And I want you to know, the feeling is mutual. In fact, back when we rode together, and you got out of the car first, I’d sometimes lean over and sniff your seat.”

Alex has to put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“Just make sure you bring protection,” I say.

A gun, asshole. Bring a gun.

“Message received. Leave the front door unlocked. If I get there and you’re already passed out, I’m hopping on anyway.”

He disconnects. Does he know I’m in trouble? Is he playing along? Or does he really think he’s going to get laid?

“Nice work, Jack. Now let’s try another one. That intense guy with the killer abs. Phineas Troutt. I owe him too.”

I stare at Alex. Her scarred face offers no reprieve. No pity. She’s a monster.

But she’s a monster who wants something from me, which gives me just a tiny bit of leeway. If I got in touch with Phin, all I’ll have left to offer Alex is my pain and suffering. Best to stall that for as long as I can.

“Where’s Latham?” I try to sound scared, which doesn’t require any acting.

“Ahh, yes. Where is loverboy? I noticed he wore a ring. You too. When is the wedding, Jack?” She bats her eyes, but the scarred one simply twitches. “Can I be your maid of honor?”

“Where is he?”

Alex makes a show of looking at her watch.

“He’s in the garage. How much air do you think is in one of those kitchen garbage bags? Think there’s twenty minutes’ worth?”

I bolt, running across the kitchen, heading for the door to the garage. My hands are behind my back, so I have to spin around to turn the knob. Alex doesn’t run after me. She stays in the kitchen, hands on her hips, looking vaguely amused.

I manage to pull open the door, and find Latham in the middle of the garage, lying on the floor next to a giant stack of boxes. A white plastic garbage bag is over his head, duct tape wrapped around his neck.

He’s completely still.

I run to him, drop to my knees, scooting around and grabbing the bag along with some of his hair. I dig my fingers in and pull. The plastic stretches, tears.

“Latham! Latham, please answer me!”

I feel him move.

“Jack?”

Thank God. I keep tugging, removing as much of the bag as I can, my fingers encircling his face. His cheeks are wet, with sweat or tears or both.

I shed a few tears too.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, over and over.

“She put a hole in the bag. A little one. Didn’t want me to die yet.”

He talks in a monotone, emotionless. Probably in shock.

“I gave him a choice.” Alex stands in the doorway. “Fuck me, or die. He told me he’d do it if I put a bag over my head. Personally, I think it looks pretty good on him.”

My fear vanishes, replaced by a hate so intense I can taste it. I get to my knees, then to my feet, and charge at her. Alex doesn’t flinch. When I get close enough she sidesteps my attempted body tackle and trips me. Unable to break my fall, I land on my face, my lips kissing the dirty concrete floor, the wind rushing from my lungs.

“You want to play, Jack? We’ve got time to play.” Alex puts her hands behind her back. “I’ll even play fair. You’re Little Miss Tae Kwon Do, right? Let’s see if you can take me.”

I’m so pumped up with anger and adrenaline that I get up before my breath comes back. I take a feeble gasp, shake away the stars, and run at her.

Alex kicks me in the stomach, so hard that it knocks my shoes off. I fall onto my ass, the handcuffs digging in and twisting my wrists, prompting a scream. I use the pain, continuing to stretch at the cuffs, pulling them up under my butt and over my feet.

My hands are now in front of me.

It won’t help much fighting against Alex. She’s stronger than the last time I’d sparred with her. But maybe if I could get to my bedroom, to my other gun—

I run for it, run like I have a freight train coming after me. Make it to the kitchen, to the front room, to the hallway. Then I stumble and eat carpeting.

“Is that how you got your black belt, Jack? By running away like a scared little bitch?”

I roll over, glare up at Alex. She grabs my handcuff chain and jerks me up to her level. Her strength is amazing.

“Pumped a little iron in lockup?” I say between breaths.

Half of her face smiles.

“A little.”

Then she whips me forward, headfirst into the wall.

Everything goes from very bright to very dark.

8:18 P.M.
SWANSON

JAMES MUNCHEL WALKS into the suburban sports bar with a big yellow grin on his face and a hail conquering hero swagger. He actually lifts up his hand for a high five when he reaches their table.

Greg Swanson can barely hold in his rage. His jaw is clenched, and his shoulders feel like a giant knot.

“Sit down, you idiot,” Swanson orders.

Munchel darkens, lowering his upraised palm. But he complies. They’re at a table in the back, and the place is crowded enough that no one is paying any attention to them. Like all sports bars, this one boasts an impressive number of TVs. The one nearest them is tuned to CNN, at Swanson’s request, and it’s still reporting live from Munchel’s massacre scene.

“What the fuck were you doing?” Swanson asks.

“I was following the plan.”

“The plan was to take out the target, not half the cops in Chicago.”

“They were witnesses,” Munchel says.

Swanson bunches up his napkin, squeezes it hard. He’s bigger than Munchel, by five inches and sixty pounds. But the smaller man is flat-out crazy, and this scares Swanson.

Swanson looks at Pessolano, hoping for some assistance. Paul Pessolano is wearing those stupid as hell yellow shooting glasses, which make him look like a bee. His face is granite, impassive. He’s had military experience, but he must have had his communication skills shot off during Desert Storm. Either that or he’s seen The Terminator too many times.

As predicted, Pessolano offers nothing. Swanson turns back to Munchel, who is flagging down their server. He waits while Munchel orders a beer and one of those fried onion appetizers. When the waitress leaves, Swanson has to count to five in his head so he doesn’t start yelling.

“I’m the leader of The Urban Hunting Club,” he says, his voice as calm and patronizing as a grade school teacher’s. “I’m the one who brought us together. I’m the one who picked the targets. I’m the one who came up with the plan.”

Munchel rolls his eyes at Swanson, then nudges Pessolano.

“Hey, Paul, how many confirmed kills you got?”

“Eighteen.” Pessolano’s voice is rough, like he doesn’t use it much.

“I’m almost caught up to you. I just got twelve.”

“You got eleven,” Pessolano says. “One of the cops lived.”

Munchel shrugs. “Fine, eleven. Still pretty good my first time out.”

Swanson realizes that he probably shouldn’t have trusted guys who answered an ad in the back of Soldier of Fortune. But he didn’t have a choice. Where else was he supposed to find mercenaries? Swanson works in a home improvement store, in the plumbing department. He isn’t a killer.

Well, technically, he is a killer now. But he wasn’t a few hours ago. And he wasn’t a few months ago when he placed that ad.

When Swanson’s wife got…attacked…five years ago, he’d been devastated. Jen was, is, his everything. Then the bastard who did it got out five years early—for good behavior, what a fucking joke. Swanson couldn’t allow that. He had to kill the guy. For Jen. For himself. For society. It was more than just revenge. More than justice. The punk needed to be killed, and Swanson felt the need to perform that particular public ser vice.

But he knew that if he offed the guy, suspicion would immediately fall on him. The authorities would look at his victims, following the revenge angle.

Unless it looked random.

Thus, The Urban Hunting Club was born. All Swanson needed were a couple of like-minded guys who hated perverts, and then Rob Siders’s death would be blamed on vigilantes, not on an angry husband.

But Munchel has ruined the plan. TUHC has gone from being a group that might have been respected, even admired, straight to Public Enemy Number One. Cops never forget when you murder their own. They’ll be hunted for the rest of their lives. All because Munchel got himself a kill hard-on.

“We need to break up,” Swanson says. “Go our separate ways, never see each other again.”

“Why would we do that?” Munchel asks. The waitress brings his beer, and the idiot continues to talk in front of her. “We make a great team. We got rid of some real scum today.”

The server leaves, and Swanson leans over, jutting his chin at Munchel.

“And now we’re wanted for killing ten cops,” he says through his teeth.

Munchel smiles, takes a sip of beer. “Collateral damage. Couldn’t be helped.”

Swanson looks at Pessolano, who is stoically picking his teeth with his fork. He realizes he has to distance himself from these two loonies. Hell, he should probably run straight home, grab Jen, and move to California. That might look like an admission of guilt, but Munchel is going to get caught, and when he gets caught he’ll talk. Swanson doesn’t want to be implicated in any cop killing case, especially in a state that has the death penalty.

“I’m ditching the gun, and getting the fuck out of town.”

Swanson stands. Pessolano clasps his hands together, puts them behind his head.

“You ain’t ditching shit. Those are my rifles, and they’re worth more than you make in a year.”

“Fine. Let’s go out to the parking lot, you can have your guns back right now.”

Munchel finishes his beer, lets out a weak belch. He meets Swanson’s stare.

“Before you go running home to Mama, crying like a little girl, we have to take care of one more problem.”

Dread creeps up Swanson’s shoulders and perches there, like a gargoyle. “What problem?”

“That chick cop. The one who fired back at me.”

“What about her?”

Munchel wipes his mouth off with his sleeve. “She saw my face.”

Swanson sits back down. This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

“Had some sort of scope,” Munchel goes on. “Some infrared night-vision bullshit.”

“Could she ID you?” Pessolano asks.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Swanson tries to think, tries to remember if his passport is up-to-date.

“We can go to Mexico,” he says. “We can leave to night.”

Munchel snorts. “Hell no. I love America. I’m not leaving. Not because of some split-tail. Besides—there’s another option.”

Swanson’s heart is beating faster than when he took the shot and killed the pervert. He should be feeling good right now. Satisfied. Complete. Maybe even a little excited. Killing Rob Siders had been easier than he thought, and every detail had been executed perfectly. But instead of celebrating, he feels terrified and ready to throw up.

“What option?” Pessolano asks.

“I put that GPS tracker you lent me on her car.” Munchel grins wide, his teeth the color of corn. “I know where she lives.”

8:22 P.M.
JACK

“LET’S PLAY A GAME,” Alex says.

I sit on the sofa. My hands rest in my lap, the handcuffs digging painfully into my wrists. My ankles are wrapped in silver duct tape. Latham has tape on his legs, wrists, and mouth. Alex dragged my mother, still bound to the kitchen chair, into the living room with us. Mom’s eyelids are drooping. She doesn’t look well.

Alex holds a nickel-plated revolver. It has a two-inch barrel and a rubber grip. A small gun. It probably only holds five bullets. My guess is confirmed when Alex swings the cylinder out and pushes the ejector rod, dumping five .32-caliber rounds into her palm. She thumbs one back into an empty chamber, spins the cylinder, and slaps it closed.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, Jack. If you get one wrong, I’m going to point the gun at either your mother or your fiancé, and pull the trigger. Like this.”

Alex aims at my mother and fires before the cry can leave my throat.

The hammer falls on an empty chamber with a metallic click.

“A one out of five chance,” Alex says. “Those are pretty good odds. Do you understand the game?”

I push the panic down, deep down, forcing myself to think rather than react to fear.

“What if I get the answer right?” I ask.

“Then I’ll ask another one.” Alex spins the cylinder. “Let’s begin.”

She walks over to me and stares down. Her eyes are empty. I wonder if she’s enjoying this. She doesn’t seem to be.

Alex doesn’t have the classic male psychopathic response, because her particular mental disorder isn’t linked to sex and testosterone. That means she stays calm, works within her peculiar kind of rationalization, without letting emotion take over. Her cruelty isn’t hot and breathy. It’s cold and calculating.

In my opinion, that makes it worse.

“How did I escape from Heathrow?” Alex asks me.

What is she looking for? Praise? Begging? Cowering? Or does she just want a wrong answer so she can shoot someone I love while I watch?

“You lured someone into your room, burned them, and took their ID. A guard, maybe.”

“It wasn’t a guard. Try again.”

“Another inmate.”

Alex snorts. “If I took another inmate’s place, I’d be sitting in her cell right now. One more guess, then we play some Russian roulette.”

I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know about Alex, about her past. She grew up with a family of psychos. She liked to kill animals. She was infatuated with her brother. She could act normal, function within society, until her peculiar tastes took over. She used to be a marine. She was an expert marksperson, and an expert martial artist. She murdered many people, torturing most of them first. She was of above-average intelligence. She had been analyzed by many specialists.

Many specialists.

“Your shrink,” I decide.

Alex has killed several of her psychiatrists. She seems to get a particular thrill out of it, and I could easily picture her carrying on that legacy at Heathrow.

I know I’m right, because the unscarred half of her face smiles.

“Dr. Panko. Shorter than me, but the same hair color. She was a Freudian. Kept wanting me to talk about my parents. Saw me as a victim, a weak little girl who had been abused by the world. I had to fake a lot of tears in front of that bitch. It paid off.”

“You got her to trust you,” I say. As long as Alex is talking, she isn’t shooting.

“So much that she allowed me to get a job in the laundry room. On our next session I snapped her neck and put her body in the laundry cart. Not easy to do in handcuffs and ankle restraints. When I did laundry rounds that night, I dropped her off in my room, switched clothes with her, and set her on fire after spraying her with three cans of Lysol. Then I walked out of prison while everyone stood around watching the blaze. How did I do that, Jack?”

“You took her keys. Her ID.”

“Good. What else?”

I stare at Alex’s cheek. “You also took her makeup.”

“I needed a whole tube of concealer to cover up the scarring, and it wouldn’t have stood up to close inspection. But no one even bothered to look at me. They were all too jacked up about the tragic suicide. I found Panko’s car by pressing the alarm button on her key chain. She had this cute little gun in her glove compartment. A Freudian with a gun. I wonder if she ever thought about how ironic that was.”

I steal a glance at Mom. She seems out of it. In contrast, Latham appears alert and determined. I try to tell him how much I love him using only my eyes.

“So how did I convince the authorities that Dr. Panko was me?” Alex asks.

I think about my earlier calls to Heathrow, how they insisted the dead body was Alex.

“You somehow switched dental records.”

“Wrong.” Alex holds up the revolver. “Who do you want me to shoot, your mother or your fiancé?”

My stomach falls to my ankles. “Give me another chance. You’re smarter than I am.”

“No. Choose.”

I’m tempted to say please, but begging Alex won’t help the situation. She feeds off of weakness. I promise myself I won’t beg, no matter how bad it gets.

I look at Mom. She doesn’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s being strong, or if she’s gone someplace in her head. Then I look at Latham. He nods at me. My sweetheart is giving me permission to shoot him.

“I refuse to decide,” I say.

“Fine. Then I’ll do both.”

“Wait—!”

Alex points the gun at Latham and fires, then turns it on Mom and fires.

Two empty chambers, but something inside me breaks. The panic worms its way to the surface, and a soft whimper tears loose. I don’t want to cry, don’t want to let Alex see it, but some tears make it out anyway.

“Hmm,” Alex says. “What were the odds there? A forty percent chance one of them would die? Looks like you got lucky, Jack. Now try again. How did I convince the authorities that Dr. Panko was me?”

I have no idea. My brain is mush, scrambled eggs. I’m being forced to watch the people I love get killed. Alex will keep going until they both are dead, then she’ll start on me. How am I supposed to be able to think?

“The clock is ticking, Jack. You have five seconds.”

I make myself focus, make myself reason it out. If Alex didn’t switch records, there’s only one other possible way to get a positive dental ID.

“You…you pulled some of your own teeth, put them in her mouth.”

Alex claps her hands together.

“Bravo, Jack! But you make it sound so simple. It isn’t easy, yanking out your own teeth. Especially without any anesthetic. Those suckers are in there tight! I used a toothbrush. Rubbed the handle against the cement walls until it got sharp. Then I jammed it into my jaw and pried the roots out. Does this look infected to you? Be honest.”

Alex sticks her pinky into her mouth, pulls her cheek back. I see red, inflamed gums where teeth used to be, and her breath smells like meat gone bad. I turn away.

“Why did I do that, Jack? Why did I yank out my teeth? Why didn’t I just get the hell out of there and not care if they realized I was gone?”

“For me,” I say, my voice small. I stare at my lap.

“Exactly. I did it for you, Jack. Because if they knew I escaped, they would have warned you, and you would have gotten away.”

Alex grabs me by my hair, twists my head until I look at her.

“How often did I think of you, when I was locked up? Take a guess, Jack. Guess how often.”

I don’t have to guess. I know the answer.

“Every day,” I say.

“Every hour of every day I was in that hellhole I thought about you, Jack. About this moment right now. It made things bearable. Knowing one day I’d have you, and the people you care about, at my mercy—that was the only thing that kept me going. That was how I could look at my ugly, scarred face and not slit my own throat.”

She releases my hair, and I force myself to hold her gaze.

“Tell me, Jack. Did you think of me?”

I don’t know what she wants me to say. Rather than try to guess, I tell her the truth.

“Only in my nightmares.”

“And what did you have nightmares about, Jack? Of me escaping?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

“Because I’m not a killer.”

“But I am. You should have taken that into consideration.”

I don’t want her to ask another question, so I blurt out one of my own.

“Do you think this is going to make everything right, Alex?”

She narrows her good eye. The other one just twitches. “What exactly do you mean, Lieutenant?”

“You can’t get the time you did back. You can’t get your family back. You can’t get…” I force it out, “…your face back. Killing us isn’t going to change anything.”

Alex caresses my cheek, lets her fingers linger.

“I know that, Jack. I’m not doing this to make things right. The past is the past, and can’t be undone.” She winks her good eye. “I’m doing this because it’s a lot of fun.”

I don’t want to provoke her, but I can’t help whispering, “You’re a monster.”

Alex sighs. She looks at Mom, and Latham, and then at the ceiling, perhaps gathering her thoughts. When she speaks again, her voice is hard and even.

“Life is all about cruelty. You know that. You’re a cop. You see it all the time. Nothing on this planet lives without something else dying. You call me a monster because I choose to accept my nature. I embrace it, rather than deny it. Here’s a bonus question, since your moral compass is so true, since you’re so sure you know right and wrong. Where has your morality gotten you, Jack?”

“Hurting others is wrong, Alex,” I say.

Alex laughs, a harsh, cruel laugh. “Look at history. It’s filled with atrocities. War. Murder. Torture. Rape. We call that kind of behavior inhuman. But maybe the terminology is backward. Maybe being human means hurting others. That seems to be what humans do best.”

I shake my head. “Our species is successful because we nurture, not because we harm.”

Alex spins the cylinder again, then twirls the gun around her finger like a cowboy.

“Let me clue you in on something, Lieutenant. Nothing is black and white. There are no universal standards that determine what’s good and what’s evil. It’s subjective. You can’t kill for money, or recreation, but you can kill during a war. Why is there a difference? Dead is dead. I set someone on fire, I’m bad. The state fries me in the electric chair, and people sell T-shirts and toast champagne. Right and wrong is a matter of perspective.”

“Your perspective is warped. Killing is wrong.”

“Yet you’d probably give up everything just to have a shot at killing me right now, wouldn’t you? Let me enlighten you about something, Jack. Human beings are just animals, and all animals are selfish. Every single thing an animal does is selfish.”

“People can be unselfish,” I maintain.

“How so? Feeding the starving? Adopting unwanted babies? Sending aid when there’s a natural disaster? Giving blood? Donating to charity? People do these things to feel good about themselves. They’re all selfish acts, and pretty goddamn stupid as well. If you’re going to be selfish, it should benefit your life, not take away from it. Now I’m asking you again—where has your morality gotten you?”

I know the answer, and hate the answer.

“Answer the question, Jack.”

“Here,” I whisper.

“Exactly. Your high regard for life, and justice, and the path of righteousness, has gotten you here. You’re dead, and the people you love are dead, all because you’re so sure that there’s a right and a wrong. Be honest. Don’t you wish that you had killed me after you tore off my face?”

I nod slowly and speak the truth. “Yes.”

Alex half smiles. “Good. I’d hate for you to die without any regrets. And let me tell you something, Jack. For all I’ve done in my life, I never put anyone that I cared about in jeopardy. Your loved ones are going to suffer, and it’s your fault.”

Alex sticks her face in mine, lets me smell her rotten breath.

“And you call me a monster,” she says.

8:30 P.M.
JACK

AS IF I’M NOT FEELING HORRIBLE enough about the unfolding events, Alex helps add guilt to the fear, pain, panic, and regret I’ve been drowning in.

She seems to notice this, and I can sense it pleases her.

“Are we done with the philosophy?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Moving on to the next question. And let me tell you, Jack, this one is a hard one. I’ve done some clever things in my life, but this one was truly brilliant. Are you ready for it? Are you ready to see if you’re as smart as I am?”

I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. But I make myself nod. Alex smiles her half smile and comes in closer.

“How did I find out where you live, Jack?”

I don’t have a clue. When I moved to the suburbs from my Chicago apartment, I didn’t leave any forwarding address. All of my ID still lists Wrigleyville as my home. Except for Herb, Latham, and Harry, I didn’t tell a single person that I’d moved. All the utilities here are in Mom’s name. I pay my cell bill and credit cards over the Internet, using Mom’s connection. No one knew that I live here.

But Alex knew. She came here directly after breaking out. How?

“You hired someone,” I guess. “You had some money stashed, used a private eye to track me down.”

“Wrong!” Her eyes twinkle. “Pick someone.”

I can’t speak.

“Hurry, Jack, or I’ll shoot them both.”

“Me,” I croak. “Shoot me.”

“Your turn will come later. And trust me—you’ll be begging me to shoot you before we’re through. But now you have to choose. Or we could do eenie-meenie-minie-moe.”

I stare at Latham, my lower lip trembling, and somehow say, “Him.”

The fact that Latham nods makes it even worse. Alex spins the cylinder and places the barrel up to his forehead. Latham closes his eyes. I want to close mine as well, but I owe it to him to watch.

Click.

I taste blood. I’ve bitten my tongue.

“Try again, Jack. How did I find you?”

I throw out a guess.

“You found out my mother’s last name, called up the electric company or some other utility.”

“Wrong.”

Alex begins to pull the trigger, and I scream, “You have to spin it first!”

“No I don’t. It’s the same question, so no new spin.”

I cringe, my whole world imploding.

Click.

“Looks like you get another guess,” Alex says. “There’s a one out of three chance that Latham will die if you get it wrong. Isn’t this exciting?”

Latham’s forehead has broken out in sweat, but he stays stoic, stays calm.

Think, Jack! Think!

“You tracked the home loan somehow, knew my mother moved here.”

“Exactly,” Alex says.

I slump back on the sofa.

“I just logged onto the Internet,” Alex continues, “because they give full Internet access to the criminally insane. We were allowed two hours a day, right after our massage.”

She begins to squeeze the trigger.

“Dr. Panko’s office!” I yell. “You used her computer!”

“Sorry, Jack.”

“No!”

Click.

Alex pats Latham on the head. “Down to a fifty-fifty chance, loverboy. Better hope your woman gets this.”

How did she find me? How did she find me? How the fuck did she…

I stare at Latham, his eyes squeezed shut. Herb wouldn’t ever give my address up, even accidentally. He’s a cop, which means he’s paranoid. So is Mom. Harry is an ex-cop, plus he has just as much to fear from Alex as I do. Dumb as he is, he’s also naturally suspicious. Harry would know if someone was sniffing around for my address.

Latham isn’t a cop. Latham is a nice guy. A trusting guy. He could have been manipulated.

“It was Latham,” I say. “You got it out of Latham somehow.”

Latham’s eyes open, and there’s so much hurt in them, so much betrayal, that I have to turn away. Alex begins to laugh.

“That’s beautiful, Jack. Your fiancé has a gun pointed at his head, all because of you, and you’re blaming him?”

I was wrong. Dear God, I was wrong.

Alex swings a leg over Latham and straddles his lap, caressing his lips with the barrel of the revolver.

“How does that make you feel, loverboy? Your fiancée must think you’re really stupid.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to Latham. “I’m so sorry.”

Latham says something, but the duct tape muffles it.

“I just have to hear this,” Alex says.

She yanks the tape off. Latham stares right into my soul.

“After all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”

Alex couldn’t have hurt me any worse.

“I figured you made a mistake,” I say, my voice pleading. “You know I trust you.”

“How could you think I’d do that?”

“She’s smart. She could have tricked you.”

Latham looks away.

“See,” Alex says, patting his cheek. “You should have fucked me when you had the chance.”

She presses the gun to his forehead, and then my mother begins to moan.

“Hold on,” Alex says. “Mom wants to say something.”

Alex gets off of Latham and walks to Mom. She rips off her gag, and my mother says, “Shoot me, not him.”

Latham says, “Mary…”

I say, “Mom…”

Alex goes, “Shhhh! Let Mom make her case.”

Mom doesn’t look at Alex. She looks at Latham.

“Don’t blame my daughter. She trusts you. She’s just making wild guesses so you don’t die. I’m an old woman. I’ve lived my life. I can accept this.” Then she stares at me and smiles. Her eyes are warm, moist. “Jacqueline, my little girl. I’m so proud of you.”

“No…Mom…” My words are mixed with sobs. Then I turn to Alex and do what I told myself I wouldn’t do. I beg.

“Please…please don’t do this. Do what you want to me, but let them go. Please.”

Alex’s face twitches into a half smile.

“The world-famous police officer Lieutenant Jack Daniels is asking me for mercy. But she didn’t give me any mercy. She tore off half my face, and left me to rot behind bars. And now she’s crying like a little girl, and I haven’t even cut off her ears yet. I have to say, Jack, that I’m disappointed in you. I thought you’d be stronger.” Alex cocks the hammer back. “Now pay attention while I kill your mom.”

“NO!”

Click.

Alex laughs. “Wow! Can you believe the luck? If I were you, I’d go out and buy a lottery ticket.”

I’ve got nothing left. All of my hope has been sucked out. My eyes wander around the room, and I try to fathom that this is it, my last few hours alive, and I’ll have to watch Mom and Latham die before I meet my own horrible death.

“The next chamber has the bullet in it, Jack,” Alex says. “No more odds. When I pull the trigger again, the gun will fire. It takes out some of the surprise, but it really does amp up the suspense. For the last time: How did I find you?”

I can’t look anymore. I can’t handle it. If I could have willed myself to die right then, I would have.

“I love you, Jacqueline,” Mom says.

I want to say it back, but only sobs come out.

“Five seconds, Jack.”

Alex hums the theme to Jeopardy! I decide to rush at her, try to get the gun away. My hands are cuffed and my feet are bound with tape but I have to try. I scan the room for a weapon, something that I could get to in time. A lamp on the end table, next to a stack of magazines. The TV remote control. A cat scratching post covered in carpeting.

Wait a second…

“Magazines!” I say, finding my voice. “I transferred my subscriptions here. You were at my apartment, you noticed I read fashion magazines. You called one of them, impersonated me, got my change of address.”

Alex stops humming. She stares at me with her head tilted to the side.

“Nicely done, Jack. Very nicely done.”

I know the relief will be short-lived, but every extra minute I have is like a gift.

“Now tell me which magazine it was,” Alex says.

I subscribe to half a dozen magazines. I have no idea which one.

“Hurry, Jack. Answer quickly.”

“I guessed right. I guessed it was a magazine.”

“And now I’m asking which one.”

It doesn’t matter that I’d been correct. This isn’t a game that Alex will let me win.

“Vogue,” I say.

“Wrong.”

She aims at Latham and fires.

8:38 P.M.
KORK

THE LITTLE .32 BURPS in my hand and I hit what I’m aiming for. Latham’s arm. He moans, and Jack throws herself on him, as if that will prevent me from shooting him again.

What actually does prevent me from shooting again is the simple fact that my gun is empty. If Jack were thinking straight, rather than having an emotional breakdown, she could have taken that opportunity to charge me. It wouldn’t have done anything. I still would have overpowered her. But she could have at least tried.

I reload the gun, and the moment passes. I’m more than a little disappointed in Jack. She’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to an actual adversary, but this has all been cake so far. I’ve spent many sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how she caught me. Now the answer is crystal clear.

She got lucky.

Anyone can get lucky. The fat kid scores the goal at the buzzer. The trailer trash wins the lottery. The dumb cop catches the brilliant killer.

This revelation makes me feel good. Damn good. I watch as Latham squirms on the sofa, Jack pressing an armchair cover to his wound, and I smile as big as my scarred face allows.

Dr. Panko, and the many headshrinkers who came before her, always tried to blame my unique outlook on a horrible upbringing. That’s just plain silly. Look at all of those people who were tortured and starved and sexually abused in the concentration camps during World War II. Did any of them become serial killers?

People don’t become predators because of their environment. Some are born predators. My family had some…social issues…and not because of some ongoing cycle of abuse. It’s in our genes. Dr. Panko might as well have been counseling a shark, trying to convince it that eating fish was wrong.

I know why I am the way I am. And I like it. Other human beings somehow connect and relate with each other on a level that I don’t. They care.

It makes them weak.

I have no such compulsions. I’m unrestrained by sentiment. I’ve never known guilt, or regret.

I’m no robot. I can laugh. I can cry. I can reason. But I lack the capacity to empathize with others. Watching Jack fawn over Latham has no more effect on me than watching a man build a house, or a bird eat a snail.

But shooting Latham. That has an effect. That makes me feel powerful. Full of life. Complete. It produces a physical response within me, an endorphin rush.

Is this what love is? Is this how Jack feels when she looks at her fiancé?

I hope so. Because it will make taking that from her even sweeter.

I aim the gun.

“Move away from him, Jack.”

Jack stares at me, face awash with tears, eyes confrontational. I wonder if she’s going to make a move on me, decide in advance where I can shoot her without killing her. I’ll go for the right knee.

But she backs off, returning to her spot on the sofa. Loverboy has lost a lot of color, and the makeshift armrest cover bandage is soaked through with red.

“I bet right now you kinda wish you dated someone in a different profession,” I say to him.

It’s funny, but no one laughs. Tough crowd.

The oven buzzes. It’s the apple pie that I put in earlier. I’m anxious to try it. It’s the first pie I ever baked, as hard to believe as that might be.

“Would you like to help me check on the pie, Mom?” I ask. I grab the back of her chair and tug her into the kitchen, warning Jack that she’d better behave, or I’ll stick Mom’s head into the oven, on the heating element. I know from experience how much that hurts.

I set Mom up near the oven door, and we both peek inside. It smells great.

“Is it done?” I ask.

She nods. Earlier, while we were baking, she’d tried to connect with me by making small talk. Perhaps, after shooting her potential son-in-law, we’ve lost some of that earlier closeness.

I find some pot holders hanging up next to the sink—they say Home Sweet Home on the front—and take out the pie. It’s brown and bubbling and looks delicious. And hot. I bet this thing would cause some serious burns if it got thrown in someone’s face.

“If this tastes as good as it looks, maybe I’ll let you live long enough to bake another.”

Mom doesn’t seem happy with the thought. I leave the pie on the counter to cool, then drag her back into the living room. Jack and Latham are where I left them. I half hoped Jack would have hopped over to the front door and tried to get out. It would have been fun chasing her down again. But she just sits there, a whipped dog.

“I’ll pay you,” Jack says.

This surprises me. I didn’t expect the bargaining to begin so soon. At least, not before I did some breaking and cutting and burning.

“With what?” I ask. If I let her think I’m entertaining the notion, it will hurt Jack even more when I crush her hopes.

“We have some savings bonds. A few thousand dollars’ worth. And jewelry. An antique diamond necklace that my mother inherited from her mother.”

“And where is this cache of treasure?”

“In my bedroom. I can show you.”

Jack pushes herself up to a standing position, balancing on her taped feet. Now I understand. She has extra weapons in the bedroom. She’s hoping to grab one.

“Sit down,” I say. “That can wait. First let’s call up our friend Phin. Maybe he won’t be a limp dick like Casanova here.”

Jack sits, lets out a long breath. “I don’t know how to contact him.”

“Then we break one of Mom’s poor arthritic fingers for each minute you take.”

“I really don’t know. He doesn’t have a phone.”

I move behind Mom, put my hand over hers.

“I guess we’re not going to make any more pies,” I tell her.

“I don’t know how to find him!” Jack screams at me.

I decide to start small. The pinky. Then I hear a car come up the driveway. I glance out of Jack’s big bay window, facing the front yard, and see a Corvette pull up. I point the gun at Mom’s head.

“Stay quiet, or she dies,” I say.

I pull Mom toward the front door, then wait. There’s a knock.

“Jackie! You naked?”

Harry McGlade.

Jack begins to yell, but I’ve already got the door open, got the gun in Harry’s face.

“Aw, hell,” Harry says. “It’s Frankenbitch.”

I touch the barrel to Harry’s nose.

“Come on in. Join the party.”

Harry walks in. He’s as I remember him. Average height, a beer belly, three days’ growth of beard. He’s wearing black leather pants—yuck—and a yellow silk shirt with the top few buttons open, showing off a blanket of gray chest hair. He’s also wearing enough aftershave to be smelled from another zip code.

I stare down at his right hand, and am surprised to see it still attached. But closer scrutiny reveals it isn’t a real hand. It’s fake, prosthetic.

I pat Harry down, taking his keys, a cell phone, three condoms, and half a bottle of baby oil. Then I feel his artificial hand. The flesh is made of rubber, but there’s something solid underneath. I tug the covering off and look at the mechanism inside. A three-fingered metal claw, grafted to his wrist.

“You’re not even wearing a gun,” I say. “If I’m Frankenbitch, you must be Robodope.”

Again, no one laughs. Maybe this show needs a two-drink minimum.

“You have to give me the name of your plastic surgeon,” Harry says, “so I can buy him another drink.”

That warrants a kick in the balls. He doubles over. I pull him by his hair into the kitchen. I ran out of duct tape on Jack’s legs, but I have an idea that should work until I find some rope.

“Open up the robot hand,” I tell him, “and grab the refrigerator.”

Jack has one of those expensive double-door stainless steel fridges, and it’s big and solid. Harry does what I say, and locks his claw onto the freezer handle.

“Now take out your batteries.”

“They’re up my ass,” Harry says. “Stick your head up there and take a look.”

I introduce the butt of my gun to Harry’s jaw, and he falls to his knees. I spend a minute pressing and probing his prosthesis until I find the ejector for the battery pack. I pull it out and shove it into my pocket. Then I grab Harry’s collar and pull his face close to mine.

“Aren’t you happy to see me, Harry? Didn’t you miss me?”

“You should run away while there’s still time,” Harry says. “Before the villagers come with torches.”

I smile, give him a peck on the cheek. Then I whisper in his ear.

“Remember what I did to your hand? That’s nothing compared to what I have planned.”

Harry doesn’t have a smart-ass reply for that. I go back into the living room, feeling smug and powerful.

“I warned you, Jack. No yelling. I’m going to have to punish you for that. But first we need to invite Phin to this reunion.” I press the speaker button, then toss Jack her cell phone. “Call him.”

“He doesn’t have a phone,” Jack says.

“Then you’d better think of some other way to get in touch.”

I go over to Mom, squeeze her hand. Mom gasps.

“I’ll try the pool hall I’ve seen him at,” Jack blurts out. “I need to call information.”

“If you dial 911, you watch your mother die.”

Jack wisely chooses 411, asks the computer voice for Joe’s Pool Hall in Chicago, and gets connected.

“Pool hall,” the phone says.

“I need to speak to a guy there. Name is Phin Troutt. Blond, crew cut, probably wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Tell him it’s Jack, and it’s an emergency.”

“Hold on.”

We wait, listening to the background noise.

“Hey, Jackie!” Harry, from the kitchen. “Does this mean we’re not gonna have sex?”

I think back to the last time I killed several people at once. A family. Mom, Dad, teenage girl. I couldn’t remember the reason. But did I ever need a reason?

“Hello?”

“Phin!” The relief in Jack’s voice is obvious. “I need you to come to my house. Right away.”

“You don’t need another wedding date, do you? The last time didn’t work out well for me.”

“I…need your help.”

Jack gives Phin the address. Phin doesn’t answer.

“Hello? Hello? The call got dropped.” She presses a few buttons. “It isn’t working.”

“Let’s try Harry’s phone,” I say.

“How about instead, you try eating that gun, you freak-of-nature gargoyle!”

I make a mental note to cut out Harry’s tongue when I go back into the kitchen. Then I toss Jack the cell.

She presses some buttons then says, “No ser vice.”

I pick up the cordless phone on a table. No dial tone. Latham’s phone doesn’t work either. How strange. It’s almost as if someone is blocking the—

A bullet comes through the front window and the revolver jerks from my hand, flying across the room. I see the blood on my fingers, feel a sting, and realize that someone has shot me. My previous military experience makes me drop to the floor and elbow-crawl away from the window.

Jack yells, “Get down!” and she drags Latham to the floor. Then she inchworms over to Mom and pushes her chair over. Another shot hits the TV, causing the screen to explode.

“What the hell is going on!” Harry cries from the kitchen.

I see terror on Jack’s face. She says, “I think my work followed me home.”

9:03 P.M.
SWANSON

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!” Swanson barks into the radio. Some moron, probably Munchel, started shooting before he gave the signal. Swanson isn’t in place yet. Munchel’s rounds could cut through the whole house and come out on his end. Getting shot isn’t on Swanson’s list of things to do before he dies. Especially getting shot by friendly fire.

They’d tracked the GPS Munchel put on the cop’s bumper to this secluded house in Bensenville. The setup is good. Lots of trees, no neighbors, nice and dark. The plan is to form a triangle around the house, keep an eye on doors and windows, and wait until the cop shows her face. But everyone needs to get into position first.

Munchel’s voice comes through the radio. “Just zeroing out my scope.”

“Can’t you do that without shooting?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t as much fun.”

The radios, like the rifles, the scopes, the suppressors, the GPS, the portable cell phone jammer, and various other bits of military and spy gear belong to Pessolano. Pessolano also crept up to the house earlier and cut the phone line and cable connection, so the cop can’t call for help using the Internet.

So far, so good, but Swanson is still nervous as hell. The targets they’d eliminated a few hours ago had been easy, Munchel’s rampage aside. But that had been the result of weeks of training, planning, and surveillance. Even with Pessolano’s equipment and experience, this all seems slapped together at the last minute.

If given the choice, Swanson would have fled. But he fears that running might project a certain lack of trust, and then his handpicked teammates would feel the need to eliminate him as well.

So here he is, crouching behind a tree two hundred yards away from a woman cop’s house, ready to kill for the second time this night. Just to save his own ass.

The lights in the house are on, and he has a view into the living room from a forty-five-degree angle. Besides the large bay window in front, there are ten other windows around the house, and none have drapes or shades or blinds. There’s also a front door, a side door by the garage, and glass patio doors around back, which lead into the kitchen.

Swanson focuses the Leupold scope and squints through it, searching the living room.

It appears empty. Then he notices a foot protruding from behind a couch. That dumb-ass Munchel—his shot made the cop take cover. Swanson fumbles for the radio.

“Is everyone in position?” he asks. There’s no answer. He realizes he’s pressing the wrong button, finds the correct one, and asks the question again.

“Affirmative,” says Pessolano.

“Yeah,” says Munchel. “I see where two of them are hiding.”

Two of them?

“The cop is with someone?” Swanson asks.

“She’s with four other people.”

Five people? This keeps getting worse and worse. While the authorities did a piss-poor job keeping his wife’s attacker behind bars, they still caught him in the first place. They’re the good guys. Swanson wants to be one of the good guys too. He doesn’t see how killing cops and their families can be considered good.

Swanson hits the talk button and says, “Who is with her?”

“One of them is a chick with a gun. Another is a grandmother. And two men. One is sitting next to the refrigerator, the other is tied up.”

“Why is he tied up?”

“Don’t you ever tie up your old lady, Swanson?”

Swanson does a slow burn. He’s told Munchel what happened to Jen. Munchel is either so ignorant that he forgot, or he is throwing it in Swanson’s face.

Swanson lets it go. The sooner they get out of here, the better. He presses the talk button.

“We’re just going for the woman cop. The others are innocents.”

“Bullshit they are,” Munchel says. “I’m shooting anything that moves. I’m not leaving witnesses alive to come after me.”

“This is my team!” Swanson shouts into the radio. “I say we leave the civilians out of this!”

“You may have put this team together, but this here is a democracy. I say we vote on it. What do you think, Pessolano?”

There’s a pause. Then Pessolano says, “We kill them all.”

Swanson wonders how far he’ll get if he climbs into the car and just takes off. Will he make it to Mexico? Will these jokers track him down? Over the previous weeks, meeting and planning and training, Munchel and Pessolano had become his friends. But now they seemed like entirely different people. Crazy people.

“Fine,” Swanson says. He doesn’t have a choice. “We go on my mark. Get ready.”

Swanson squints through the scope, guesses where the head is in relation to the shoe he sees. The suppressor screwed into the barrel makes the rifle almost a foot longer, and more than a little unbalanced. Pessolano lectured them during the car ride over, saying that the suppressor won’t silence all of the noise. Silencers are fictional, because nothing can completely muffle a gunshot. The suppressors will also throw off the aim and reduce the bullet’s speed.

Earlier to night, they wanted the gunshots to be heard. They wanted the media attention. Now, working as quietly as possible is the way to go, because they have no idea how long this is going to take.

“One…” Swanson says, “two…”

Someone fires before he reaches three. That asshole Munchel. Then Pessolano is firing too. Swanson takes aim and squeezes the trigger.

The shot is off. Way off. And it’s still pretty loud, even with the suppressor. He loads another round, searches for a target, and can’t find any. He seeks out the radio.

“We get them?”

“Negative,” says Pessolano.

But Munchel hoots, so loud he can be heard without the radio.

“I think I nailed me a grandmother!”

9:07 P.M.
JACK

“WHEN ARE WE GOING to go shopping for drapes?”

Mom has been asking me that since we moved in. But whenever free time came along we used it to see a movie, go out to dinner, or catch up on the TV shows we recorded. I always assumed that Mom didn’t push the issue because she liked seeing woods on all sides of her.

Now I wish she had pushed the issue.

After the first two shots rip through the house, I tip Mom’s chair over, intent on dragging her into the hallway. While our house has a lot of windows, the hall bathroom boasts the smallest one, and the glass is frosted for privacy.

“Save Latham first,” Mom says.

I look at my fiancé, see he’s taken cover behind the sofa. The large bay window offers a wide view of the entire living room. I can’t get to him without making myself an easy target.

“He’s in the line of fire,” I tell her. Then I grab her chair leg and pull.

The chair doesn’t come easy. It keeps catching on the carpeting, and my movements are restricted by my bindings. But I find a rhythm and inch by inch I drag Mom out of the living room.

Halfway to the hall, all hell breaks loose. Bullets tear through the couch Latham is hiding behind. Windows shatter. Walls shake, the plasterboard throwing off powder like smoke. I cover Mom’s body with my own, realize that makes us a bigger target, and get on my knees and pull for all I’m worth.

I feel the impact vibration in my hands, know that Mom has been hit, and a moan/growl leaves my throat. Shots whistle past my head, and I tug Mom all the way into that bathroom, afraid to look at her, afraid not to look at her.

“Mom! Are you hit?”

Her eyes are closed. I can’t tell if she’s breathing.

I find scissors in the medicine cabinet, hack away at the duct tape, see the smoking bullet hole in the chair’s wooden seat.

“I think I’ve got splinters in my keister,” Mom says.

I cry in relief, give Mom a hug. The shooting stops.

“Latham!” At the top of my lungs.

“I’m okay!”

Thank God.

“I’m okay too!” Harry yells. “If anyone cares!”

I use a Dixie cup to get my mom some water from the sink. Then I holler at Harry, “Where’s Alex?”

“Don’t you care that I’m okay?”

I use the scissors on my legs, cutting away the tape.

“Dammit, Harry, do you see her?”

“I don’t see her. But her gun is in pieces.”

I stare down at my wrists. My handcuff keys are in my purse, in the kitchen. But I have extra handcuff keys, and an extra gun, in my bedroom. Unfortunately, it’s a handgun, and won’t help against the psychos outside. But it will help against the psycho in the house.

“Stay here!” I order my mother.

Then I rush out into the hallway, and bump right into Alex.

She stands there, hand bleeding, eyes wild, apparently unconcerned that she might get shot at any moment.

I still have the scissors. I thrust them at her, and she grabs my wrist with one hand and swings at me with the other, a round house punch. I bunch up and take it on the shoulder, then jerk my head forward, aiming for her nose.

I connect solidly, and Alex releases me, staggering back, hitting the hallway wall directly behind her. We face each other. A bullet whips through the small space between us.

“Lock the door!” I scream at my mother.

“Jack…”

“Dammit, Mom! Listen to me!”

I hear the door close, feel it press against my back. A bullet digs into the ceiling, raining bits of plaster on Alex and me. Her face twists in a half smile.

“What are you going to do with those scissors?” she asks. “Give me a haircut?”

I have other ideas. Gripping the scissors with both hands, I hold them before me like a sword, and feint a poke. She moves to dodge the fake attack, and I launch my real attack—a spin kick aimed at her ribs. Alex spins away and I miss, my foot making a dent in the wall.

“Jack!” Harry yells. “I think Alex is in the hall!”

I turn around, feel a breeze, and blink as a bullet passes in front of my face. Alex kicks my wrists and the scissors go flying. I throw myself at her, driving my shoulder into her side, using all of my 135 pounds.

Alex stumbles, falls. I sprint for my bedroom at the end of the hall. I open the door and see my cat, Mr. Friskers, sitting on the remains of a down pillow, surrounded by feathers. We keep him locked up in the bedroom because he has the tendency to destroy things and attack people. The shooting must have agitated him, because all the hair on his back is sticking straight up, as is his tail.

I keep one eye on the kitty—he isn’t an animal you turn your back on—and head for the closet.

Alex tackles me from behind, driving me to the floor. She lands on top, and she forces her arm under my chin, around my neck, and begins to squeeze.

It’s like having my head in a noose. I can’t take a breath and everything gets blurry. I look to my right, see Mr. Friskers staring. Apparently my looming death doesn’t interest him, because he trots out of the room. I look left, see a bunch of stuff under my bed, all of it covered with dust, none of it useful.

Alex lets up a bit on the choke hold—I guess she doesn’t want to kill me yet. I still can’t pull free, but I’m able to lower my chin just enough to clamp my jaws on her forearm.

She yelps. I bite. She pulls away. I twist onto my side, make my fingers stiff, and shove them into her kidney.

Alex grunts, rolling off of me. We both get to our feet, Alex cradling her bleeding arm. I’ve bitten pretty deep. Her eyes narrow to slits, and her scar tissue flushes bright pink.

“Is that what you got your black belt in?” Alex says. “Biting?”

“No.”

I pivot my hips, whip my leg around, and reverse-kick her upside the head. She staggers, but doesn’t fall. I follow it up with a flying kick, knocking her backward over my bed.

“Hey, Jackie!” Harry calls. “Is your cat friendly?”

My extra handcuff keys are in the jewelry box, on the dresser behind her. My gun is in the closet, zippered up in my shooting bag. If I go for the gun, there’s a chance Alex might wrestle it away from me before I get it out. But if I leave the room, she might go searching for it.

Alex stands up. I tug open the closet door, grab the bag, and head for the door.

“JESUS CHRIST! THE CAT HAS MY JOHNSON!”

A shot comes through my bedroom window, making a hole in my sleeve but missing my arm. Alex and I both drop to the floor. I take the opportunity to unzip my bag, and Alex gets onto all fours, poised to come at me. I toss the bag onto the bed, into the line of fire. The sniper proves my hypothesis by shooting the bag. Alex doesn’t reach for it. Neither do I. Instead, I scramble for the door.

“HE’S BITING ME! HE’S BITING ME!”

I feel her hand brush my ankle. I twist free and run in a crouch. Through the doorway. Down the hall. Into the kitchen.

Mr. Friskers has latched on to Harry’s crotch. Harry is unsuccessfully trying to yank him off.

“Don’t pull,” I say, running past. “It just makes him dig in.”

“HE’S GOT THE TWINS!”

Harry tugs on the cat’s tail, which Mr. Friskers really hates. He becomes a blur of fur and claws, hissing and scratching as Harry screams.

I search the floor for my purse, find it, dump the contents.

My handcuff key. I snatch it up just as Alex appears in the kitchen.

Two more shots ping through the windows, both of them hitting the fridge. Rather than duck down, it looks like Harry is trying to stick his groin in front of the bullets.

Then Alex pounces, coming at me low, arms outstretched and eyes crazed.

I go at her even lower, aiming for her ankles. I hook my elbow around her foot, tripping her, then roll to the side, bumping up against the dishwasher. I still have the handcuff key. I fumble with it, trying to find the keyhole.

Another shot, very close to Harry. Mr. Friskers screeches, jumping high enough to hit the ceiling. He lands on the floor and streaks out of the kitchen, apparently having had enough. Harry, bleeding and pissed off, points a finger at me.

“Why would you have a cat like that? Why?”

I get the key in, turn it.

My hand pops free. I yank open the dishwasher, intent on grabbing a knife.

Alex kicks the dishwasher door closed, and I barely escape with my arm. I thrust the knife, stabbing at her leg, and realize I have a spoon instead. She hits me with a right cross that brings the stars out, but I’ve been hit harder and I gather up a handful of her shirt and deliver an uppercut that sends the bitch staggering.

Then I’m on my feet. On my feet, hands free, angry as hell. I swing lefty, not making a fist, catching her just above the eyes with the handcuffs hanging from my wrist. I open up a gash on her forehead, and the blood trickles into her eyes, making it hard for Alex to see.

I scan the countertop, see the apple pie. I pick it up, still steaming hot, and chuck it at Alex’s head.

She ducks. The pie hits Harry, in the groin.

“JESUS CHRIST, IT BURNS!”

He slaps at the apples, which must only add to his discomfort. I fly back to the counter, grab the coffeemaker, and bounce it off Alex’s chest. Then I tug the toaster from the wall and swing the appliance around my head like a lasso. I’m not aiming to knock her out. I’m aiming to knock off her fucking head.

I release the cord. Alex puts up her hand to protect her head, and both her hand and the toaster smash into her face. Somehow she stays on her feet. I charge at her, snarling, ready to tear her throat out with my bare hands.

But before I can get to her the kitchen becomes a firing range, bullets zinging into cabinets and countertops. Glasses and plates shatter, pots and pans ding-dong with ricochets. Alex and I kneel on the ground and cover our heads, and McGlade pulls food and drawers and shelves out of the refrigerator as fast as he can, trying to fit himself inside, which is like trying to stuff a pot roast into a tube sock.

“Jack!” Mom cries from the bathroom. It’s a cry of concern, not pain.

“Stay there, Mom!”

The shooting eases up again. I look around for something to hit Alex with, and then I glance up and she’s standing over me, holding up the tabletop micro wave oven, ready to cave my skull in.

“Hey, pork chop face!” Harry says.

Alex turns.

“Got milk?” Harry asks. Then he smacks her in the head with a full jug of moo juice, hitting her so hard that she spins 360 degrees before sprawling out onto her back.

Her eyes are closed. She’s out cold.

Harry points to the milk all over the floor.

“Now promise me you won’t be crying over this, Jack.”

I can’t help myself. I have to grin at that.

“I promise, Harry.”

“Good. Now bring me that goddamn cat. I want my foreskin back.”

9:08 P.M.
HERB

“WHERE IN THE HELL is your partner?”

Herb stares at Blake Crouch, Chicago’s deputy chief, and says, “I don’t know.”

Crouch resembles a mole, with a long, sharp nose and tiny black eyes. Came from out of state, so he didn’t rise up through the ranks like much of the brass. Because of this, Herb suspects, Crouch thought he had to be a hard-ass to gain respect. Hence his nickname, Deputy Grouch. Someone needed to lecture this man about flies and honey and vinegar. Someone other than Herb, who spent an hour getting stitches in his leg and then even longer tap dancing with the Grouch in the ER, waiting for Jack to return.

Herb had called Jack on her cell and at home, several times each. No answer. Which worries him. Jack is the poster girl for being responsible. Being incommunicado isn’t like her at all.

“I’m going to send a team to the lieutenant’s apartment,” the Grouch says. “If I find out she’s deliberately hiding something…”

Herb shakes his head, his jowls wiggling.

“She’s not hiding anything, sir. It went down like I said.”

“I still need her statement. There’s blood in the water, and the sharks are circling the wagons.”

Herb has no idea what that means, and he guesses the Grouch doesn’t either. But he can’t let the deputy chief find out that Jack lives outside the city.

“She’s not at her apartment,” Herb says. “She’s with her mother. Her elderly, sickly mother.”

“Her mother is sick?” the Grouch asks.

“Very sick.”

“Which hospital is she in? I can meet—”

“She’s sick in the head,” Herb says.

“Is it pyromania?” the Grouch asks.

“Huh?”

“I had an aunt with pyromania. She’d knit sweaters, then set them on fire.”

Herb tries to judge if the Grouch is being funny, but he sees a tear in the corner of the man’s eye.

“I think she’s just failing mentally,” Herb says. “Jack ran out to the suburbs to check on her.”

“Do you know where?”

Herb shakes his head. The Grouch gets in close, so close his pointy nose almost touches Herb’s. Herb rears back slightly, afraid he’ll lose an eye.

“I will bring your partner before a disciplinary committee if I don’t hear from her within the hour. So if you have any clue where she might be, Sergeant, I suggest you find her.”

“Jack saved lives today,” Herb says, his voice steady.

“I don’t care if she saved the mayor’s daughter from being eaten by sharks…”

What is with this guy and sharks?

“…I want her debriefed right now. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Herb says.

The Grouch backs off a few feet.

“Good. Now I’ve got to talk to the media. They’re having a field day with their cockamamie theories.”

“Are they jumping the shark?” Herb asks innocently.

The Grouch doesn’t respond, already walking away from Herb’s hospital bed. Herb looks for nurses, then discreetly picks up his cell phone, which isn’t allowed in the ER. He can’t reach Jack at either number.

Herb knows his partner well. If Jack’s phones are off, that means something really serious is happening, something so serious it is making Jack neglect her responsibility here. Though Herb made up the story about Jack’s mother failing mentally, he knows she has some health problems. Could that be what’s taking Jack so long?

Herb tries the two hospitals nearest to Jack’s suburban home. Neither has admitted Mary Streng, or any elderly Jane Doe. He calls Dispatch, has them check suburban 911 calls. While he’s on hold, he digs into his pocket stock and eats a power bar. For energy. He considers drinking the bag full of bran-fortified breakfast shake, but dismisses the idea. Dispatch comes back, informs Herb there haven’t been any calls from Jack’s house.

The Novocain numbness makes it difficult to put his pants back on because he can’t feel if his leg is in the hole, and he can’t really see it either, thanks to a belly forged by de cades of poor dietary choices. But he manages, and then he straps on his empty holster—IA took his gun to rule out friendly fire from the crime scene—and puts his jacket on.

Then Sergeant Herb Benedict heads to the suburbs to find his partner.

9:09 P.M.
MUNCHEL

JAMES MICHAEL MUNCHEL takes another sip of Gatorade from his canteen, wipes the sweat off his eye, and peers through the scope again. So far, he’s been the lucky one. He has the kitchen covered, and that’s where most of the action has taken place.

From what he’s figured out, the tall bitch with the messed-up face is causing all sorts of problems for the female cop, the guy next to the refrigerator is stuck there because he has some kind of James Bond mechanical hand that won’t let go, and there’s a cat in the house in serious need of a distemper shot.

Munchel could have ended it for all of them, at any time. But he didn’t. He made sure his shots came close without hitting any of the targets. Scaring them, but not wounding them. He’s having too much fun for this to end.

That tight-ass Swanson is looking to kill everyone, then high tail it out of here, quick and dirty. But this should be savored. There’s a real-life drama going on inside the cop’s house. It’s far more interesting than Munchel’s everyday life, punching a clock at the English muffin factory. Munchel is the gluer there. His job, for eight mind-numbing hours from ten p.m. until six a.m., five days a week, is to add glue chips to the melter, which is then picked up by the roller, which paints glue on the flat cardboard blanks prior to them being folded into muffin packages. His work is literally about as much fun as watching glue dry.

He’s going to miss his shift to night. Maybe he’ll even be fired. But he doesn’t care. Right now he feels like he’s watching a movie. No, like he’s starring in a movie. Starring in it and directing it. He decides who dies first, who dies last. He has the power.

“Did you hit anyone yet?” Swanson, through the radio.

“Negative,” Pessolano answers.

Munchel hits the talk button. “I came close. They’re hiding. Don’t have a shot.”

He squints through the scope. The chick cop is right in his crosshairs. All he needs to do is pull the trigger, and it’s game over.

But where’s the challenge in that?

That gives Munchel an idea. A way to make this even more interesting, and to get the same adrenaline rush he got in Ravenswood. But he needs to get back to Pessolano’s pickup truck, which is parked in the woods half a mile away.

“I gotta take a leak,” he tells the guys. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Then Munchel stands up, stretches, and heads off to get another rifle.

9:10 P.M.
JACK

AFTER A SEMI-FRANTIC SEARCH I find the handcuff key on the kitchen counter. I unlock the remaining bracelet, drag Alex across the floor by her hair, and secure her wrists around the U pipe under the sink.

“See if she’s got my battery pack in her pocket,” Harry says.

I don’t like touching Alex—even restrained and unconscious she frightens me. But when I reach for her pocket she doesn’t leap up, break free, and then plunge a knife into my chest. She just lies there, unmoving. I locate the bulge in the front of her pants and tug out Harry’s battery. Well, a few pieces of it.

“Shit hell damn,” Harry says. “Kick her in the head, from me.”

“Can’t you pry open your hand?

“Yeah, why didn’t I think of that? Then I could have actually tried to hide, rather than just squat here like an idiot.”

I frown. “Maybe we could pull off the handle.”

“I already tried. Who the hell made this fridge? Brinks?”

Harry reaches inside, helps himself to one of my Goose Island India Pale Ales.

“Latham!” I call to the living room. “We got Alex subdued. You holding up okay?”

My honey answers affirmatively, but his voice is weak.

“How about you, Mom?”

“I’m good. Did you punch her lights out?”

“Harry did.”

“Nice job, Harry!”

“Thanks! But your daughter hit me in the dumplings with a hot pie.”

“Jacqueline!” Mom scolds. “Why did you do that?”

“It was an accident, Mom.”

“Did you apologize?”

I mutter, “Sorry, Harry.”

“She didn’t sound sincere!” Harry tells my mom.

I roll my eyes, then fish out a bag of peas from the freezer. I hold it to my sore chin and consider the situation.

Alex, for the moment, is secure. We have no cell phone ser vice, which means the snipers are jamming the signal. My landline is also out. Since my home phone goes through my cable connection, I assume my cable Internet is gone too.

I ponder the likelihood of someone hearing the gunshots and calling 911, and realize the chances aren’t good. The shooters are using suppressors, and the trees do a decent job of stopping the echoes.

Latham is still bound, still bleeding. I need to get to him, but between us is a vast open space, all of it viewable by the snipers. I counted at least two shooters, but I’m guessing that all three are here. I have no clue why. Are they pissed off I didn’t die in Ravenswood?

Harry picks an apple slice off of his shirt and pops it into his mouth. “I never got to thank you for inviting me over. We should do this more often.”

“Alex forced me, Harry. I tried to warn you.”

“No biggie. Who needs balls anyway? They make your pants fit funny.”

“It’s bad?” I ask.

Harry pulls out his waistband and peeks inside.

“I don’t think they’re supposed to swell up this big.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“I need to see Mr. Ripley.”

“Mr. Ripley?”

“The Believe It or Not guy. I should make a plaster mold for his museum.”

I toss him the frozen peas. He stuffs them down his pants.

“COLD!” Harry yells. “SO COLD!”

I stare at him, hopping from foot to foot, and then I look at the freezer door of the stainless steel refrigerator. It’s pockmarked with bullet holes, each in the center of a huge dent. Strange. Full-metal jacketed slugs should have punched right through without denting it. I crawl up to Harry to get a closer look.

“So what shitstorm did I wander into?” McGlade asks. He drains the beer, tosses the bottle at Alex’s head, misses, then reaches for another.

“Three snipers. They kill sex offenders. Call themselves TUHC.”

Harry belches and says, “The Urban Hunting Club.”

I appraise him. “You’ve heard of them?”

“No. But there’s a producer of DVD adult entertainment called TUBC. The Urban Booty Club. Lots of college girls taking off their tops and eating Popsicles, stuff like that. The first DVD is only nine ninety-nine, but that’s how they sucker you in, because they send you two new DVDs every month for twenty-nine ninety-nine each. And they’re only forty-five minutes long, which is a real rip-off.” Harry scratches his nose. “So I’ve heard.”

The Urban Hunting Club sounds right. That’s something a group of disgruntled blue-collar Grabowskis would call themselves.

“They killed three rapists to night, then gunned down ten cops,” I say. “Looks like they followed me home.”

“You think?”

I open the fridge, can’t find where the bullets have gone through on the inside. The door seems to have stopped them. I shake it, and hear some slugs rattling inside. I use a spoon to pry back the plastic molding, and a gray bullet drops out. It resembles a mushroom. The snipers have switched from jacketed rounds to soft points. A soft point has more stopping power, expanding on impact, but not the penetrating power of a full-metal jacket slug, which didn’t deform as much.

“You know, Jackie…” Harry stares down at me, “the top of your head is really sexy.”

“This is the only time you’ll ever see it, McGlade.”

He takes out his cell phone and snaps a picture.

“Hot,” Harry says. “I especially dig the gray roots coming in. I like a woman with de cades of experience.”

I ignore him, something I’m particularly good at. “We need to turn off the lights. We’ve got two in the kitchen, three in the living room, the hallway, the bedroom, and the garage. Then, when it’s dark, I can grab the gun bag in the bedroom, pop outside, and sneak up on these bastards.”

“You can kill all the lights at once,” Harry says. “Got a circuit breaker?”

“End of the hallway, in the laundry room.”

“I’ll wait here.” Harry shakes his prosthetic for effect.

“Actually, Harry, I’m thinking we use this refrigerator for cover.”

“You want to push this heavy thing all the way across a carpeted hallway? Good luck.”

“We’re going to push it.”

“And give the psycho kitty another chance to use Acorn Andy as a scratch post? No thanks.”

I reach into the refrigerator, take out the squirt gun we keep in there for when Mr. Friskers disagrees with guests.

“Just spray him if he gets close.”

“Like this?”

Harry squirts me in the face. Big surprise there. Then he sprays me in the chest a few times, squinting to see through the material. I take the gun away from him.

“Grow up, Harry.” I yell over my shoulder, “Mom! Latham! We’re going to shut off the electricity!” I face Harry again. “Let’s do this.”

Harry grins, then adjusts his peas. “All right, but I’m warning you—if it’s really heavy, I’m going to make you check me later on for a hernia.”

“I can’t wait,” I deadpan. Then I unplug the fridge and we begin to push.

9:21 P.M.
PESSOLANO

PAUL PESSOLANO PEERS THROUGH the yellow lenses of his aviator sunglasses, trying to find his backpack in the darkness. He can’t see shit. Pessolano feels around in the grass where he’s sitting, and locates one of the straps. He pulls the bag closer, lifts up his glasses so he can see inside, and removes a magazine filled with five Lapua .338 Mags. He pops the old magazine out of the TPG-1 and clicks the new one in place. Then he gives it a slap, like he’s seen in a thousand war movies.

Even though he told the others differently, Pessolano was never in the armed forces. The closest he ever got to the sands of Kuwait was Miami Beach. Six months ago he worked in a chain video store in Tampa. Then his elderly mother died. He quit his job, sold her house, and used the money to buy some top-of-the-line sniper rifles and surveillance equipment. His plan was to become a mercenary. Or a hit man. Or a wandering gun for hire, like George Peppard on The A-Team.

Work wasn’t easy to find. He tried reading the police blotter and calling up the parents of juveniles involved in illegal activities, asking if they wanted to hire him to make their lives easier. He never got any takers, and after cops showed up at his apartment (he hid inside and didn’t let them in) he fled the state.

Swanson’s ad in Soldier of Fortune, asking for “civic-minded mercs who wanted to make things right,” is the first freelance job Pessolano has actually been on. It doesn’t pay anything, but that’s okay. This is all about getting some experience. Once he turns this corner, he’s sure he’ll find other jobs. Because Pessolano is now, officially, a killer.

It was easy, killing the pervert. Pessolano had been worried about it, afraid he wouldn’t have the guts to pull the trigger when the clock struck five. But he pulled that trigger. And he shot that pervert in the back of the head. Baptized by fire, a culmination of the greatest few weeks of his life.

All the preparation, all the practice up to this point, didn’t seem real. Pessolano felt like he was living someone else’s life. He liked the feeling, but didn’t fully believe it. But he believes it now. He’s not a pretender. He’s the real deal. And he’s got the dead body to prove it, and good friends to share it with. Though Swanson seems a little soft, and Munchel a little crazy, they are his friends. That’s why he doesn’t mind them using his guns and equipment.

And now the thing Pessolano wants to do most is impress his friends. He knows they look up to him. If he can kill all five of the targets by himself, they’ll revere him even more. That’s why he’s using the better bullets. The Lapuas, which can shoot through a brick wall. These are the last of the full-metal jacket rounds. He gave Swanson and Munchel cheaper bullets—soft points. They work fine, but they aren’t as deadly as the Lapuas.

He pulls back the bolt. The brass flies out. He chambers a round and spends a minute tracking down the ejected cartridge and pocketing it. Then he presses his cheek against the pad and sights his target: the hallway. He can see all the way down to the laundry room. If he switches position, he can see into the bedroom where the two women were fighting over the black bag.

Perfect. Now all he has to do is wait.

The wait isn’t very long. After hunkering down for only a minute or two, something appears in his scope. Something large and silver.

A refrigerator. The woman cop and the guy with the fake hand are pushing it into the hallway, trying to use the doors for shields.

Pessolano smiles. One of his bullets could shoot through five of those fridges stacked side by side. He lines up the mil dots in the scope, aiming at the door she’s hiding behind, right where her heart should be.

9:22 P.M.
JACK

“DAMMIT, HARRY! PUSH!”

“Hold on. I need to hydrate.”

Harry reaches in the refrigerator for another beer. I’ve been in life-and-death situations with him before, and being flip is Harry’s normal MO. He lacks the ability to recognize the severity of his position. Either that, or he recognizes it and chooses to ignore it. I suppose the attitude has served him well so far, because despite the efforts of many people, Harry McGlade isn’t dead yet. But I don’t want to get my head blown off because he thinks everything is one big joke. Harry might have delusions of immortality. I don’t.

So I take the beer from his hand and shove it back in the fridge.

“Stop acting like an idiot and let’s push this thing. On three. One…two…three!”

I half expect him to reach for the beer again, or shoot me with the squirt gun, but Harry knuckles down and pushes. The fridge is a high-end model, the rollers heavy-duty. It moves easily on the kitchen linoleum. But when we get onto the carpet, every inch becomes a battle. The hallway isn’t long—no more than twenty-five feet—but it might as well be a mile. We strain and shove and grunt, putting our weight into it, digging our heels in. In less than a minute we’re both winded, and the fridge hasn’t moved down the hallway more than three feet.

“Do you need help?” Mom, from the bathroom.

“Hell yeah!” Harry says.

“Mom, stay where you are.”

“She wants to help, let her help.”

“She’s not—”

The bullet punches cleanly through the refrigerator door, and I feel it tug against my jacket’s shoulder pad. I drop onto the ground, hugging the floor, thinking, Oh my God, that wasn’t a soft point.

“Uh-oh,” Harry says.

He kneels next to me, but his mechanical hand prevents him from lying down. Another bullet hits the fridge, a few inches above his head. I consider crawling down the hall, back into the kitchen, but that would leave Harry stranded in the hallway, an open target.

“Run, Jack!”

I can’t believe it. Harry isn’t the heroic, self-sacrificing type.

“Run in front of the bullets!” he yells. “Shield me!”

I stand up, put my palms on the refrigerator door, and scream at him, “Push!”

We push. And we’re surprisingly effective. Funny how someone shooting at you can give you extra motivation. We move the fridge two feet, then four, a bullet barreling through the door only two inches from my hand, then we get some momentum going and we’re really making headway. Then another shot rings out and Harry falls to his knees and cries, “I’m hit!”

We’re less than a foot away from the bathroom. If we make it there, we can duck inside and dodge the gunfire. But Harry is useless, clutching his shoulder.

I suck in a big breath, find some deep, hidden reserve, and put everything I have into pushing that refrigerator another two feet, Harry on his knees and barely able to keep up. I reach the door, then help Mom drag Harry into the bathroom, to safety.

Harry sits on the floor, his metal hand still holding on to the refrigerator door. Mom takes another pair of scissors from the medicine cabinet and begins cutting off his shirt, looking for the bullet hole. True to his name, Harry has the hairiest chest I’ve ever seen. It looks like he’s wearing a brown and gray sweater. Mom cuts all the way up to the shoulder, but Harry refuses to take his hand away from the wound.

“I don’t want to look,” he says, hyperventilating.

My mom pats his head. “It’s okay.”

“If I die, I want you to make the funeral arrangements, Jack.”

“I will.”

“I want strippers there.”

“Okay, Harry.”

He removes his hand, reaches out for me. I hold it. Mom pulls away his shirt and reveals—

“It’s a scratch,” I say.

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” Harry moans. “I can handle the truth.”

I release his hand and peer at the thin red line. I’ve given Latham worse injuries with my fingernails.

“It’s not even worth a Band-Aid, McGlade.”

“You got a mirror?”

I hand him the tweezing mirror from the vanity. He holds it on an angle and looks.

“We cut my shirt off for this? I paid sixty bucks for that shirt.”

I sigh, stand up. Mom, however, stares down at Harry with a strange look on her face.

“Mom, you all right?”

“Harry…McGlade is your last name, right?”

“Yeah. Harrison Harold McGlade. I see you’re loving my chest hair. The ladies think it’s cute. I go into bars, ask them if they want a fuzzy navel. Then I lift up my shirt and jiggle. If it gets a laugh, I ask them if they’d like something stiffer.”

Mom seems transfixed.

“Is that a birthmark on your chest?”

“Port-wine stain. Looks like a fish, doesn’t it?”

Harry uses his fingers to part the gray, giving us a better view. His birthmark is several inches long, and indeed shaped like a fish, with an ovalish body and a triangle-like tail.

“Yes, it does,” Mom says. “It’s very distinctive. How old are you? Forty-nine?”

“Yeah. But the doctor says I have the body of a thirty-year-old, if the thirty-year-old was really unhealthy and close to death.”

I don’t like where this is going. My mother seems way too interested in Harry. “Mom?”

She ignores me. “Were you born in March?”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “On the twenty-ninth. How did you know that?”

Mom’s knees begin to shake, and I put my arm around her for support.

“Mom? What’s wrong?”

“One last thing,” Mom says to Harry. “Were you adopted?”

Oh my God, no. A thousand times no.

Mom had told me that before she met my father, she had a baby out of wedlock. A baby boy. With a sailor she had a one-night stand with when she was a teenager. When I became a cop, I’d tried to track my half brother down, tickled that I had a sibling out there. But I never thought that my brother could be someone like…

“No,” Harry says.

Thank Christ.

“I was raised by the state,” he continues. “In an orphanage.”

Mom’s jaw hangs limp. So does mine. Harry puts two and two together and says, “Are you saying that I might be your son?”

Mom nods.

Harry grins, his smile as wide as a canoe.

“Mom! Sis! It’s so good to be home!”

9:28 P.M.
JACK

IF KARMA IS REAL, I must have done something unspeakable in a previous life.

“This has to be some kind of mistake,” I say to my mother. I may have actually been pleading a little. “He doesn’t look anything like you.”

“He looks like his father.”

Harry makes puppy dog eyes and says, “Mom? Tell me about Dad.”

I don’t have time for this. Latham is bleeding and we’re surrounded by snipers. I need to kill the lights and grab the gun.

I poke my head into the hallway, on the opposite side of the fridge. While FMJs can shoot through it, the snipers can’t see through it. That means I can run to the laundry room and hit the circuit breaker without being spotted.

“He was a sailor,” Mom says. “I never knew his last name.”

“I’m going for the fuse box,” I say.

“What was his first name, Mom?”

Mom pats Harry on the head. “His name was Ralph.” She used the same soothing voice on me when I was younger and sick with the flu. “You have his eyes.”

“I’m going now,” I announce. “I hope I make it.”

“Did you love him?” Harry ask.

Mom says, “For about three hours.”

“Wow,” Harry says. “Three hours.”

“Latham!” I call out to my fiancé. “I’m going for the circuit breaker!”

I hoped for a be careful. Instead I got: “Is that creepy private eye really your brother?”

I rub my eyes.

“Ralph had a lot of body hair too,” Mom says. “All over.”

That’s my cue. I duck low, suck in a breath, then hustle out the door and down the rest of the hallway, skidding into the laundry room. No one shoots me. The circuit breaker is on the wall, next to the dryer. I hook a finger through the metal ring on the door and tug. It’s stubborn, and doesn’t want to open. The panel isn’t broken, it has a strong spring inside that makes sure it’s always closed. I pull really hard, my finger aching, and then it finally gives. I squint at the rows of breakers, and press the large black button that reads MAIN.

The house goes dark, and the panel door slams back into place. I don’t hesitate, scrambling back into the hall, using memory and feel to find my bedroom. I take four steps inside before bumping into the bed. Then I spread my hands out over the top, seeking the ammo bag. My fingers brush the carrying strap, and I jerk the bag to me. I work the zipper, stick my hand inside, and yank out my competition pistol, a Kimber Eclipse II .45 ACP. I flip the safety and jack a round into the chamber. I feel around for extra clips, find three. They’re all empty. Bullets have been on my shopping list for a while.

There’s also a nylon holster in the bag. I shrug that onto my shoulder, the straps getting twisted in the dark but still doing the job.

Then I head for the window to sneak outside and round up the bad guys.

9:31 P.M.
PESSOLANO

WHEN THE LIGHTS GO OUT in the house, Pessolano takes the Leupold optics off the quick-release mount, puts it back into his bag, and attaches a Gen 3 starlight scope to the rifle.

Night vision works by using an image intensifier with a photoelectric effect to amplify ambient light. At least, that’s what the instruction manual says. Pessolano doesn’t understand it, but he knows that it turns images from pitch-black into a phosphorescent green.

He peers through the scope, and there, silhouetted at the bedroom window, is the female cop. He has one remaining Lapua FMJ round left, so he aims carefully, trying to adjust for the wind that has picked up.

BANG!

He sees the bullet strike the cop in the head, sees her jerk back, and smiles as she collapses.

“Bull’s-eye,” Pessolano says to himself.

This is so much more rewarding than working at a video store.

9:34 P.M.
MARY

MARY STRENG IS STILL TRYING to wrap her mind around the possibility that this strange man in her bathroom might actually be her son.

Almost fifty years have passed since she gave up her infant boy. She doesn’t remember his exact birthday, only that it was before Easter, and bitterly cold. Labor had been lonely, frightening, miserable, the pain of childbirth exacerbated by the knowledge that she wasn’t going to keep her baby. She’d gotten pregnant at eighteen years old, still in high school. Dropped out when she began to show. Left home soon after that, never telling her parents the reason why, preferring their protestations to their judgments. Got a job at a deli in another part of town. Lived in a fugue for a few months, then moved back home and finished school when it was all over.

She used to fantasize that someone adopted her son. Someone rich and caring, who spoiled him with extravagant gifts. A year later she met her future husband and got on with her life. Mary still thought of her son sometimes, on cold days in March, but she managed to forgive herself.

Hearing that Harry had been raised by the state, and not by Mary’s imaginary perfect family, reopened a long-sealed box of regret. She wants to ask him about his life. If he’s happy. If his childhood was okay. If he hates her.

Then she hears the shot, hears the thump of her daughter hitting the floor, and all thoughts of her past flit away.

“Jacqueline!”

No answer.

A feeling of dread unlike any she’s ever experienced drops over her like a shroud. Without giving it a second thought she grabs a flashlight from the bathroom closet and rushes into the hallway.

“Be careful,” Harry says after her. “Keep low.”

Mary doesn’t bother doing either. She moves as fast as she can, hurrying into the bedroom. Jacqueline is on floor, beside the bed. Her eyes are closed. Her hair is soaked with blood.

Oh no. Oh no no no no.

Mary kneels next to her daughter and directs the light onto the wound, her hands trembling. She can’t see the injury—there’s too much blood. Mary grabs a pillow, pulls off the case, uses that to mop at the spot that’s bleeding.

It’s a deep gash, three inches long, an inch wide. Mary presses the fabric to Jacqueline’s scalp, pulls it away, and can see her daughter’s skull bone, a startling white, before the blood begins to flow again. The bullet must have grazed her head, digging a trench in her skin. Thank God the bullet didn’t strike an inch lower.

Mary’s relief is short-lived, because the blood keeps coming. She estimates Jacqueline has already lost close to a pint, and she’s still pumping it out. Mary wraps the already-soaked pillowcase around her daughter’s head, tying it under her chin like a babushka. In the bathroom, there’s a first-aid kit. She could go and get it, then come back, but she’s unsure if the kit will be enough to stop the bleeding. Better to bring Jacqueline into the bathroom. Then Harry could help.

Keeping low, Mary pulls the comforter off the bed, and then the sheet beneath it. She lays the sheet on the floor, and with a deep grunt she rolls Jacqueline on top of it, placing the flashlight on her daughter’s chest. The effort leaves Mary gasping for air, but she doesn’t pause, instead crawling to the foot of the sheet and grasping it as hard as she can in her arthritic hands. Then she scoots back on her butt and pulls.

Pain, like sparks, shoots from Mary’s knuckles, up her arms, where it meets with other pain from her shoulders and back. Mary grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut, and fights against the pain. Arthritis produces a deep ache, like a migraine in the bones. Mary takes drugs to control the worst of it, even though they make her dizzy. She’s missed her last pill. The agony is worse than childbirth. Worse than a toothache.

Jacqueline slides across the carpeting, about a foot.

Mary doesn’t rest. She scoots back again, takes a deep breath, and pulls.

Another foot.

And another.

And another.

She reaches the bedroom doorway, her whole body shaking. The pain in her knuckles has become so bad that she’s moaning. She can’t make a fist anymore, so she wraps the sheet around her hands, around her wrists, which presses her inflamed knuckles together.

Pull.

Pull.

Pull.

“You’re almost there, Mom!” Harry shouts. “Just a little more!”

To take her mind off the agony, Mary thinks about Jacqueline’s birth, of holding her for the first time and saying, “Hello, my angel. I’m your mother. I’m going to be taking care of you, for the rest of my life.”

How those words meant so much to Mary, because she’d given up her previous child. How she swore to keep that promise, even if she lived to a hundred.

Pull.

Hurry.

Pull.

Save your daughter.

Pull.

The most important job anyone can ever have is being a mother. Remember your promise. Now dig deep and move it, old lady!

“Gotcha!”

Harry stretches out, touches Mary’s shoulder, then grabs a fistful of sheets. He tugs Jacqueline up to the bathroom, and they both muscle her through the door.

Mary tries to stand but she’s too weak. Her hands are screaming. She shoves the flashlight into her armpit, crawls to the closet, finds the first-aid kit, fights with the damnable zipper on the nylon case, and opens it up.

Inside are Band-Aids, antibacterial ointment, smelling salts, packets of Tylenol, gauze pads, cotton balls, an Ace bandage, and various other items. Mary selects a roll of white medical tape.

“Harry, get this roll started.”

Harry picks at the end, trying to get his fingernails under it. He manages, and Mary tears off a strip with her teeth, the only part of her body that still works. She crawls back to her daughter.

Jacqueline is still unconscious, but she’s panting. Mary feels her heart, and it’s like she has a hummingbird trapped in her rib cage.

“She’s hyperventilating.”

“Tachycardia,” Harry says. “She’s going into hypovolemic shock.”

Mary stares at him. “What does that mean?”

“She’s lost so much blood that her body isn’t getting oxygen, so her heart is pumping faster to compensate for it.”

“What do we do?”

“Stop the bleeding, and get her a transfusion. Then feed her some liquids.”

Mary stares at him, impressed.

Harry shrugs, says, “I’ve got the first three seasons of ER on DVD. Great show.”

Mary hands Harry the flashlight, then turns her attention back to her daughter. She soaks up some blood with a hand towel and then pinches the wound closed and tries to use the tape to keep the edges together. It doesn’t work; the blood comes too fast, getting on the adhesive so it won’t stick.

“I need another piece,” she says.

Harry follows her example and rips off a strip of tape with his teeth. Mary tangles the tape in Jacqueline’s hair, unable to stop the bleeding.

“Do you have a sewing kit?” Harry asks.

Mary holds up her gnarled hands. “I haven’t sewn in twenty years.”

“How about safety pins?”

Mary checks the first-aid kit, doesn’t find any safety pins. She has to go into her bedroom.

“Hold the towel,” she tells Harry. “Keep the pressure on. I’ll be right back.”

Mary takes the flashlight and hurries into the hallway, heading for her room. She finds the box of safety pins in her desk drawer. She also sees an inkjet refill kit for her computer printer and takes that as well.

When she gets back into the hallway, the shooting resumes.

Mary drops down to all fours, her old bones creaking with pain. Round after round hit the refrigerator, but none penetrate it. Mary guesses they’re using hollow points, or something similar. They must have night-vision scopes as well. And suppressors; the gunshots aren’t nearly as loud as they should be. Mary wishes she still had her father’s Winchester rifle—she’d be happy to show these men how to shoot.

The onslaught ends. Mary hopes that one of their neighbors heard the shots, called 911, but quickly dismisses the notion. Their neighbors all know that Jacqueline is a police officer. They won’t call the cops on a cop making too much noise.

Mary crawls back to the bathroom.

“Help me open these safety pins.”

Harry is almost as useless with his left hand as Mary is with both of her hands combined, and they drop pin after pin without getting one open. It’s an exercise in frustration, made unbearable because neither one of them is keeping pressure on Jacqueline’s wound, and the blood is just pouring out of her.

“Got one,” Harry says.

Mary grasps the open safety pin, holding it up like a rare jewel.

“Hold the light.”

Harry aims the beam while Mary goes to work on Jacqueline’s head. It’s slippery, hard to see, and neither the pin nor her hands want to cooperate. But Mary stays focused, fights the pain, and she gets the pin through both sides of her daughter’s gash.

Closing the safety pin is even harder than opening it. She pinches it, again and again, but it resists her every effort.

Jacqueline’s breath becomes shallow, weak. Mary wants to cry.

“Staples,” Harry says. “TV doctors use those all the time.”

That might work. Mary tries to stand, but she’s too weak. Harry helps her up.

“You can do it, Mom,” he says.

Mary nods, takes the flashlight, and heads into the hallway again, back to her bedroom. She has a senior moment, unable to remember where her stapler is, but sees it on the desk. She opens the top, checking to make sure it’s loaded.

A shot comes through the window, knocking the computer monitor off the desk. Mary considers dropping down to the floor, worries that she might not be able to get back up, and hurries for the door instead.

In the hallway, the fridge is once again being used for target practice, round after round dinging into it. Mary stays low, makes it back to the bathroom, and sits next to Jacqueline. The safety pin is still in her daughter’s head, pinching the ends of the wound together even though it isn’t closed.

Mary swings out the stapler base, presses the magazine to Jacqueline’s head, and pushes down.

It works. The staple holds.

She repeats the process eight more times, the bleeding slowing to a trickle.

“There’s witch hazel in the vanity,” she says to Harry.

“Witch hazel. Stat.”

He hands it down, and she pours it on Jacqueline’s head, hoping that’s enough to sterilize it. Then she towels off the excess and uses the medical tape to seal the wound completely.

“Once again, the day is saved by television,” Harry says. “Eat your heart out, George Clooney. I kind of look like him, don’t I?”

Mary lets out a long breath. “You’re practically twins.”

Now for the transfusion Harry mentioned.

“I don’t have any IV needles,” Mary says. “But this came with my ink refill kit.”

She reaches into the box and takes out a twenty-cc syringe, still in its package.

“Is that even sharp enough?” Harry asks.

“I’m going to find out.”

Mary bites the wrapper off. The needle is long, pointy. She stares down at her own arm, looking for a vein.

“What blood type are you?”

“Does it matter? I’m her mother. I should be compatible.”

Harry shakes his head. “That’s not how it works. What are you?”

“Type A.”

“What’s Jack?”

“Type O.”

“Type O is the universal donor. Jack could give you blood. But if you give her blood, you’ll kill her.”

Mary stares down at Jacqueline, watching her gasp for oxygen that her body isn’t absorbing. Mary almost starts crying again. Seeing her daughter suffer, and not being able to help, is the worst torture a parent can endure.

“I’m Type O,” Harry says. “She can have some of my blood.”

Mary touches his face and says, “Thank you, son.”

Harry smiles. The smile quickly falls away when she jabs him in the arm with the needle.

“Jesus!” He shirks away. “I think you hit bone!”

Mary pulls the plunger, filling the syringe with blood.

“You don’t have any diseases, do you?” Mary asks.

“Nothing that can’t be cured with antibiotics,” Harry says through his teeth.

Jacqueline has thin wrists, and her veins are easy to find. Mary’s hands are curled into painful claws, and the syringe is hard to hold, but she manages to give Jack twenty ccs of Harry’s blood.

“How many pints do you think Jacqueline has lost?” she asks Harry.

“Two, maybe more.”

“How many syringes is that?”

Harry turns very white.

“How many, Dr. Clooney?” Mary asks again.

Harry mumbles a number.

“Pardon me?”

“Forty or fifty,” Harry says, rubbing his eyes.

Mary takes his hand. “Jack and I won’t forget this.”

Harry yelps when she sticks him again.

9:56 P.M.
SWANSON

THIS IS TAKING FAR TOO LONG. The more time Swanson squats here, waiting for a shot, the more time he has to dwell on why this is the granddaddy of all bad ideas.

So far, he’s only killed one man—the one who attacked Jen. That scumbag deserved to die. It isn’t Swanson’s fault that Munchel went butternuts and wasted all of those cops. Swanson had nothing to do with that. But this—staking out a police officer’s house and trying to murder everyone inside—Swanson is a full participant in this colossal mistake. Prior to this, a savvy lawyer could ensure that he wasn’t charged with Munchel’s murder spree, and a sympathetic jury might even let him off for wasting the pervert. But he’ll get the death penalty for what he’s doing right now.

The temperature has dropped, the wind picking up. Swanson wipes the sweat off the back of his neck, finds it cold as a mountain stream. He’s on his stomach, legs behind him, and his right pants cuff has ridden up, exposing his calf to the cool night air. He wastes a moment reaching back, covering his skin, and his shirt untucks and bares his belly to the breeze.

Noise, to his right. Swanson tries to swing the cumbersome TPG-1 around, gets the barrel hung up on the ground. He moans in his throat, getting onto his knees, ready to run for it.

“Easy, Swanson. It’s me.”

Pessolano.

“Dammit! You scared the crap out of me! I could have shot you!”

“Hard to shoot while running away.”

Swanson thinks about correcting him, about insisting he was adjusting his position for a better shot. For some reason, even with everything going to hell, Swanson wants the respect of his men. He’s still team leader, still the one calling the shots.

But instead of making excuses he takes control, asking, “Why didn’t you contact me over the radio?”

“Didn’t come here to talk.”

Pessolano hands something to him. A scope.

“Night vision,” Pessolano says, “to see inside the house.”

Swanson takes it. Of course Pessolano has night-vision scopes. If everyone in the house turned into vampires, Swanson would bet that Pessolano also came equipped with stakes and garlic. “Did you give one of these to Munchel?”

“I went to his spot. He wasn’t there.”

Swanson frowns. “Munchel is gone?”

“Said he wasn’t there, didn’t I?”

“I heard shots coming from his direction a minute ago.”

“That was me. I put a few into that refrigerator. That’s a seriously heavy-duty appliance. I may pick one up for myself.”

Swanson feels like a kite in a high wind, his string unraveled to the end and ready to break.

“Maybe we should go too,” Swanson says.

Pessolano hawks up a big one, spits it in the grass where Swanson had been lying.

“I got the cop,” Pessolano says. “Head shot.”

Another cop dead. Swanson feels like cringing, but doesn’t. Pessolano is wearing those stupid yellow sunglasses, and Swanson doesn’t know if he can see his expression in the dark. So he forces himself to say, “Good work. Then we can get out of here. I bet Munchel got bored and went back to the bar.”

“We’re staying,” Pessolano says.

“Why? The cop is dead.”

“There are witnesses.”

“How can there be witnesses? They can’t see us. We’re two hundred yards away.”

“Munchel said the cop had an infrared scope.”

“Munchel’s gone!” Swanson yells. “How do we know he was telling the truth?”

“Vehicle approaching,” Pessolano says.

They both drop to their bellies. A dark sedan rolls into the cop’s driveway and parks behind the other three cars.

Pessolano begins unfolding his bipod, setting his rifle up.

“What are you doing?” Swanson hisses.

Pessolano pulls back the bolt and loads a round. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“We don’t even know who it is!”

“Who cares?”

Swanson stares, overcome with impotence, as Pessolano shoots out a tire on the sedan. The car shifts into reverse, but Pessolano puts two quick shots into the engine, forcing a stall. The driver parks the car, kills the headlights. Swanson uses the night-vision scope, sees a portly man get out on the passenger side, opposite the rifle fire. The man has a badge hanging around his neck.

Another police officer.

“It’s a cop,” Swanson hisses. “He might have called for backup.”

Pessolano slaps another magazine into his Alpine.

“He didn’t. I’ve been watching.”

“But he still can. I’m sure he has a radio in the car.”

Pessolano squeezes off another shot, and the sedan’s window shatters.

“Not anymore,” Pessolano says.

Swanson looks behind him, in the direction of their truck. He can still run for it. He’s only killed the one pervert. He’s still one of the good guys.

“I don’t have a shot on the fatty,” Pessolano says. “I’m changing position. Cover me.”

Swanson continues to stare off into the darkness, away from the mayhem going on around him.

Pessolano’s voice is soft, menacing. “During Desert Storm, we executed deserters.”

Swanson turns back, locks eyes with Pessolano. Though Swanson knows diddly-squat about the military, he’s pretty sure that they don’t kill the people who run away. They get court-martialed, or arrested, or something less serious. He wonders, not for the first time, if Pessolano has been lying about his war record. Or if the man has even served at all.

“Are you threatening me?” Swanson asks.

“We started this war,” Pessolano says. “We have to end it.”

Jen leaps into Swanson’s mind. His sweet, innocent, damaged wife. She isn’t aware of Swanson’s plan, has no clue he just killed the man who attacked her. It’s supposed to be a surprise for her birthday. He’s pictured the scene in his mind a thousand times: He shows her the newspaper, she sees that it’s finally over, that she can finally go back to the way she used to be, then he admits that he’s the one who pulled the trigger, and she embraces him, calls him her hero, and everything goes back to the way it used to be.

Will Jen still think he’s a hero if he kills a bunch of cops? Will she understand that the only way to see this thing through is if some innocent people die?

No. Jen will never understand that. She will never forgive him.

“Are you going to cover me or not?” Pessolano asks.

Swanson makes his decision. A decision Jen can never know.

“I’ll cover you,” he tells Pessolano. “Just show me how to change scopes.”

10:00 P.M.
HERB

SQUATTING IS NOT A POSITION that Sergeant Herb Benedict enjoys, and he enjoys being shot at even less. He doesn’t even have a gun to return fire, thanks to Internal Affairs. Not that it would do much good. The sniper is at least two hundred yards away, well out of range for a handgun. Herb can’t even pinpoint his location. The darkness, and the woods, make him invisible.

Though he realizes how dire this situation is, years of experience prevent Herb from panicking. Though his heart rate is up—more from surprise than fear—he keeps a clear head and is able to focus on survival.

He’s hiding behind the front wheel, on the passenger side, opposite of the shooter. Hubcaps and axles offer more protection than aluminum and upholstery, but he doesn’t know how much more. He needs to find better cover.

Herb tugs out his cell, can’t get a signal. He plays the hold up the phone and wave it around game without success, then tucks it back into his jacket pocket and fingers the plastic zipper bag full of high-fiber sugar-free weight loss shake—his allotted mid-afternoon snack and what he should have consumed earlier instead of all those power bars. He briefly considers cracking it open—he’s suddenly very thirsty—but he holds off. Being a career cop, Herb has contemplated his own death many times. He’s watched his own funeral in his mind’s eye, and doesn’t want the mourners’ chatter to revolve around: “Did you hear he died with a diet drink in his hand?”

Plus, the sugar-free weight loss shake tastes a lot like mud, with grit in it. His wife mixes one for him every morning, adding extra fiber per the doctor’s orders.

If she added something better, like grated cheese, then he’d drink the damn things.

Herb squints. There’s no light anywhere around. Jack’s house is roughly forty feet away, completely dark. Though hefty, and getting up there in years, Herb can move fast when he has to. But if the door happens to be locked, he’ll be stuck out in the open. And he knows he isn’t a terribly difficult target to hit.

He shifts his attention to Jack’s large bay window. If he got up enough speed, perhaps he could crash through it, though the possibility of being cut to hamburger doesn’t please Herb, even though he really likes hamburger. Besides, it’s likely Jack is just as pinned down inside as he is outside.

Herb is operating under the assumption that his partner is still alive, still okay. Why else would a sniper still be in the area?

He considers his options. The car is trashed, as is the radio. Jack’s car is ahead of his in the driveway, along with two others—a Corvette and a sedan—but he doesn’t have keys for them. There are no neighbors in sight, though Herb passed a house maybe a quarter mile up the road. Plus, there’s always the run away screaming possibility.

Herb guesses the sniper has night vision, and also guesses, from the previous angle of fire, that he will change positions to get a better shot. There’s also a good possibility that more than one sniper is on the premises. They could have followed Jack home from the Ravenswood crime scene. They may be lining up their shots right now, as he squats here, knees aching, wondering what to do next.

Running away screaming is holding more and more appeal. Unfortunately, there’s no place to run. It’s thirty yards to the nearest tree, and it’s a sapling that won’t provide any cover. He’ll be picked off before he gets halfway there.

A shot impacts the driver’s door. Then another. Only three payments left, he thinks, ducking down even lower. He touches his pants. His stitches have ripped, and blood has soaked through. When the Novocain wears off, that’s probably going to hurt.

The tire he’s squatting beside explodes. He jerks in surprise, rocking backward onto his ass. Another shot plows into the side of his Chrysler, where he was only a second ago.

He’s in a crossfire. No place to run. Nowhere to hide.

Herb’s a practical guy, and he understands his chances of survival aren’t good. But he’s not ready to die quite yet. He and his wife were planning on visiting Italy for the holidays. He’s never been, and has heard the food is spectacular.

Thinking fast, he stands up, filling his lungs, and makes a mad dash up the driveway.

After four steps the shot comes. His whole body jerks to the left, bouncing hard into the rear fender of Jack’s car. Herb staggers, takes two zombie-like steps forward, a short step backward, and then drops to his knees.

He moans, just once, a moan of pain and surprise, and his hands seek out the sudden dampness soaking his right side.

Sergeant Herb Benedict thinks of his wife, pictures her kind smile. Then he stops breathing and falls onto his face, his eyes wide open and staring blankly into the dark night.

10:06 P.M.
PESSOLANO

PESSOLANO WATCHES the fat cop die.

It’s bloody.

Counting the woman cop by the window, this brings Pessolano’s death toll to three. Not the eighteen confirmed kills he lied to Munchel about back at the bar, but not bad for his first day as a real-life mercenary. Not bad at all.

He points the Gen 3 starlight scope at the large bay window, looking for number four.

10:11 P.M.
JACK

THE SMELL OF AMMONIA spikes up my nostrils, and I wake up to the worst headache I’ve ever had. I open my eyes, squinting against the flashlight in my face, realizing I’m on my bathroom floor.

Mom stares down at me, her face a picture of worry.

“You okay?” I ask her. My throat is really dry, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.

“I’m fine, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy. Wake me up in a few hours.”

I close my eyes again, get another whiff of ammonia.

“Mom! Quit it!” I reach up to push the smelling salts away.

“Harry says you shouldn’t sleep after a head injury.”

Harry?

“You need to wake up, sis,” he says. “We’re still in a lot of trouble.”

It comes back to me in a big, ugly rush. Alex. The snipers. Finding out Harry McGlade might be my brother. I raise my hand to my head and gently probe the spot that hurts the most. I touch matted hair and tape, and what might be a staple.

“Did I get hit in the head?” I ask.

“You were shot,” Mom says. “You’ve been out for over half an hour.”

“That long? I remember turning off the circuit breaker. But nothing after that.”

“You’re lucky,” Harry says. “I’m going to remember this last half hour for the rest of my life.”

I cough. “I’m thirsty.”

Harry sticks his hand out the bathroom door, and comes back with a bottled water from the refrigerator. Mom shines the flashlight on him, and I can see that he’s been crying. I take the water, oddly touched by his concern. He must really be worried about me.

Mom puts her hand on my face, strokes my cheek.

“One more,” she says.

Harry vigorously shakes his head. “No. Please. Thirty-eight is enough.”

“Just one.”

“I can’t take it,” he says. “I’m one big hematoma.”

“Don’t be a baby. You have plenty of blood left. Let’s try your leg.”

Mom holds up a syringe. Harry tries to back away, but he doesn’t have anywhere to go.

“Not that leg!” Harry cries. “The veins are all collapsed!”

My mother doesn’t heed him, jabbing him in that leg.

“Holy hell, it hurts so bad!”

Fresh tears flow down his cheeks. So much for him worrying about me.

“Harry’s such a brave boy,” Mom says. “Aren’t you, Harry?”

He moans. “I need aspirin. A shitload of aspirin.”

That seems like a good idea. I sit up, intent on visiting the medicine cabinet. Vertigo kicks in, making everything lopsided, and the pain gets so bad I see spots. I sip some water, try to get my vision to track correctly.

“Is Jack okay?” Latham, from the living room.

“She’s a bloodthirsty demon!” Harry moans. “Draining me dry!”

“I’m okay,” I call to him. “How are you doing?”

“Getting drowsy.”

“Maybe he needs a transfusion,” I say to Harry.

“Don’t worry.” Mom yanks out the needle and pats his thigh. “Harry’s a universal donor.”

“Harry needs some pain reliever,” he says, “because he feels like he just doggy-styled a cactus.”

Harry reaches into the vanity over the sink and finds the Tylenol bottle. He pries off the cap with his teeth, pours a bunch in his mouth, then washes them down with a beer he liberated from my fridge.

“This might hurt,” Mom says to me.

She sticks the needle into my arm, next to dozens of other marks. I look like a junkie after a bender from hell. There isn’t much pain, though. My throbbing head is too much competition.

I drink more water, Harry tosses me the Tylenol, and I swallow three. Mom finishes shooting me up, and then takes a few pills herself. We help each other up. I’m still a little dizzy, but I can function. I give Harry a pat on the shoulder and he shouts.

“Sore! Very sore!”

I consider myself a kind person, but showing kindness to Harry McGlade takes Herculean effort.

“Thanks for the blood, Harry.”

His eyes soften. “Hey, that’s what family is for. We already share the same blood, right?” Then he adds, “And if you develop any kind of itchy rash in the feminine area, I’ve got some cream left over from my last doctor visit.”

I don’t want to think about that.

“What next?” Mom asks.

I finish the water, toss the empty bottle in the trash can. Sort of a silly gesture, worrying about being tidy when there’s a shot-up refrigerator sticking out of the door.

“I’m going back to the bedroom, to get my gun. Then I’m going to find a way outside.”

“They can see in the dark,” Mom says. “They have those scopes.”

That makes sense. The lights were out and they still managed to hit me.

“I’ll move fast. They can’t shoot what they can’t hit.”

Mom hugs me. I hug her back. She’s trembling.

“I thought…” Her voice cracks. “I thought I lost you.”

I want to say something meaningful, something poignant, but I’m getting pretty choked up too. So I settle for kissing her on the forehead and telling her I love her. Then I disengage, heading for the door.

Harry blocks my way.

“Gotta go,” I say.

He holds open his arm.

Oh God. He wants a hug.

I brace for it, stiffening as he encircles my waist. But rather than the sleazy feeling I normally get when Harry touches me, this time it isn’t too bad.

“Be careful, sis.”

I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, and he whimpers in pain.

“Your back too?”

“She stuck me everywhere I had skin.”

I pull away, saying, “Keep an eye on Mom.”

He doesn’t say anything glib or smart-ass. He simply nods.

I slip past him, switch off the flashlight, and duck into the hall.

10:13 P.M.
KORK

I OPEN MY EYES and wonder where I am. I try to lift my hands, and see I’m chained under a sink. My body hurts all over.

I must have been a bad girl. Father punishes us when we’re bad. He calls it Penance. I’m afraid of Father, afraid of his punishments. I feel like crying.

Then my mind clears. I’m not ten years old anymore. I’m all grown up. And this isn’t our house. It’s Jack’s.

I’m in the kitchen, all alone.

Anger replaces fear.

My eyes sting. I rub my face on my shoulder, wipe away some blood. My forehead is cut. My head aches. My right hand still stings from when the gun was shot from my grip. None of the damage is serious.

I test the pipe I’m chained to. It’s cold, metal, two inches thick. A drain trap, under the sink. I give it a hard yank. Then another. It’s solid.

I scoot up closer, rest my head on the bottom of the cabinet. It smells like dish soap and moldy sponges. I can’t see very well—so I work by feel, palpating the U pipe, seeking the joint. I think righty tighty, lefty-loosey, and lock both fists around the octagonal coupling. It isn’t a pipe wrench, but it’s all I have.

I twist. My hands are strong, from thousands of fingertip pushups while in Heathrow. My arms are bigger than most guys’. But the pipe doesn’t want to cooperate. It refuses to turn, preferring instead to dig a nice trench of skin out of my palm.

I twist and twist until it feels like my veins are going to burst out of my temples. The joint won’t budge.

I stop, then spend a few minutes trying to use my handcuff chain as a tool, levering and turning and pulling.

My efforts leave me with sore wrists, but no closer to escape.

I close my eyes, let the solution come to me. I broke out of a maximum security prison for the criminally insane. I should be able to get out from under a stupid sink.

Voices, elsewhere in the house. I make out a few words, but they don’t interest me. I’m not the only one trying to kill Jack and her family. But I don’t believe those jokers outside pose much of a threat to my plans. If they had any skills, everyone would already be dead. They’re jackals. I’m a lion. Lions don’t fear jackals.

I feel the pipe, higher up, where it meets the sink. The joint here is plastic, bigger, the size of a peanut butter jar. And it has nubs on it, to grip when attaching the drain to the pipe. I form my fingers around them and twist.

Red and yellow spots form in my vision, and my head begins to shake. I strain and strain until my entire world is reduced to five square inches of force and pain.

I release it and forcibly exhale. My hands are trembling.

But it moved a fraction of an inch.

I crack my knuckles, then go at it again, a smile enveloping half my face.

10:15 P.M.
JACK

I’M GRATEFUL I CAN’T REMEMBER being shot, because that might have made me reconsider my actions. Though I’ve never used a night-vision scope, never even saw one in real life, I’m familiar with how they work, thanks to Tom Clancy movies. The hallway is pitch-black to me, but to the snipers I am an easy target, glowing bright green.

Thanks to Mr. Clancy, I also have an idea how to mess with their aim.

I stick out my left hand, reaching for the wall. When my fingers graze it I run forward four steps. I lift the flashlight up to chest level, switching it on and pointing it through my bedroom door, out the window. Then I immediately dodge right.

The light will temporarily blind anyone peering through a night-enhanced scope, causing a bright flash. If someone has a bead on me, they might reflexively shoot when the light goes on. Hence the change of direction.

The shot doesn’t come.

I toss the flashlight into the bedroom, toward the far corner, and jog toward the window in a crouch. I duck down, beneath the pane, safe. Then I feel around the floor. I find my dropped Kimber.

Hurt isn’t strong enough a word for the feeling in my head, and my stomach isn’t happy with the bottle of water I chugged. I rest for a minute, slowing down my breathing, picturing what I need to do next.

Unlike my Colt, the Kimber is bigger, badder, and more accurate. This is the gun I use in marksman competitions. I need to get outside, locate the bastards, and get within a hundred feet of them. Once they’re within range, my handgun is more effective than their long guns. They’re using bolt action, single fire, and it takes a few seconds to load each bullet. My .45 holds seven rounds, and it shoots as fast as I can pull the trigger.

If I can get close enough.

Originally, I intended to sneak out the bedroom window. Getting shot in the head made me think about other possible exit points. My house is built in an L shape, but that still means four right angles. There are only three snipers, so they can’t completely cover all four sides.

The trick is to find an exit they aren’t covering.

The front door won’t work. The large bay window in the living room offers too good a view inside. Mom’s room has a window, but it’s on the same wall as mine, and a shooter can easily watch both. The kitchen patio doors lead into the backyard. Again, they’re big and offer a full view, but I can get through them quicker than climbing out a normal window. The garage has a window, but it’s behind an endless stack of boxes that we never unpacked after moving in. The bathroom window is frosted, and no one has shot through it yet, but it’s decorative and doesn’t open. If I break it, that will leave Mom and Harry exposed.

Life would be so much easier if I’d just bought a house with a basement. I could have crawled up a window well, gotten out at ground level, and come at them low, under their noses. I’m sure these guys are amateurs. They’ll sweep left and right, but won’t know to sweep up and down.

My concentration shatters when the window above me does, glass shards sprinkling my hair and shoulders. Something thumps to the floor in front of me, and I recover from the startle and extend my arm, pointing the .45, pulling the trigger halfway before stopping myself.

It isn’t a person in the room with me. The flashlight in the corner is pointing in this direction, and it silhouettes a familiar shape, nestled in the broken glass on my carpeting.

A rifle.

I stand up and stick my gun through the hole in the window, looking left, then right, for the person who threw a rifle into my bedroom. I catch a dark shape turning the corner into the backyard, but it’s gone before I can squeeze off a shot.

I don’t pause to think. I use the butt of my gun to brush away the jagged glass still jutting out of the pane, lift my knee up, and climb through the window frame. I hear my mother calling my name, but don’t want to answer, don’t want to give my position away.

I’m dizzy, winded. I touch the brick wall, use it steady myself. Then I half run, half stumble toward the backyard, to the corner the man disappeared around. I pause, my back against the house, both hands on my Kimber. The evening has cooled off, and there’s a strong enough breeze that I feel it through the bandage on my head. The lawn is cold and tickles my bare toes. I hold my breath and listen.

Night sounds. Leaves rustling. Crickets. The faint whistle of the wind. Just your average autumn night in the suburbs.

I count to three, then spin around the corner, gun pointing in front of me. I can’t see much in the dark. I make out some low shadows on my patio, chairs and a table. My lawn goes back about twenty yards, and beyond it is the tree line. Enough cover for me to disappear into. If I can’t find the snipers, I’ll go into the woods and come out the other side, to a major highway, and bring back help.

Before I take a step forward the ground spits up dirt and grass a few feet to my right.

“Go back inside!”

A man’s voice, coming from deep within the same woods I want to enter.

I backpedal, firing blindly into the trees, wasting two bullets. I press my back against the wall, not too far from my bedroom window.

The next shot eats into the brick less than a foot in front of me, digging out a chunk big enough to stick my hand into.

“I told you to get back in the house!” the man yells. “Go get your rifle, or I’ll shoot you where you stand! I ain’t asking again!”

I think about running in the opposite direction, toward the front of the house. Less cover there, but maybe I can make it to my neighbor, up the road.

Probably not smart. My shooting has assuredly caught the attention of the other two snipers. They’ll be waiting for me.

Not seeing any other choice, I go back to my bedroom and climb through the window, careful not to step on any glass.

“Jacqueline!” Mom.

“I’m okay!” I call back.

My eyes trail down, to the rifle. Why did the sniper give it to me? Some kind of trick or trap?

I reach over slowly, like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike, and wrap my fingers around the barrel. I pull it close, see a piece of paper rolled up in the trigger guard. I unroll the note and read the semi-legible words scrawled on it:

There are three of us.

You have three bullets.

Let’s play.

These assholes actually think this is a game.

I holster the Kimber and check the rifle. It’s a Browning, bolt action, walnut stock, a twenty-inch barrel, weighing about seven pounds. No scope, no sights. I open the ammo tube and find three .22 LR hollow point rounds. Much smaller than the ammo the snipers are using, but still potent enough to drop a deer. I roll them between my fingers, shake them next to my ear, give them each a sniff. They seem like the real thing. I feed them back into the tube, yank the bolt, and chamber a round.

If they want to play, I’m happy to oblige.

10:22 P.M.
MUNCHEL

MUNCHEL WATCHES the split-tail climb back through the window, and he feels every hair on his arms stand at attention. He isn’t tired. He isn’t scared.

He’s electrified.

This has been the greatest day of his life. And when that cop returns fire, it will take everything up to the next level. He imagines this is the desert, hot wind blowing in his eyes, sand in his teeth, his platoon pinned down by enemy fire, and Private Munchel—no, Sergeant Munchel—is called to take them out with extreme prejudice. But the insurgents have a sniper of their own, a famous Taliban bitch who’s a dead shot at a thousand yards, and only Sergeant Munchel has the skill to—

“Where in the hell are you?”

The radio startles Munchel, jolting him out of his reverie. He swears, unclips the radio, then presses the talk button.

“What’s the problem now, Swanson?”

“The problem is that you disappeared for an hour, and when you come back there’s gunfire. Loud gunfire, not our silenced rifles.”

“They’re suppressors, not silencers.” Pessolano, cutting in.

Swanson sighs like a drama queen. “I don’t give a shit what they’re called. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The woman cop,” Munchel says. “She had a gun in the house, shot at me through the window.”

“I already killed her,” Pessolano says.

“You must have missed, because she was shooting at me just a minute ago.”

“You sure it was her?”

“’Course it was her. Looked just like her.”

“Could of been her twin.”

“Her what?”

“Her twin sister. Like that Van Damme movie.”

“It wasn’t her goddamn twin, Pessolano. You just goddamn missed.”

“Enough!” Swanson cuts in. “Her gun is too loud. Someone is going to hear it and call the cops.”

Munchel grins. “Well, it’s about to get even louder, boyo, because I gave her a rifle.”

He pictures Swanson’s face turning bright red with anger. It amuses him greatly. Ever since they first got together, Swanson has been playing leader. But he sucks as a leader. He’s too scared of everything, and has zero creativity.

And what is this shit Pessolano is talking about twins? That guy has been bragging and boasting about his war record nonstop, but he can’t even confirm a kill.

Munchel knows that he’s the alpha male of the group. He proved it earlier, in Ravenswood. And he’s about to prove it again.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Swanson probably thinks pausing between each word makes him sound tough.

“I gave her Pessolano’s Browning, and three bullets. Make this a little more interesting.”

“I better get that gun back,” Pessolano says. “Or you owe me seven hundred bucks.”

“You’ll get it back.” Munchel laughs. “Might have to wash the blood off it first.”

Another sigh from Swanson. “We need to finish this shit up, and get out of here before more cops come.”

“How?” Pessolano asks. “Everyone is hiding. We can’t get any shots.”

“Then we get closer.”

Munchel nods. That’s the first thing Swanson has said all night that he agrees with.

He clips the radio to his belt, picks up the rifle, and creeps closer to the house.

10:25 P.M.
JACK

THE FIRST THING I need to do is minimize my disadvantages.

And there are many.

They’re three people. I’m just one.

They have cover. I have people to protect.

They have unlimited bullets. I have three.

They have scopes, both normal and night vision. I have a head injury.

But I do have one advantage. Never underestimate a woman fighting for her life.

I stick my head into the hall and shout.

“Latham! We’re going to get you in the bathroom with Mom and Harry. It’s the safest place in the house.”

“Don’t risk it, Jack. Too many windows.”

“I’ve got an idea about that. Be ready to move when I get there.”

I crawl over to the flashlight in the corner of my room, then get into a crouch. The Tylenol has kicked in, taking my headache from excruciating down to merely agonizing.

Don’t think. Just act.

I point the flashlight out the window and run out the door, through the hall, into the laundry room. I tug open the fuse box door, hit the main breaker, and the house lights come back on. I assume the snipers still have their night-vision scopes on. Now they’ll be all lit up.

I hurry back into the hall, flipping off lights as I go.

“Hold this,” I tell Harry, passing up the bathroom. He takes the rifle.

“Santa come early this year?”

“Scissors,” I say.

Mom hands me the scissors.

I squeeze past the fridge, run into the living room, catch a quick glimpse at Latham still by the sofa, but head straight for the front door instead. I turn on the outside lights—front porch, garage light, driveway lights—and kill the lights inside the room. I also kill the flashlight. That leaves only one light on in the house. The kitchen.

I creep over to it, reach for the switch while keeping my eyes on Alex. She’s still on the floor, handcuffed to the pipe under the sink. She regards me.

“I’m a better shot than you,” she says. “Let me go and I’ll take care of those snipers.”

I flip the kitchen light off. Then I jog over to Latham, kneeling next to him, seeking out his face in the dark.

“How you doing?” I ask.

“Some guys say the excitement goes out of a relationship after the first year. I’m not one of those guys.”

I give him a quick peck, missing his mouth and hitting his cheek.

“This is going to hurt when the circulation comes back.”

I go to work on his duct tape, cutting, peeling, ripping, until his hands come free.

He groans, and my heart breaks. I do his legs next.

“Think you can move?”

“I’ll do my best.”

I help Latham up, try to get his wounded arm over my shoulder. He cries out, so I switch sides.

“Lean on me,” I tell him.

We make it three steps, then he collapses.

“Legs,” he says. “Having some problems.”

I check the front window, look out onto the lawn, and have a clear view. The combination of darkness inside and lights outside will make it hard for the snipers to see us using either regular or night-vision scopes.

“Keep going,” I grunt, trying to pull him to his feet.

Latham manages one step before falling.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He’s breathing as heavy as I am.

“Legs not working?” I’m referring to the residual paralysis from his bout with botulism.

“Not working.”

This time I find his mouth, press my lips against it.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I have legs for the two of us.”

I prod Latham to his feet once more, then have him stand behind me and put his arms over my shoulders.

“Piggyback?” he says into my ear.

“Just hold on tight.”

His good arm locks around my chest. I lean forward, taking his weight, and manage four staggering steps.

“I kind of like this position,” Latham says.

I stop, lowering him down, catching my breath.

“Don’t like it too much,” I say between puffs. “I can only concentrate on one thing at a time.”

The BOOM of a gunshot, and the room gets a hair darker. I glance out the window.

The snipers are shooting the outside lights.

I focus ahead, down the hallway. Maybe fifteen feet to the bathroom. I pick Latham up and go five more steps before losing my footing. We fall, Latham on top of me. My head feels like it has exploded, and I can’t take a breath.

Another shot. Another outside light winks out.

There are only four lights left. Then Latham and I will be completely exposed.

10:31 P.M.
PESSOLANO

THE COP IS SMART, doing that with the lights. Pessolano’s night-vision scope is too bright. Useless. He switches back to the Leupold scope, and the outside lights still make it impossible to see inside the house.

No big deal. He just needs to shoot out the lights, then switch back to night vision.

The first two are easy. Especially since he moved eighty yards closer. Even a child could have made those shots.

Pessolano doesn’t have any tree cover this time. He’s flat on his belly, legs out behind him, the TPG-1’s bipod legs resting on the wild grass across the street from the house. His pose is identical to the sniper that came in those packages of plastic green army men he used to play with as a child. Pessolano wishes he had a bazooka—he can picture the toy figure on his knee, a rocket launcher perched on his shoulder, ready to rain hell upon the enemy. That guy was his favorite.

He nudges left, seeking the lights on the garage, and frowns.

The dead cop—the fat one he shot on the driveway.

He’s gone.

What the hell is going on? First he shot the woman cop in the head, and she got back up. Now this.

Pessolano shakes his head, trying to clear it. He peers through the scope again.

Definitely gone. Just a small puddle of blood where he’s fallen.

No. It’s not blood. The liquid on the driveway isn’t red.

It’s brown.

Chocolate milk, Pessolano thinks.

The fat cop tricked him.

Pessolano begins to sweep the grounds, looking for where he ran.

10:33 P.M.
HERB

THE KEY TO THE RUSE was night vision.

Herb knew that night-vision scopes produced an all-green image. That meant blood would be green too. Surviving depended on two things: the sniper missing, and Herb’s acting ability.

Since he had no place to run or hide, he simply got up and jogged toward the house, hoping when the shot came, it would miss. Then it was simply a question of falling over, breaking open the bag of chocolate high-fiber shake in his pocket, bugging out his eyes, and holding his breath until they left him alone.

And it works. It works perfectly.

Until the outside lights come on.

When that happens, Herb knows they’ll switch from night vision back to their regular scopes. They’ll be able to tell the difference between brown and red, and they’ll shoot him where he lies.

Herb doesn’t wait around for that to happen. He gets up on all fours and beelines for Jack’s car, hoping to get inside and use the radio to call for backup.

The doors are locked. Herb bends down, peers under the car. He could fit his head under there, but nothing else. That might work for an ostrich, but not for him. Herb needs a different hiding place.

He scans the house, eyeing the shrubs. Too small. There are a few trees on Jack’s lawn, but they’re too thin; it would be like an orange hiding behind a pencil.

A shot. Herb bunches up his shoulders, lowers his head, trying to make himself small. But they aren’t shooting at him. A light above the front porch blows out. Followed by another.

Good. If they shoot out all the lights, then they might not notice…

The third shot drills through the windshield of the Nova, missing Herb by less than a foot. Herb flinches, recovers, then rears back and smacks his palm into the window, trying to break it. The safety glass fractures into several thousand cracks, but it’s still held in place by its protective coating. Herb hits it again. And again. The sheet finally gives way with a loud pop, tiny squares of glass falling onto the driver’s seat.

Herb reaches a hand inside, fumbles for the lock.

Another shot punches through the back window, blowing apart Jack’s radio. Bits of plastic shrapnel embed themselves in Herb’s cheek. He ignores the pain, opening the door, reaching across the seats, tugging open the glove box, finding the remote control for the garage door.

Another shot. Latham’s car window shatters. The different angle means it’s a different sniper. He’s caught in another crossfire.

Herb raises the remote above dashboard level and presses the button.

Nothing happens.

He presses again.

Nothing.

Two shots in quick succession, taking out two more of the Nova’s windows. Herb is out of ideas. He puts his hands over his head and waits for the inevitable.

10:43 P.M.
JACK

MY TEMPLE THROBS in time with my heartbeat, but I manage to get both feet under me one more time, supporting Latham on my back.

More shots are fired, but the outside lights stay on. I stagger the remaining few steps to the bathroom, and Mom meets me in the hallway, helping to drag Latham inside. We lean him against the sink. I flip on the overhead light and gently peel back his shirt, getting my first look at his injury. An ugly black hole, just above his armpit. No exit wound. The bleeding is minimal.

“I think you’re going to make it,” I tell him, my mouth near his.

“Good. I was worried you carried me all the way here for nothing.”

I put my hands on his face, stare into his eyes. “I love you, Latham.”

“I love you, Jack.”

“I love you more.”

“No, I love you more.”

We briefly touch lips.

“So he doesn’t need any of my blood, right?”

I pull away from Latham, frowning. “You’re safe for the moment, Harry.”

“Actually, I’m not.” Harry motions for me to come closer.

“What?”

“It’s important, Jackie. Come here.”

I get within whisper range.

“I have to go,” he says.

“It was great seeing you. Come back soon.”

Harry makes a face. “The beer I had, Jackie. It wants to be set free.”

I blink. “You have to go to the bathroom?”

“Yeah. So can you, like, distract Mom while I piss in the sink?”

“You are not urinating in my sink.”

“Fine. Just open up the toilet and I’ll aim for it.”

I glance over my shoulder. The toilet is five feet away.

“Absolutely not.”

“I can hit it. I’ll arc the stream.”

“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”

“I’m going to wet my pants.”

“Not my problem.”

“Fine. I want my blood back.”

I consider my sink, realize I’d never use it again if Harry violates it, but don’t see any other alternative. I cross my arms.

“Okay, Harry. Make it quick.”

“Stand between me and Mom. I don’t want to sully her high opinion of me.”

I hit the lights and play blocker. More shots, outside. But no familiar tinkling of window glass, or slugs impacting the fridge.

“I need help with my fly,” Harry says.

“No way in hell.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Come on. I haven’t had a single obscene thought about you since I found out we’re related.”

I turn, pat his cheek. “Bad news, bro. You’re going to have to wet your pants.”

Mom is taping and gauzing Latham’s wound, her hands so gnarled that he has to help. More shooting. No sounds from inside the house. What are they firing at? Each other?

“I have to check something out,” I say. I pick up the rifle and sneak into the hallway.

The remaining outside lights still glow brightly. I move slowly, hunching over, peering out the living room window, trying to find the snipers’ locations. Another shot. They’ve moved closer, to within a hundred yards. I check to see what they’re aiming at, see the wreck that is my car. And in the car…

Herb!

I run to the front door, second-guess myself, and backtrack to the garage. I swing it open, hitting the garage door opener button on the wall, planting both of my feet, and snugging the rifle up against my shoulder.

“Herb!” I scream.

I fire my first round across the street, aiming where I’d seen the muzzle flash. I immediately load the second round and shoot again.

Herb doesn’t waste time. He slides face-first into my garage before the door even gets halfway up. I hit the button again, and Herb rolls to the left, bumping up against the wall of cardboard boxes. Two bullets ping off the garage floor, chewing hunks out of the concrete. I rush over to Herb, hooking my elbow around his, straining to get him back to his feet.

He bellows. Herb’s hands flutter around his knee, as if indecisive about whether or not to touch it. My partner had hit the ground hard—especially hard considering his age and weight. His pants are bloody, but I don’t know if his earlier gunshot wound has opened up or if this is a new injury.

“Did you get shot again?”

He shakes his head, his jowls flapping. “Knee!”

“Broken?”

He replies through his teeth—a keening cry that makes my stomach vibrate.

A round punches through my garage door, making a hole the size of my fist.

Then another. And another.

I have to get Herb out of here.

“We need to get you in the house.”

“Leave me here.”

Bullets continue to ventilate my garage door, and the light coming in from the holes dims. They’re shooting the outside lights again. Once those are gone, they’ll switch back to night vision.

Then we’re screwed.

“On three,” I say. I set down the rifle and take hold of his collar. “One…two…three!”

Herb moans deep in his throat, and I pull while he uses his three functional limbs to drag his broken one. We reach the doorway into my house, then I collapse next to him, both of us breathing like asthmatics at a hay festival.

“There’s a saw.” Herb points to the workbench at the back of the garage. “Cut my leg off. That will hurt less.”

My chest heaves. “At least you still have your sense of humor.”

“No joke. I’ll pay you twenty thousand bucks to saw off my leg.”

I blink away the motes, wipe some sweat from my forehead. “Let’s go again.”

“Please, no.”

“On three.”

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“One…two…three!”

Another strangled cry from Herb, but we make it into the house, across the living room, and to the front of the hallway before fatigue drops me to my knees.

“Here is good,” Herb wheezes. He’s directly in front of the bay windows. The only possible way he could be an easier target is if he had antlers.

“We…we have to get you to…to the bathroom.”

“I…I like it here.”

Another shot. The last of my outside lights blows out.

“On three.”

“Jack…if I…if I don’t make it…”

“No time for this now, Herb. One…”

“I just want to say…”

“Two…”

“That I’m cutting you out of my will…”

“Three!”

Herb cries out again, but he gives it his all, and so do I, and even though my knees are rug burned and even though he can barely move and even though bullets tear up the carpeting around us, we make it all the way to the refrigerator, and to the bathroom.

Safe. For the moment.

“Did you?” I gasp at Harry, pointing at the sink.

He shakes his head.

“Where?” I ask.

Harry reaches into the fridge and removes a pickle jar.

“Remember to throw this away later,” he says.

I stick my face under the faucet and take gulps of water so big they hurt going down. Mom fusses over Herb, winding an Ace bandage around his knee. I eventually catch my breath, and give Herb half a dozen Dixie cups’ worth of water.

“Now what?” Mom says.

The five of us are crammed into the bathroom pretty tight. We couldn’t have fit someone else in here if we buttered them. I stand near the sink, next to Harry. Latham sits on the toilet. Mom leans over Herb, who occupies most of the floor. The temperature in here is ten degrees warmer than the rest of the house.

“Anyone up for charades?” Harry asks. He points at Herb. “Lemme guess…Moby-Dick!”

Herb and Harry don’t get along, from way back.

“How’s the pain?” I ask my partner.

“Hurts,” Herb says.

“One to ten?”

“Ten. Blew the knee out. And the medication has worn off from my gunshot wound.” His face is pouring sweat. “I’m hoping I pass out.”

Mom uses scissors to gently cut up a side of Herb’s pants leg. His stitches have ripped open, and his knee is swelled up to the size of a honeydew.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” I ask.

He shakes his head, wincing from the movement. “No. The Grouch, he wanted to talk to you. Threatened to go to your old apartment. I came here to find you.”

“So you didn’t call for backup?” Harry asks. “Smooth move, Iron-side.”

“Nice fridge,” Herb says. “Maybe you’d like me to cram your head in the crisper.”

“Quiet,” I tell them.

I rub my eyes, trying to force a brilliant thought.

Amazingly, one comes.

“I’ve got one rifle round left. In the garage, there’s a pull-down ladder to the attic. I can get up there, get on the roof, and take out one of the snipers from a vantage point.”

“You can’t get from the attic to the roof,” Herb says. “That’s not how houses are built.”

“You sure?” Harry asks.

“You want to drag your refrigerator up there and double-check?”

“Why don’t you go check, Jumbo? I’ve got a buddy with a crane.”

“Enough,” I say. “How else can I get up to the roof?”

“Do you have a ladder?” Latham asks.

“No good,” Herb says. “They’ll see the ladder, know she’s up there.”

“One of us could take the ladder away,” Latham says.

“Who?”

Herb has a point. No one in the room is in any shape to help out.

“Why don’t we just set the house on fire?” McGlade asks. “Cops will come, and bring reinforcements.”

“Good idea,” Herb says. “We’ll start with that shag rug on your chest.”

“Sis, the mean fat man is picking on me.”

Herb raises an eyebrow. “Did he just call you sis?”

“Long story. And we’re not setting the house on fire.”

Harry appears crestfallen.

“Can’t we wait them out?” Latham suggests. “Maybe they’ll leave when the sun comes up.”

I shake my head. “They’ll rush the house before then. Or set fire to it themselves, and pick us off when we run outside.”

“How about a decoy?” Harry says. “We’ll kick Alex outside, and while they’re shooting her you can run for help.”

“Alex?” Herb asks. “I thought she was dead.”

“Another long story,” I tell him. “And we’re not kicking anyone outside. The snipers are surrounding the house. There’s nowhere to run.”

Herb tries his cell phone. Harry found half a bottle of Grey Goose vodka in my freezer and he takes a swig. Latham has his arm around Mom. I wonder if I can get on the roof by climbing onto the veranda in back. Maybe I can stand on the patio table and pull myself up. But even if I manage, I’ll probably be seen doing it.

“I was saving this, because I wanted to keep a clear head,” Mom says. “But I think we could all use a couple.”

She holds up a bottle of OxyContin—her prescription arthritis pain medication. It has an extra-large cap, and she spins it off like a pro.

“Who needs a hit?” she asks.

Herb takes four. Latham takes two. Mom takes two. I decline—opiates aren’t wise with a head injury. Harry takes two, and washes them down with a swig of Grey Goose.

“You shouldn’t mix codeine and alcohol,” Mom chides. “It intensifies the effect.”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Harry passes Mom the bottle. She takes a nip, as do Latham and Herb. I get it last, and since I’m not mixing it with drugs, I take the biggest swallow. It burns going down, and sits in my empty stomach like a lump of charcoal.

We’re all quiet for a moment. It isn’t hard to read everyone’s thoughts, because we each have the same one: We’re all going to die.

“Okay,” I say. “I bet I can pick one of them off from the living room.”

“That will still leave two,” Herb says.

“But it will be tougher for two to watch the whole house. If I get one, then I’ll have a better chance at getting away, getting help.”

No one argues. I pull out my Kimber, offer it to Harry.

“If they get in,” I say.

“You know I suck lefty.”

“Latham’s never shot a gun, Mom can’t fit her fingers in the trigger guard, and Herb just took enough codeine to kill Keith Richards.”

Harry takes the gun.

“You’ve got five rounds left. Use them wisely.”

Harry nods, then says, “When we get out of this. I want to go to one of those department store portrait studios. Get a family photo. I’ve never been in a family photo.”

I consider making some sort of comment about waiting for the DNA test first, but instead I pat his shoulder.

“Hematoma!” he yelps.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. “Everyone stay put.”

Then I slip out into the hallway.

10:42 P.M.
KORK

I GIVE THE DRAIN JOINT one last turn and it comes loose. My fingers are torn and bloody, and my hands feel like lead weights. I raise them up, pull the handcuff chain between the sink and the pipe, and then I’m free.

I don’t waste time celebrating the victory. Jack had turned off the lights in the kitchen, so it’s tough to see, but I locate the utensil drawer from memory. I feel forks and spoons and assorted cooking supplies until I find what I’m after—a lever action corkscrew. The curly end fits nicely into the keyhole of my cuffs, and I have them off within a few seconds.

Even if the house wasn’t surrounded by snipers, running wouldn’t be an option. Before I leave here, Jack Daniels, and everyone in this house, must die.

I bump against the counter and spread my hands over the top, seeking out the knife rack.

10:46 P.M.
SWANSON

SWANSON IS TEMPTED to move farther away. Those two shots the woman cop fired from the garage came very near him, kicking up dirt just a few feet in front of his face. But he’s the one who gave the order to get in closer, so he’s determined to stick it out.

He and Pessolano shoot the last of the outside lights, then change back to night scopes. The constant juggling of scopes bugs Swanson. A lot of things about this situation bug Swanson. But this will all be over soon. When the cop fires her last rifle round, he’s going to order his men to break into the house and finish the job point-blank. Enough of this long-distance bullshit.

In concept, The Urban Hunting Club was brilliant. Dazzle the police and the media with three sex offenders who all die at the same time. Do it from a distance, so there’s less likelihood of witnesses, and no personal contact with the targets. Kill three more offenders a few days later, to make it seem like the targets are random. Write a note to the newspapers, explaining the goal of ridding Chicago of perverts. Then disappear into legend.

Swanson even thought about the far future, forty years from now, making a deathbed confession and stunning the world. Explaining he did it all for his precious Jen. Making a grand speech about how it is every private citizen’s duty to protect the people he loves. Along with the right to bear arms, there is a responsibility to use those arms for truth, justice, and the American way.

It would have been a damn good speech.

But Munchel had to fuck everything up. Now TUHC are cop killers. Instead of being admired by millions, they’ll be hunted forever, chased to the ends of the earth. They’ll be called psychos instead of vigilantes. In the TV movie, Swanson will be played by Harvey Keitel or Christopher Walken, instead of Ben Affleck or Bruce Willis.

It’s all gone to hell. Best to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Swanson sights down the night-vision scope, looking into the dark house through the front bay window. He’s moved ten feet to the right, away from the spot where the cop came close to hitting him. The stretch of grass he’s on is slightly elevated. Not quite a knoll, but raised enough so he can see into the living room and look down from a slight angle.

He sees green. A world of blurry, indistinct, phosphorescent green.

Though he doesn’t admit it to the guys, the starlight scope isn’t the easiest thing to use. With Swanson’s whole field of vision monochromatic, the only way to identify people is by shape and movement. Earlier in the night, Swanson put three rounds into a chair, thinking it was a crouching body. And he also discovered that the house has a cat in it, which kept darting back and forth, messing up his concentration and his aim.

The ever-increasing wind has also been a factor, throwing off several shots that were otherwise on the money. That fat cop should be dead three times over. Swanson knew Pessolano felt the same frustration, because the Desert Storm vet had been only fifteen yards away, and Swanson heard him swear after every miss.

Swanson also knows he’s jerking the trigger. Every shot, the butt of the TPG-1 slams into his shoulder. The area has been tender for several weeks, from all of the practice, and the bruise hasn’t ever healed. After the dozens of rounds fired to night, it hurts like crazy. Swanson flinches every time he fires, and this tiny movement is throwing off his aim.

Add in the pressure of getting done quickly, and the fact that Swanson isn’t a very good marksman to begin with, and it’s no wonder he hasn’t been able to hit anything.

But that is all about to change. The next person who appears in Swanson’s scope is going to die. He can feel it.

Swanson blinks, takes a deep breath, and adjusts his grip on the TPG-1. He aims the starlight scope on the hallway, ready to shoot the first thing that moves.

Something blurs past his line of fire. Swanson adjusts, finding the figure again, watching it disappear into the garage. He holds there…holds…holds…holds…

The figure appears again.

Swanson fires.

He misses—the target is moving too fast. It’s the woman cop, and she has the rifle. She ducks behind the couch.

Swanson pulls back the bolt, ejecting the empty cartridge, loading another one. He re-aims at the sofa and puts a bullet through the middle, where she was just a second ago.

I got her, he thinks. I must have.

Movement, in the lower right quadrant of his scope. He adjusts, sees someone squatting by the window.

The woman cop.

Swanson pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He didn’t load the next bullet yet.

Stupid bolt action rifle. Why didn’t Pessolano buy semiauto—

Swanson feels a sharp tug in his chest. He hears the shot at the same time.

Did she just—?

The pain runs Swanson over like a truck. Someone has him in a giant nutcracker and is squeezing his ribs, making it impossible to draw a breath. He touches his breastbone, looks at his fingers.

Blood. A lot of blood.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.

Swanson crawls away from his gun. His breath comes back, and the oxygen burns and stabs at his insides. A weak cry escapes his throat.

He fumbles in the darkness for his belt, finds his radio, brings it to his face.

“…shot…” he manages to whisper.

No one answers.

“…I…got…shot…”

No reply. Why won’t they answer?

Swanson looks into the woods. Where’s the truck? Where did they park it? He has to get to a hospital. Has to get there so they can take this bullet out of his chest.

“I didn’t catch that, Swanson. Can you repeat?”

He stares at the radio. Presses the talk button.

“…shot…been shot…need…help…”

The radio falls from his hand. Swanson coughs, feels something wet come up. Everything is getting all topsy-turvy. He isn’t going to make it to the truck. He isn’t going to make it another foot. He wants to lie down, go to sleep. Swanson falls onto his face, and the universe explodes into a Technicolor panorama of agony.

Swanson moans, manages to roll off of his tortured chest and onto his back. He stares up into the night sky. Each time he inhales he wants to die. He wants, needs, to talk to Jen, to tell her he didn’t mean for it to work out this way. This isn’t the ending he planned on.

“Swanson?”

It’s not the radio. Swanson’s eyes drift to the right, land on Munchel, standing next to him.

“Jee-zus, man! You got yourself shot.” Munchel stares back at the house. “I knew she was good. Glad I only gave her three bullets.”

“Doc…tor…” Swanson wheezes.

“Hell yeah, you need a doctor. Shit, I can see blood bubbles coming out the hole in your chest. You are seriously fucked up.”

Swanson wonders why Munchel is just standing there. He should be dragging him to the truck, or shutting off the cell phone jammer and calling an ambulance.

“Hos…pit…tal…”

Munchel leans over. His face looks huge, and his expression is grim. “See, here’s the problem with hospitals, Greg. They have to report gunshot wounds. How quick do you think they’d connect a rifle slug in the chest with what happened to night in Chicago?”

“…won’t…”

“Sure they will.”

Swanson forces it out. “…won’t…tell…”

“Oh, I get it. We drop you off, and you don’t mention us at all. Even when you’re on trial for all of those dead cops that I killed. You don’t say anything at all about me or Pessolano. Is that right?”

Swanson coughs. His mouth feels hot and wet. He can’t believe Munchel wants to talk this much while he’s dying. The talk can come later. Right now he needs help.

“Do you promise you won’t rat out your buddies, Swanson? Can I get your word on that?”

Swanson thinks he nods. Or maybe he just imagines he nods. Either way, he feels himself being dragged. To the truck. To doctors. To safety.

He closes his eyes, hopes that Jen is there in the hospital when he wakes up.

Pain forces Swanson’s eyes back open. He feels like there’s an airplane parked on his chest.

It’s Munchel. He’s standing on Swanson’s rib cage.

“Can’t use a bullet,” he says. “Pessolano might hear.”

Swanson can’t draw a breath to answer. He tries to push away Munchel’s legs, but he has no strength left.

Death doesn’t come quick or easy. It’s takes close to five minutes.

Swanson feels every second.

10:49 P.M.
JACK

I’M PRETTY SURE I hit the sniper, or at least came close. I set the rifle down, find the wall switch, and flick on the living room lights. They’ll have to change scopes again, giving me time to—

She comes at me in a blur. My mind registers the glint of a knife blade, and I instinctively throw both hands up over my head, forming an X with my wrists to block its downward path. Then I spin, sweeping my right leg out, tripping Alex.

Alex lands hard but recovers fast, rolling to the side, getting her feet under her. The knife is from the rack on my kitchen counter. A cheap set, flimsy blades, but they’re serrated and insanely sharp. She’s chosen a paring knife. Alex switches her grip to underhanded, blade up. She’s fought with knives before.

I cast my eyes around for a weapon, settle on a sofa cushion. It won’t do much, damage-wise, but it’s thicker than the knife blade.

Alex’s eyes are cool, dispassionate. She feints once. Again. Then lunges.

I block the knife with the cushion, feeling it puncture the fabric, twisting hard to try and catch the blade. She pushes harder, swiping at my face with her free hand, catching me on the cheek.

I stumble back, managing to keep hold of the cushion. She comes at me again, but this time I kick at her shin, driving my heel into the spot below her knee.

Alex roars. Then a gunshot thunders over our heads, making a divot in the ceiling.

Harry, in the hallway, pointing my Kimber at us.

“Hey! Mrs. Hyde! Hold still so I can hit you!”

Alex must not feel threatened by Harry’s left-handed shooting, because she ignores him and comes at me again. Personally, I feel extremely threatened. Chances are high Harry will shoot me instead of Alex. I’ve witnessed firsthand how bad he is lefty. Adding codeine and vodka to the mix isn’t going to improve his aim.

Alex strikes, hard enough for the knife tip to penetrate both sides of the cushion. She muscles forward. I double back, smacking into the wall behind me.

Another BOOM. A hanging picture of my mother shatters, Harry’s shot hitting her in the head.

Alex presses her whole body against the cushion. I feel the tip of the blade poke against my stomach. I shove back, but she’s bigger, stronger. I suck in my gut, trying to avoid being skewered. It isn’t working. The knife jabs me again, and I feel it break the skin.

“I’m going to gut you,” Alex says, spittle flecking off her lips. “And then feed you your intestines.”

Rather than push against her, I move sideways, letting her keep the cushion. The knife pierces the wall. I hit Alex in the ear with the heel of my hand, putting my weight into it.

She staggers. I pivot my hips and kick her, hard. Alex’s hands are still wrestling with the cushion, so she can’t block my blow. The top of my foot connects with her unprotected kidney, and I feel the impact in my fillings.

Alex drops the knife and the cushion, her arms pinwheeling to keep her balance. I advance, fists clenched, sensing my chance to put her down for good. I rear back and unleash a vicious right hook.

Alex recovers faster than I expect, and she sidesteps my punch. Then she grabs my extended arm and uses my momentum to hurl me across the room.

I kiss the carpet, look up, and see Harry aiming the gun right at my face.

“Wrong target!” I scream at him.

I roll away a millisecond before he pulls the trigger.

“Sorry, Jackie!” he yells.

I get to my knees, vision squiggly, head pounding.

“Mom! Take the gun away from Harry!”

Then Alex is on me again. I endure a kick to the shoulder that makes my whole arm go numb, then I duck another that would have broken my neck. Adrenaline and reflex have been controlling my actions, both of them fueled by fear. To survive, I need to think rather than just react. Alex is bigger, faster, stronger, and a better fighter. I can’t win going toe-to-toe with her. I need a weapon.

Asking Harry to throw me the gun isn’t a wise idea. He’ll miss. Plus, he still needs it for defense.

The kitchen has knives, pans, a rolling pin, but nothing that will give me a distinct advantage.

But the garage—I have power tools in the garage.

I crawl around Alex, use the wall to stand up, and then sprint for the doorway.

I make it to the door, see some potential weapons on the workbench, and then fly past it when Alex prods me from behind. I bump into some stacked boxes, bounce off, and turn to face her.

She’s on the balls of her feet, dancing back and forth, hands up in a sparring position. Her head rolls on her neck, like Muhammad Ali loosening up before a title bout.

“Afraid?” she says. “You should be.”

I am afraid. I’m more afraid than I’ve ever been in my life. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to quit.

I adopt a fighting stance, my feet apart, my fists in front of me.

Alex moves in. She works the jab, hitting my upraised arms, pain stacking upon pain stacking upon pain. When I try to circle toward the workbench, or the shovel sitting in the corner of the garage, Alex cuts me off. When I return blows, she easily sidesteps them. We both know I’m outclassed, but I’m going to go down swinging.

“I’m going to take you apart, Jack. Piece by piece. It all comes down to conditioning.”

“You should be more concerned with moisturizing,” I say.

Alex snarls, then unloads on me. I bunch my shoulders, take the hits, wait for her to tire.

She doesn’t tire. And my arms are getting so sore that soon I won’t be able to punch back.

I back away, feel the boxes behind me, reach around and throw one at her.

She dodges it.

I tear into the box beneath it, hoping for a weapon, coming out with a crooked branch to an artificial Christmas tree. Why couldn’t I be Jewish? Menorahs are solid, heavy, perfect to bash someone’s head in.

Alex slaps the branch from my hand, throws a right at my cheek. I duck it, then swing a big haymaker that catches her, full force, on the chin.

She wobbles backward, dropping her hands. I follow up with a kick, but I’m disoriented and only strike air. I try again, connecting with her side, but there’s no power behind it, and Alex shrugs the blow off.

I cast my eyes on the workbench. Lunge for it.

Alex’s leg shoots out like a piston, catching me in the cheek. I sprawl backward, onto my ass, not able to tell up from down.

Then she’s on me.

Her first punch lays me out, and while I’m on my back she stomps on my stomach, so hard I can feel organs shift. I roll to the side, blind instinct guiding my actions, and receive a few more kicks to the body. When I reach the automatic garage door I feel like I’ve spent an hour in a cement mixer.

I cover my face, Alex kicks me in the body. I protect my body, she goes after my head. I curl up fetal, unable to defend myself, unable to fight back.

I’m being beaten to death. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

10:52 P.M.
PESSOLANO

PESSOLANO STARES DOWN at Swanson’s lifeless body. For some reason he thinks of his mother, lying in her casket. He bends down and crosses Swanson’s hands over his chest, and then gently closes Swanson’s eyes. Pessolano wishes he had a lily, or a Bible, or a rosary, to place in Swanson’s hand. He fishes around in his vest and comes out with a granola bar. He presses that into Swanson’s fist.

“We’ll avenge him,” Munchel says. “We’ll kill every last one of those assholes.”

Pessolano stands. He hopes Munchel doesn’t see the tears on his cheeks. He turns away and discreetly wipes them off.

“We can’t leave him here,” Pessolano says into the woods. “Soldiers don’t leave their dead behind.”

“We won’t. But we’re in a combat situation right now. We’ll give him a hero’s funeral. I promise. But after the war is over. We have to finish this first.”

Pessolano nods.

“I think we should rush the house,” Munchel says. “Break in, flush them out of hiding, and blow their goddamn heads off. You’ve got those Desert Eagles in the truck, right?”

“Yeah.”

Pessolano has two Magnum Research Mark XIX Desert Eagle .50 AE handguns. They’re massive weapons, weighing over four pounds each, capable of stopping a charging bull with one shot.

“Let’s do it, man. For Swanson.”

Munchel claps his hand on Pessolano’s shoulder.

“For Swanson,” he agrees. He wipes away another tear and clears his throat.

“Look,” Munchel says. “I know this is a tragedy, but Swanson would want us to soldier on. Right?”

Pessolano nods. He’s choking up a little bit.

“One of us should stay here, keep an eye on the house, and the other should go get the truck, bring it back.”

“Shouldn’t we, you know, say a few words first?” Pessolano gestures at the body.

“Yeah, sure. I suck at this kind of shit.”

“Please.” Pessolano sniffles. “For Swanson.”

“Shit. Okay. Yeah, sure. Uh, oh Lord, our friend Greg Swanson was a good man who wanted to rid the world of perverts. He was a hero, and he’ll be missed. But me and Paul are going to fuck up those fucking motherfuckers responsible, and make them choke on their own fucking blood.”

“Amen,” Pessolano says. “I’ll go get the truck.”

10:54 P.M.
JACK

ALEX GRABS MY SHIRT, jerks me to my feet. I try to lift my hands, try to push her away, but I don’t have the strength. Physical or mental. I’m broken, bleeding, beaten, finished. It’s over. I’m done.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Alex asks. She’s not even breathing heavy.

My eyes dart around the garage, but I have no idea what I’m looking for. Nothing can help me. I’m past pain. Past exhaustion. Deep down, I know I need to keep fighting, know I’m dead if I don’t. But there’s nothing left in the tank. I can’t even stand up, and my knees wobble and give out.

Alex picks me up again.

“You’re pathetic, Jack.”

I hear gunfire, coming from the house. Harry, shooting at codeine apparitions. Dummy. He needs to save the bullets.

“You know, I built you up in my head as this supercop. I considered you a worthy opponent. No one had ever beaten me before.”

She squeezes my cheeks together, like I’m a child.

“You got lucky, Jack. That’s how you beat me. Luck.”

Consciousness is slipping away. A slap brings me around again.

“Say it, Jack. Say you got lucky.”

I close my eyes. Alex slams me into the garage door.

“Tell me you got lucky!”

“I…got lucky.”

Half of Alex’s face breaks into a smile. I start to cry. Not for me. For Mom. For Latham. For Herb. And even—I hate to say it—for Harry. None of them deserve this. This night of horrors was supposed to end with the good guys winning.

Alex is right. Human beings are just animals, and all animals are selfish. And I selfishly want the people that I love to be okay, and I weep because I’m not going to get my way.

“Perfect,” Alex whispers. Her horrible face gets close to mine, and it looks like she’s going to kiss me. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she sticks out her tongue and licks away a tear.

“Hey! Frankenbitch!”

We both turn.

Harry McGlade is standing in the garage. The Kimber is in his left hand, pointing at us. His right hand is still attached to the refrigerator door, which is resting at his feet, the hinges shot off.

“Let my little sister go!”

Alex snakes her forearm around my neck, putting me between her and the gun.

It’s a mistake. I’m a physical wreck, and a mental disaster, but you don’t need muscles or brains to execute a judo flip. All you need is leverage.

I jerk my head back, snapping it into her nose, then immediately lean forward and to the right, throw her over my hip.

Alex tumbles ass over head, releasing me, flipping onto her back. I take three steps toward Harry and fall at his feet.

“Shoot her,” I mumble.

He drops the gun, grabs my arm.

“Out of bullets.”

Harry drags me and the refrigerator door back into the house.

“Hold on…”

I stop, spin around, and pull the door leading to the garage closed, turning the dead bolt, locking Alex in.

A shot pings through the living room window, whizzing past my face. We kneel side by side, propping up the stainless steel door like a shield. It’s not tall enough to cover us completely, leaving the humps of our backs exposed as we crouch behind it.

“Thanks, Harry,” I manage.

“Mom made me. I think she loves you more.”

Everything starts to spin. I rest my forehead on Harry’s shoulder. He looks at me.

“Jesus, Jackie. You got your ass kicked.”

I run a hand over my face, which is a mass of swelling and pain.

“You don’t need more blood, do you?” he asks.

“I think I’ll be okay.”

Then everything gets really blurry and the darkness takes me in its arms.

11:00 P.M.
PHIN

THE CAB SPITS PHINEAS TROUTT out in front of a house that isn’t Jack’s. According to the taxi driver and his electronic address finder, hers is the next one down the road. Phin prefers to walk the rest of the way. On the phone, Jack sounded scattered. If something is going down, Phin prefers to sneak up on it rather than announce his presence by getting out of a car at her doorstep.

It’s cool, dark, quiet. Jack lives in a woodsy area, practically a forest preserve. Phin walks alongside the winding road, not thinking about why Jack called him. There’s no point in speculation. Especially since he’ll know the reason soon enough.

A pop! pierces the calm of the night.

Gunfire. Far away.

Phin reaches behind him, retrieving the revolver he has shoved into the back of his belt. The gun is a .38, a scratch-and-dent that has probably been involved in crimes dating back to the 1960s. It was all Phin could get on such short notice. He picked it up an hour ago, off a gangbanger selling Thai stick to Wrigleyville yuppies in an alley off of Addison. Phin relieved the dealer of his gun, his stash, and eight to ten teeth.

He squints at the revolver in the moonlight, swings out the cylinder, counts six rounds. The gun is old but looks clean, cared for. Phin hopes it can fire. He breaks into a jog, holding the weapon at his side, finger off the trigger.

Another gunshot. Closer than before, but still a good distance away. Then another. Phin stops, scans the trees around him. Sees nothing. He moves to the tree line, alert, cautious.

Jack has privacy out here, that’s for sure. He walks another hundred yards before he sees her house in the distance. A few interior lights are on. Four cars are parked in the driveway. As he gets closer, he sees that two of the cars have been shot up; windows broken, wheels popped.

Now Phin does lapse into speculation. Jack’s a cop. Phin is not. If she has people shooting at her, why didn’t she call other cops?

Phin can think of two reasons.

One, because the people shooting at her are cops.

Two, because someone Jack is with wants Phin specifically.

Phin hasn’t been a criminal for very long, but he’s managed to pack a lot of crime into just a few years. He’s made enemies. It isn’t inconceivable that one of them is using Jack to get to him. Though they don’t see much of each other, Phin considers Jack a friend. It’s a strange friendship, centering around occasional games of pool, but there’s mutual respect. And strangely, considering their opposing vocations, there’s also a sense of trust. Someone may have picked up on that. Someone bad.

Another shot. Phin sees a muzzle flash, maybe two hundred yards away, in the woods across the street from Jack’s house. He heads for it.

A vehicle, coming up the road behind him. Phin hears it before the headlights come around the bend. He ducks into the trees, watches it pass. A truck, a Bronco or a Blazer. Single driver, tearing ass toward Jack’s house. It stops in the street. Phin can’t see what’s happening—he’s still too far away.

He cocks the .38 and creeps closer, moving slow and silent.

11:03 P.M.
KORK

I’M RIGHT ABOUT JACK being lucky. She might very well be the luckiest bitch on the planet.

I yawn. It’s not from boredom. I can’t remember many days in my life that have been more exciting than this one. But fatigue is setting in. I’m tired. Sore. Part of me is tempted to get the hell out of here, find a nice bed-and-breakfast someplace quiet, murder the owners and spend a few days just relaxing.

But I’m not going to leave without killing Jack and Company. Plus there’s still the matter of the gun nuts surrounding the house who can’t aim for shit but still have managed to complicate things. I counted three. They’re using bolt action rifles with suppressors, and a variety of ammunition and scopes. Not pros. Anyone with military experience could have wiped out everyone in the house a long time ago. Hunters, maybe. Or wannabe soldiers.

Whoever they are, they seem angry at Jack, and I don’t expect they’ll give up any time soon. I’ll have to deal with them eventually, but first things first.

I pick up the gun Harry dropped and I’m not surprised to find it empty. I toss it onto the workbench.

Then I check the door to the house. Locked. It’s one of those security doors, a solid wood center sandwiched between metal plates, steel or aluminum. The jamb and frame are heavy-duty as well. I can’t kick it in, because the hinges are on this side.

I spy the automatic garage door opener next to the door. I could open it, run outside, and find another way into the house. But then I’d be opening myself up for target practice.

I glance at the door to the house again. Maybe there’s a key for the dead bolt in the garage somewhere. I check the workbench and see something even better than a key.

I walk over to it, feeling a warmth well up inside me, the same warmth I always feel when I have a chance to kill someone in an exciting new way.

It’s not gas powered, unfortunately. It’s electric. But Jack has thoughtfully provided me with a fifty-foot extension cord, easily long enough to reach the hallway bathroom where everyone is hiding.

I pick it up. It feels natural in my hands, like something I was born to hold. I smile.

Then I search around for an outlet, so I can plug in my new chain saw.

11:07 P.M.
JACK

A BEE IS IN THE CAR with me. A giant bee, the size of an egg. It buzzes around my head, and I try to get out of the car but the doors are broken. I’m terrified of bees, because I’m allergic to them. So when it lands on my shoulder I can’t swat it because I don’t want to get stung, and it stares at me with malevolent eyes, knowing I’m helpless, knowing it can kill me whenever it wants to.

The car crashes into a tree and begins to roll down the side of a hill. I open my eyes, panicked and dizzy and hurting all over.

I’m not in a car. I’m on the floor, and Harry is shaking me.

But I can still hear the bee buzzing.

“Wake up, Jackie! We’re in some shit.”

I look over my shoulder, see a chain saw sticking through the door to the garage. The buzzing blade is gradually cutting away the door-knob and dead bolt.

I try to stand up, and Harry drags me back down. There’s a ping and the refrigerator door in front of us vibrates from a bullet impact.

“We’re pinned down,” Harry says. “Can you move?”

I nod, and that simple movement causes everything to go black again. More shaking from Harry.

“Dammit, Jackie! Stay awake!”

“Breaker,” I mumble.

“What?”

“Circuit…breaker.”

“Mom!” Harry screams. “Cut off the electricity!”

I glance back at the door. The chain saw is really throwing off some sparks. It’s almost pretty, like fireworks.

I close my eyes and think about the Fourth of July.

11:09 P.M.
MARY

MARY STRENG HEARS the chain saw in the garage. She sticks her head out of the bathroom, around the refrigerator, and sees it cutting through the door.

She knows the chain saw is electric. Knows they need to trip the circuit breaker.

Mary also knows that the circuit breaker is behind a small childproof door. When you have rheumatoid arthritis, childproof is synonymous with adultproof.

She looks at Herb, sprawled out on the bathroom floor, clutching his leg in a codeine/pain fever dream.

Then she looks at Latham, who doesn’t appear much better. His eyelids are halfway closed, and he’s white as milk.

Neither one of them can make it to the fuse box.

A woman screams, “Mom! Cut off the electricity!”

But the woman isn’t Jacqueline. Mary looks in the hall again.

“Mom!”

It’s Harry. Apparently his voice goes up a few octaves when he’s terrified.

Mary tries to think of an answer, comes up blank, and hurries down the hallway, into the laundry room. She hooks a finger into the cruel metal ring on the circuit breaker door. That simple act alone brings agony. Even with the codeine, and the vodka, Mary’s hands have never hurt so badly.

And it’s about to get worse.

Mary sets her jaw and tugs, fast and hard.

It’s like sticking her hand in a furnace.

The door doesn’t budge.

She eases up, tries to change fingers. Her hand is shaking so much she can’t get ahold of the handle. Mary switches to lefty.

“Mom! I’m too pretty to die!”

Harry again. That guy certainly is a complainer. Must be Ralph the sailor’s genes.

She hooks her left index finger in the ring, closes her eyes, and jerks her whole arm back.

The pain takes away her breath. But the door swings open.

Mary releases the handle, reaching for the breaker, but the spring engages and slaps the door closed.

“SHE’S ALMOST THROUGH!”

Now both of Mary’s hands are trembling. She tries her right hand, then her left hand, and can’t grip the damnable metal ring. Despair mingles with anguish, and Mary curses herself for being a worthless old woman, of no use to anyone, not even able to—

On the dryer, atop a stack of sweaters, is a coat hanger.

She snatches it up, puts the hook through the metal ring, and pulls like hell.

The door swings open.

Mary reaches inside the panel and jabs at the main breaker switch, plunging the house into darkness and silence.

11:11 P.M.
MUNCHEL

AGAIN WITH THE GODDAMN LIGHTS. Munchel sighs, wondering why the military doesn’t make a scope that works in the daylight and the nighttime. Then soldiers wouldn’t have to switch scopes every three goddamn minutes.

He sits up, rubs his eyes, and sees Pessolano in the truck up the street.

It’s about damn time.

Munchel stands, stretches, and begins to walk across the grass toward him. The wind is still strong, and has dropped a dozen degrees, hinting at the harsh winter doubtlessly drawing near. Once he spreads the word to the soldier-for-hire underground that he was part of the Chicago pervert murders, he expects his ser vices to be in great demand, fetching premium dollars. Munchel decides that his next merc gig will be someplace warm, like Bosnia. Or Atlanta.

Munchel pauses, briefly, at the corpse of Swanson, and grins at him.

“You gonna eat that, Greg? No?”

He reaches down and plucks the granola bar from Swanson’s cold, dead fingers, and tears the wrapper open with his teeth.

Cinnamon raisin. Munchel’s favorite.

“You want some, buddy?”

He breaks off a corner, bounces it off Swanson’s face.

Predictably, Swanson doesn’t protest. Though Munchel wouldn’t be surprised if the former TUHC leader did suddenly sit up and start bitching, complaining that his piece isn’t big enough, or that they should just leave the cop alone and run to Mexico, or some other bullshit.

Munchel continues onward, and finds Pessolano poking around in the back of his Bronco.

“You got any fleece in there, man? It’s colder than a penguin’s nuts out here.”

Pessolano pulls a small stack of clothing from the cargo bay.

“That don’t look too warm.”

“It’s Dragon Skin. Tactical body armor. Stronger than Kevlar.”

Pessolano takes Munchel’s TPG-1, trading it for a vest. Munchel rubs the fabric between his fingers.

“It’s thin.”

“But it can still stop an AK-47. Maybe…if Swanson had one on…”

Pessolano stows the rifle. He looks like he’s going to start bawling again, and Munchel doesn’t think he can stomach another display.

“He’s in a better place,” Munchel says, popping the rest of the granola bar into his mouth. “Where are the Desert Eagles?”

Pessolano reaches into the truck again, comes out with an aluminum suitcase with combination locks on the buckles. Munchel waits, becoming progressively annoyed as Pessolano keeps screwing up the numbers. The dummy finally gets the case open, revealing two huge nickel-plated handguns, nestling in individual foam compartments.

Munchel whistles, reaching for a gun. The damn thing has to weigh more than five pounds. You could kill a person just by hitting him over the head with it.

“This is the Desert Eagle Mark XIX,” Pessolano says. “It uses fifty-caliber Action Express rounds—the biggest handgun bullets on the market. Same length as a .44 Magnum, but wider. It has almost eight times the stopping power of a nine millimeter. What it hits, it kills.”

“Can it go through the Dragon Skin?”

“I wouldn’t want to try it to find out.”

“How many rounds does it hold?”

“Seven. And they’re really expensive, so don’t waste them.”

Munchel spins, aims at the house, and squeezes the trigger. The BOOM is so loud it feels like someone slapped him in the ears, and the recoil jerks his arm back.

Awesome.

“I said they’re expensive!” Pessolano screams.

Munchel grins at him. “Shit, man. I’ll write you a check.”

He helps himself to the box of bullets, popping the clip and adding two more. Seven plus one in the throat. Pessolano says something, but Munchel can’t hear him through the ringing in his head.

“Huh?”

“How do you want to do this?” Pessolano yells.

Munchel considers it. Everyone is holed up in the hallway, behind the refrigerator, except for that crazy bitch with the chain saw in the garage.

“We bust in the front door,” he says. “I’ll take the house. You take the garage.”

Pessolano nods, then he spends a minute untangling his bulletproof vest, trying to get it on. He’s like a child, unable to find the armhole. This convinces Munchel that Pessolano is lying about his military experience. Munchel doesn’t have a problem with lying. He lies to his mama, about when he’s going to visit her next. He lies to his foreman at the English muffin factory, about being sick when he’s actually just hungover. He even lies to hookers, telling them he works for the CIA. But Pessolano’s lies are dangerous. Munchel is supposed to trust this guy with his life, have full confidence that Pessolano has his back.

How good can he watch Munchel’s back when he can’t even put on a simple vest?

Munchel decides he isn’t going to work with Pessolano again. True, the man has some cool weapons and equipment, but someone of Munchel’s professional stature shouldn’t associate with amateurs.

Munchel straps on the Dragon Skin, finishing before Pessolano does. He spreads his hands, to show Pessolano how easy it really is, and then hears a gunshot come from the trees behind him. At practically the same time, he feels a slap in the back.

He drops to the ground, crawling to the other side of the truck, adrenaline raging. Pessolano scurries beside him.

“You hit?”

Munchel nods. He allows Pessolano to turn him around, examine his back.

“Vest stopped it. You hurt?”

Munchel shakes his head. It feels like he’s been snapped by a rubber band.

Holy shit, he thinks. I actually got shot.

I got shot and I survived.

He can picture himself in a seedy bar in South Africa, playing poker and drinking rotgut with a bunch of other mercs, casually mentioning how he got shot on his first job. A crazed smile appears on his face.

“He’s in the woods,” Pessolano says. “If we rush at him from two sides, we can flush him out. You ready?”

Munchel nods, feeling invincible.

“Let’s do it,” Pessolano says. “On my count.”

Munchel doesn’t wait. He stands up and charges straight into the trees.

11:18 P.M.
PHIN

PHIN RETREATS INTO THE FOREST, moving fast. He’s lost one-sixth of his ammunition, along with the element of surprise. All he’s gained is the secure knowledge that his recently acquired revolver sucks. He’d been less than fifty feet away, aiming directly at the man’s head. The bullet hit the lower back instead.

At least the gun didn’t explode in my hand.

From the short amount of time he’d observed the two men, Phin didn’t get the impression they were cops. They aren’t soldiers either, despite their camouflage outfits. And Phin doesn’t recognize them, though he didn’t get a good look at their faces.

But it really doesn’t matter who they are. The only thing that currently matters is that they’re coming after him. And they have much better guns.

Phin ducks under some low-hanging branches, jumps over a fallen tree, and finds himself in a small clearing. He jogs around the edge of it, kicking up dead leaves. Then he cuts back into the woods and heads back toward Jack’s house, approaching it on an angle.

He steps onto Jack’s property, on the southwest corner of her house. It’s completely dark. He can hear the men fumbling through the forest behind him. Phin jogs across the open stretch of lawn, energy fading. When he reaches the window by the garage, Phin considers his options. He can go for help, but by the time help arrives the yahoos with the Desert Eagles might kill Jack.

Of course, she might already be dead.

He can continue to play hide-and-seek, try to pursue his pursuers. But Phin has no training, no military experience. He can fight, and he can shoot, but that’s the extent of his commando skills.

Or he can break into the house, grab Jack and whoever else is inside, and try to herd them all to safety.

That seems best. Phin fishes out a pocket flashlight, attached to his key chain, and peers in the garage window. He sees stacked cardboard boxes. Phin strips off his T-shirt, wads it up against the glass, and smacks the cloth with his gun. There’s noise as the glass shatters, but not too much. He clears away the big pieces of glass, spreads his shirt over the pane, and climbs inside, wiggling between the wall and the boxes.

Phin holds his breath, listens. Hears nothing.

The boxes are all various sizes and weights. He tucks the revolver into the back of his jeans and wastes a few minutes finding his way through the cardboard maze, picking up, climbing over, and shifting all of Jack’s crap. When he finally makes it to the middle of the garage, a space opens up, and he sighs in relief.

That’s when someone hits him in the head with a shovel.

Phin stumbles forward, then falls to the right, feeling the wind of another swing sail past his face. He waves his mini-flashlight, sees the shovel coming at him again, and rolls out of the way.

Phin gets on all fours, reaches around his belt for his gun.

It isn’t there.

He scuttles backward until he has some room to get to his feet. His head hurts, but it’s bearable. He does a quick sweep of the floor with the light, looking for his dropped gun but not finding it, then raises the beam to view his attacker.

Alexandra Kork.

Now it made sense why Jack called. Alex forced her to. Once upon a time, Alex almost killed Phin. Apparently, she wants another chance.

“Hello, Alex. You’re looking well.”

Alex smiles, but the scarred side of her face doesn’t move. She holds up a hand to shield her eyes from the flashlight beam.

“I like the bullet holes,” she says, pointing the shovel blade at the healed pockmarks on his torso. “Sexy.”

Phin and Alex begin to circle each other.

“Those your friends outside, standing guard?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “No. Jack is Miss Popularity to night. Apparently she collects enemies. She’s got something about her that really pisses people off.”

Alex moves in closer. Phin steps back, out of range.

“They’re coming,” Phin says. “Two of them.”

“They’ve been shooting at the house for almost three hours. They can’t hit shit.”

“They’re not using rifles anymore. They’ve got handguns. If they get in the house, we’re all going to die.”

Alex stops moving. Phin can see her working it out in her head, can see she doesn’t like the odds any better than he does.

“What’s the situation inside?” Phin asks.

“No ammo. No guns. Where’s yours?”

“If I had one, you wouldn’t be standing there right now. How many people are in the house?”

“Jack. Her mom. Her boyfriend. Her partner. And Harry.”

Phin tries to sound casual, tries to keep the hope out of his voice. “Is Jack okay?”

Alex smiles again.

“Got a little crush on her, Phin? Isn’t she a bit old for you?”

“Is she okay?” Phin asks, harder.

“I kicked her ass, but she’s alive. Everyone in there is pretty beaten up. In fact, I shot Latham. Maybe he won’t make it, and you’ll have a shot at your secret crush.”

Phin realizes he took too much time navigating the boxes. The men are going to bust in here any minute. He can’t afford to waste time sparring with Alex.

“You’ve got to make a choice, Alex.”

“Really? What choice is that, Phin?”

“Those guys are going to come in and kill anything that moves. They’ve got Desert Eagles. You ever see one?”

“I had one. Beautiful weapon. It can shoot a hole through a brick wall.”

“They’re coming, and they’re coming now. You and I can go a few rounds while they’re sneaking up on us. Or we can figure out how to defend ourselves.”

Alex snorts. “Are you serious? You want me to help you?”

“Either help, or leave. I don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

“The enemy of my enemy. Is that what you’re saying, Phin?”

“Make your choice.”

Alex stares at Phin for a moment. Then she starts to laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, and she shakes her head in obvious disbelief.

“Life certainly throws a few curves, doesn’t it?” she says.

Then she drops the shovel.

11:31 P.M.
KORK

I DON’T TRUST PHIN any more than he trusts me. And I’m sure that if he gets his hands on one of those Desert Eagles, the first thing he’s going to do is blow my head off.

Which, of course, is the first thing I’m going to do. I just have to make sure I get one before he does.

I turn up my palms and say, “Okay, we’re on the same side. Now what?”

Phin shrugs. “You were in the marines. I was hoping you’d tell me.”

“Any good marine knows when to fight and when to retreat. We should retreat.”

“You go ahead. Run east. I don’t think I saw them there.”

Which probably means he saw them in the east. Or maybe not.

This is going to be an interesting alliance.

“Okay,” I say. “Tell me what you saw.”

“Two men. They’re wearing vests, and each has a Desert Eagle. They took them out of the back of a Ford Bronco parked down the street.”

“Any more weapons in the Bronco?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“Keys?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Did they put their rifles in the Bronco?”

“I heard rifle fire, but didn’t see any guns.”

Which means the rifles might be abandoned on Jack’s property somewhere. Why did the shooters ditch their rifles? Out of ammo? Or do they figure they’ll finish the job with the handguns, then pick them up later?

I can remember where the shots came from. If I did a perimeter check, I might be able to find a rifle. And unlike those knucklehead snipers, I hit what I aim at.

I stare at Phin. Of course, he may be lying. Maybe he knows where the rifles are, and plans on getting one for himself.

Detente is a bitch.

“How about a third shooter?” I ask.

“I only saw two.”

Phin lowers his eyes to the floor. He’s looking for something.

I bet it’s a gun. He must have had one, and dropped it during our scuffle.

“We need a plan,” I say, moving a bit closer to him. If he finds the gun and makes a move for it, I’ll punch him in the throat, break his windpipe.

“I’m all ears.”

“They have two choices for entry. Front door, and the patio door. Patio door is thick glass, might be tough to break through. Front door is smarter. Two shots at the lock and a swift kick, and they’re in.”

“Maybe they’ll split up,” Phin says. “Each take an entrance.”

“The house is dark. They might shoot each other. Did they have night-vision scopes or goggles?”

Phin shakes his head. “Not when they were chasing me.”

“Then they’ll probably stick together. We need to get inside, set up an ambush.”

Phin points his light to the left, moving the beam across the workbench. He rushes to it, grabbing Jack’s .45 that I threw there, pointing it at my head.

“It’s empty,” I say.

He pulls the trigger. Nothing happens.

“Sorry,” he says. “Had to make sure. No offense.”

“None taken. Check around for a crowbar, or something to pry the door open.”

He searches the workbench. I come up beside him and also search. We keep an eye on each other, in case one of us finds a potential weapon. I see Phin’s eyes linger on a hammer.

“The door is steel,” I say. “Hammer won’t help. If you pick it up I’ll grab the shovel again, which is longer and heavier and can do more damage.”

“I’ll attest to that,” he says, rubbing the bump on his head.

We both leave the hammer alone. In the dust under the workbench is a rusty old car jack. The handle is a removable lug wrench, steel, two feet long. It’s not a crowbar, but one end tapers, like a screwdriver. I put a hand on it the same time that Phin does. Together, we bring it over to the front door.

“It isn’t big enough for both of us,” Phin says, indicating the bar.

“You’re the big, strong man,” I say, releasing my grip. “Be my guest.”

I hold the flashlight, and Phin sticks the flat end into the doorjamb, under the still-protruding chain saw. He gets a solid, two-handed grip on the bar, and leans back.

The muscles in his arms and back bulge, twitch. Phin’s a good-looking guy, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a man without a shirt. On impulse, I trace my finger across his lats.

He flinches, spins around.

“Easy, tough guy. Just admiring the view.”

His eyes are hard. “Don’t touch me again.”

“I’m too ugly for you, huh, Phin? Can’t handle a few scars?”

“You were ugly long before you had the scars, Alex.”

Asshole. When I get my hands on a gun, my first shot is going to remove his sanctimonious balls.

Phin goes back to it. The door frame creaks…bends…then the door pops inward, and I’m highly amused to see Jack Daniels burst through the doorway and descend on Phin with a knife clutched in her hand.

11:36 P.M.
JACK

I SEE AN ARM RAISE UP, moving to block my knife, and I adjust the arc, getting in under it, aiming for the neck—

It’s Phin.

I try to put on the brakes, but momentum drives my strike onward. Phin’s eyes get wide and he jerks his body sideways. The knife tip nicks his chin, and then I bump into him and he catches me before I fall onto my face.

We both stumble backward, and then I tense up and lift up the knife again when I see Alex standing directly behind him. She’s smiling her half smile.

My energy is nearly gone, but I struggle with what little I have left, fighting Phin to get at the murderer over his shoulder.

“Easy, Jack!” Phin says, holding me back. “We called a truce.”

A truce? Is he out of his mind?

Alex steps closer, pinches my wrist and twists, making me release the knife.

“We can kill each other later, Jack,” Alex says. “Those idiots outside, they’re getting ready to come in. They’re armed. We aren’t. We need to come up with a plan, and quick.”

I can’t believe this. And maybe if I wasn’t so damn tired and banged up, I’d stage a protest. But it makes a warped kind of sense. If the snipers break in, we have no way to defend ourselves. Alex is actually the lesser threat. For the moment, at least.

“Don’t trust her,” I say to Phin, keeping my eyes on Alex.

“I won’t.”

My chest feels damp. I glance down and notice Phin is bleeding on my shirt. I touch his cheek.

“Sorry,” I say. “Does it hurt?”

He smiles. “I’m tough.”

“I know. Thanks for coming.”

“We’re friends. You call, I come.”

I’m strangely moved by that, but being a hard-edged homicide cop I respond with a strong, curt nod. Phin, however, holds me closer, actually hugging me. I give him a perfunctory pat on the back, wondering what the hell he’s doing, but not minding it terribly much. His skin is cool to the touch, and he’s got the barest hint of aftershave, something that smells like pine. No, it actually is pine. I brush a pine needle out of his hair.

His breath is on my ear, soft and warm. He whispers, “I dropped a .38 somewhere in the garage.”

I nod, slightly so Alex doesn’t notice. Then we mutually disengage.

“Hey, sis! You kill the bitch yet?”

Harry, from the living room.

“There’s been some, uh, complications, Harry,” I say over my shoulder.

“What complications?”

Harry’s not going to be pleased. I’m not either. Phin and I lead the way back into the house.

“Hey, Phin,” Harry says. “Welcome to the rave. You bring the Chex Mix?”

“Hi, Harry. What’s with the refrigerator door?”

“I’m neurotic. My shrink says I have a hard time letting go.” Then Harry notices Alex, and his eyes narrow. “What the fuck? You make a deal with Satan?”

“The snipers are coming,” I say, and the words taste lousy on my tongue. “We need her help.”

“What we need,” Harry says, “is to pound a stake through her heart, cut off her head, and bury the body on hallowed ground.”

“We can finish up our business later, sweetheart,” Alex says to Harry. “Where’s the circuit breaker?”

I stare at her, suspicious. “Why?”

“They’ll probably come in through the front door. We soak the carpeting with water, strip the covering off the end of an extension cord, wrap it around something metal, and put it in the puddle. They walk in, we hit the breaker, fry both of them.”

“They teach you that in psycho school?” Harry says.

Alex coolly regards him. “I should have cut your tongue off instead of your hand.”

“Why don’t you come over here and say that, so I can bounce this refrigerator door off your goddamn—”

“Enough,” I interrupt, giving Harry the palm. I actually like Alex’s idea. “What if they’re wearing rubber-soled shoes?” I ask.

“One of us stands by the door with a hose, soaks them when they come through the door.”

“Won’t it trip the breaker?”

“Circuit breakers are tripped when there’s resistence or surges. All we’re doing is running current. It will work.”

“We need to hurry.” Phin is staring out the front window. “They’re coming.”

“Get the hose and the extension cord in the garage,” I tell Phin and Alex. Then I hurry to the kitchen, turn on the sink, and fill a six-quart cast-iron pot with water. It’s really heavy, almost too heavy to lift. But I muscle it out of the sink and carry it at waist level, waddling to the front door. I spill the water all over the floor and set the pot down.

“Got the hose,” Alex says. “Phin is stripping the extension cord. I don’t think he trusts me with a knife.”

“I wonder why.”

I take one end of the hose, and hand the other to Harry. “You’re on squirting duty. Make sure you stay out of the wet spot.”

“I always do.”

I bring the hose down the hall, peek in on my mother.

“You okay?”

Mom nods, but she looks terrible. She hands me the flashlight. I check out Latham and Herb. Both are semi-conscious, and they also look terrible. Then I make the mistake of peeking at the vanity mirror, and I look worse than everyone. Sort of like DeNiro at the end of Raging Bull.

“Oh, Jacqueline,” Mom says. She reaches up to touch my face, and I flinch away.

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

It’s the truth. All of the pain has sort of combined into a dull ache. Unpleasant, but bearable. Maybe I simply don’t have any energy left to devote to hurting.

I give Mom a quick peck on the cheek, and then it’s on to the laundry room. I set the flashlight on the dryer and turn off the water valve that leads to the washing machine. I unscrew the hose coming out of it, attach the garden hose, then put the water back on.

“Dammit, Harry! Quit it!”

Harry is apparently soaking Alex. If I had a sense of humor left, I might have smiled at that.

“Tell me when to hit the power,” I call down the hallway. “How are you doing, Phin?”

“Power cord is stripped. I’m plugging it in.”

“Wrap the stripped end around the cast-iron pot, then step away.”

I fight the circuit breaker door, manage to get it open, and poise my finger above the main button. A wave of vertigo hits. I ride through it without losing my balance.

In the silence that follows, I have a chance to think about a lot of things. One of those things is retirement.

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a cop. It didn’t take a psychoanalyst to figure out that my desire came from my parents. My mom was a cop, and she was my hero. My dad wasn’t in the picture, and his absence left a void in my life. I wanted to emulate my mother, and I became a control freak as a defense mechanism. The more control I had in my life, the less chance of being surprised, of getting hurt. My desire to protect myself, and my mother, evolved into a desire to protect others.

After a few years on the Job, I realized I couldn’t really protect anyone. It wasn’t any particular incident that stood out, any key moment that led me to this conclusion. It was just the day-to-day grind of seeing people getting hurt, all the time, without being able to save them.

I accepted it. If I couldn’t protect them, then at least I could catch the ones who were hurting them.

I’ve caught a lot of bad people in my twenty-plus years as a cop. I know I’ve done a lot of good.

But now, here I am. I became a cop to protect others, and now I can’t even protect the handful of people who are more important to me than the rest of the world put together.

Alex was right. It’s my fault we’re all in danger. If anything happens to Mom, or Latham, or Herb, or Phin, or even Harry, I won’t be able to live with myself.

I make a decision. A big decision. If we get out of this—no…when we get out of this, I’m going to hang up my gun. Retire. Draw a pension and get married and gain weight and spend life enjoying it instead of trying to fix it.

“Jackie!” Harry yells. “Alex just ran out the back door!”

No real surprise there.

“Phin went after her!”

“Did he finish the wires?” I call.

“No!”

Dammit. “Mom! I need you!”

Mom shuffles into the laundry room.

“Press the breaker when we tell you to.”

I trade places with her, holding open the panel door until she can get her finger on the button.

“I don’t like this plan,” she says.

There isn’t time to argue. I hurry back into the living room, spy the extension cord in a tangled pile on the floor.

A noise at the front door—someone trying the knob.

“Hurry,” Harry says. He’s got the hose in his hand, bent in a kink.

Something slams into the door. It shakes, but holds.

I find the end of the cord, stripped to bare wires. I reach for the cast-iron pot.

Three gunshots, incredibly loud. The door rattles.

I wind the wire around the pot handle, then scurry off the damp section of carpeting just as the door kicks in.

Two men in camouflage dress storm into my living room. They each have a huge handgun. One is wearing yellow aviator sunglasses. The other is the sniper I saw at Ravenswood, which seems like so long ago.

“Now!” I scream.

Harry hits them with the hose. The lights go on. There’s a spark, a crackling ZAP, and the smell of smoke and ozone.

The snipers flinch.

Neither of them fall.

It didn’t work. Sweet Lord, it didn’t work.

They look at each other, then turn their guns on me.

11:44 P.M.
PHIN

WHEN ALEX RAN OUT the back door, Phin knew where she was heading.

To find a gun.

Phin takes two seconds to decide that Alex with a sniper rifle poses a bigger threat than the two guys with their Desert Eagles, and he rushes out after her.

He tears through the kitchen, out the patio door, into the backyard. Phin looks right, then left, sees Alex dart around the corner of the house. He vaults a lawn chair and pursues.

She only has a twenty-yard head start, but she can run like a rabbit. Phin, though lean and muscular, is not in good shape. He’s been in remission for a while, but it’s more a stay of execution than a full pardon. The pancreatic cancer is still there. It’s shrinking, bit by bit, thanks to chemotherapy. But the pain hasn’t gone away, and the chemo comes with a slew of symptoms that rival those caused by the disease.

Phin supplements his prescription drugs with many that you can’t find at your local Walgreens, and these have also taken their toll on his body. He can pace Alex, but he can’t catch her.

She reaches the street, then cuts left, heading toward the Bronco. All of the running Phin did earlier to night has pretty much tapped his reserves, and he falls farther behind, his breath ragged, his muscles crying out. The night air is cold, tingly, on his bare chest. He chances a quick check over his shoulder, sees the two men at Jack’s front door, trying to kick it in, and hopes Alex’s electricity booby trap is legit, not bullshit.

Alex gets to the Bronco, tries the driver’s-side door. Locked. She runs around to the back, and Phin closes the distance, hands out in front of him, leaning on the truck’s hood when he gets there, taking big gulps of air so he doesn’t throw up.

The rear door must be locked as well, because Alex sprints away without getting inside, running across the lawn and blending into the night. Phin is too wiped out to follow.

Gunshots. From Jack’s house. Phin sees the two men bust in the front entrance. He watches them walk inside, sees the lights go on.

Sees nothing happen.

Alex’s trap is bullshit after all.

Phin puts his face up to the tinted glass of the front window, tries to get a look inside the truck. There’s a rifle in the front seat, a big one with a scope. He does a quick 180, scanning the ground for a brick or rock or something to break the windshield. There’s nothing but grass.

Phin puts his back against the driver’s door, clenches his hands, and fires his left elbow backward against the glass, like a piston. He does it once, twice, three times, hard as he can.

The window remains intact.

He wants to try it again, but he can’t—he’s pretty sure he just broke his elbow.

11:46 P.M.
KORK

THE FRESH AIR FEELS GOOD. Liberating. The rhythmic slap of my feet hitting the ground, the stretch of my muscles, the wind on my cheeks. I bet I could run five miles without breaking a sweat.

Phin is behind me, but he gives up when he reaches the truck. Wimp. I should have beaten him to death while we were in the garage.

No biggie. There’s still time.

I’m running so fast I almost miss the rifle. It’s on a grassy hill, only a few yards off the road. I sprint to it, slide alongside like I’m stealing second base, and snatch it up in my hands.

It’s a beauty. Bolt action, suppressor, bipod, night-vision scope, cheek pad, palm support, padded butt plate. A better weapon than the M40A1 rifle I trained with in the corps. I get behind it, assume the position, load a round, and point it back at the Bronco. Phin is crouching next to the side door. An easy target. I consider putting a round through his leg, but notice he’s cradling his elbow, already hurt.

I’ll get to him in a minute.

I swing the barrel around, aiming at Jack’s house. I can see Harry through the front bay window, sitting on the floor and clutching his hose. Those two sniper idiots, standing there, pointing their guns. The trap must have tripped the circuit breaker. I figured it might do that. They should have held the breaker button in and kept it there; then the current would have kept flowing. But I saw no reason to share that little tip.

I nudge the rifle. There’s Jack. She actually has her hands up over her head. Like she’s surrendering.

As if that’s going to help her.

“You are dust,” I say, quoting Scripture. “And to dust you shall return.”

My Bible-thumping father would have been proud I remembered that. I grin, caress the trigger, and fire.

11:46 P.M.
PESSOLANO

“HOLD ON. We’re on the same side.”

The woman cop is standing a few feet away, her hands raised. Pessolano can’t make out her face in the dark, but her voice is strong and sure.

Pessolano doesn’t feel strong or sure. After chasing that blond guy through the woods, he’s exhausted. He’s also cold and wet, having just been squirted with a hose. Part of him knows that he needs to kill everyone in the house, then get out of there. But another part, a bigger part, is having some difficulty. Shooting someone from a few hundred yards away feels detached, kind of like playing a video game. The distance is emotional as well as physical. Shooting someone at point-blank range, someone with her hands up, someone surrendering—that’s more like murder than war.

“You’re called The Urban Hunting Club, right?” she says. “You kill perverts. I’m a cop. I kill perverts too. We’re both fighting for the same cause.”

Munchel isn’t shooting her either. Pessolano wonders if he shares the same doubts. If he thinks this might be wrong too.

“You got nice legs,” Munchel says to the cop. He sounds breathy, excited.

Pessolano stares at Munchel. His friend has a wild look in his eyes. A scary look.

“Thank you,” the cop says. “You’re the one from Ravenswood.”

“Yeah,” Munchel answers. “Did you like that? You almost got me a few times. You ever in the military?”

“No. Just the police.”

Munchel takes a step closer to the cop. “You nailed Swanson right in the heart. He died in a whole mess of pain.”

“You gave me the rifle.”

“I wanted it to be a fair fight.”

“Would killing me now be a fair fight? I don’t have a gun.”

Munchel licks his lips. “Maybe I’m not thinking of killing you right now. Maybe I’m thinking of something else.”

Pessolano stares at the cop. She does have nice legs. And to the victor, the spoils.

Right?

The man on the floor, the one holding the hose, clears his throat. Munchel points his gun at him.

“You got something to say, tough guy?” Munchel demands.

“If you do anything to my sister,” he says, “would you mind if I took a few pictures?”

Munchel begins to laugh. Pessolano starts to laugh too, but instead he starts to choke.

What the hell?

Pessolano cups his hands to his throat, vaguely aware that he just heard a gunshot.

I just got shot. Who shot me?

When Pessolano pulls his hands away, they’re filled with blood. And something else. Something stringy that looks like a peach pit.

It’s my Adam’s apple.

Pessolano drops to his knees. He glances at Munchel, who is looking back at him, mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

Behind Munchel, Pessolano sees the man on the floor lifting up a big board. No—it’s a refrigerator door. The man rams the door into Munchel, driving him across the room and up against a wall.

Pessolano turns, sees the female cop running away, toward the garage.

Pessolano looks down, watches the fountain of blood raining in front of him, aware that it’s coming from his neck.

Pessolano tries to take a breath, but his throat is blocked.

There’s no pain. Only that same sense of detachment, as if this is happening to someone else.

Then, another shot.

Pessolano feels it burn right through his right thigh, snapping the bone in half.

He falls forward.

Now there’s pain.

Soul-searing, unbearable pain.

Pessolano tries to scream. Has to scream. But his clogged throat won’t let him.

Another bullet.

The other leg.

Pessolano writhes on the floor, his brain overloading on unbearable agony. Agony that can’t possibly get worse.

The next bullet blows off a good chunk of his arm.

The agony gets worse.

Pessolano is beyond reason now. Detachment has led to the keenest sense of self-awareness he’s ever experienced. He exists now only as raw, exposed nerve endings, millions of them firing at once.

When his other arm gets shattered by a bullet, his body finally diverts its remaining resources to Pessolano’s brain, giving him a brief moment of lucidity. A flood of thoughts assault him:

Please let me die.

Shoot me in the head.

Make the pain stop.

And then he thinks of something odd. Incongruous.

If they made a plastic green army man toy that looked like I do now, maybe I would have followed a different path.

That’s the thought bouncing around in his skull as his life blessedly fades away.

11:47 P.M.
MARY

IT DOESN’T WORK, as Mary expected. As soon as she presses the circuit breaker, it pops right back out. Mary presses it several times, with the same results.

No ZAP. No cries of men being electrocuted.

Which means Harry and Jacqueline are completely vulnerable.

Voices, coming from the living room. Jacqueline’s voice. Then a man she doesn’t recognize.

Mary has no weapon, and even if she had one she wouldn’t be able to hold it. The OxyContin has made her lightheaded, and it’s dampened some of the pain, but she still can’t open her hands.

Mary heads down the hall anyway.

As horrible as the last few hours have been, Mary has learned something about herself. Old and useless are not synonyms. Age does not equal feeble. And even though Mary is beaten, bowed, and has been around for a long time, she’s far from helpless. Her daughter needs help. And dammit, she’s going to get some.

Mary slips past the refrigerator, moves quietly to the edge of the living room, pausing next to the wall. She sees two men in army fatigues, holding very large handguns.

They’re pointing these guns at Jacqueline.

Mary gets ready to call to them, to draw their attention, and then the taller man gets shot in the throat.

Jacqueline doesn’t waste the opportunity. She runs into the garage.

Get away, Mary thinks. Bring help.

But knowing her daughter, Jacqueline won’t leave until everyone is safe.

I should have raised her to be less considerate.

Then Harry rushes the other man, and there’s a scuffle. Though Harry McGlade is—what’s a good word? flawed—Mary has grown fond of the guy. She hurries into the living room to lend a gnarled hand. Mary abandoned him once, and won’t follow that particular path again.

More sniper fire. The man who was hit in the throat gets shot several more times, not in any vital spots. It’s so appalling that Mary knows Alex must be behind it. While Alex is preoccupied with that, Mary gets close to Harry, to push against him and keep the man pinned to the wall. But then the sniper gets a hand free, and he fires at both of them.

Mary gets knocked backward, Harry smacking into her.

She has no idea if she’s been shot, or if Harry’s been shot, or perhaps even both of them.

11:49 P.M.
PHIN

ALEX HAS FOUND A RIFLE.

She’s fifty, maybe seventy-five yards from Phin. He can’t see her body in the dark, but he can pinpoint her muzzle flash. Phin watches her fire at the house. Watches one of the gunmen fall. Watches Alex take the guy apart, limb by limb. Deliberately. Cruelly.

It’s a sneak preview of what’s going to happen to him, to Jack, to everyone in the house.

Phin shuffles along the asphalt to the front of the truck, out of Alex’s direct line of sight. He can’t bend his arm at all. His elbow is busted, or something in it is torn.

The pain is bad.

He seriously considers digging into his pocket, taking out the pot he stole from that Wrigleyville banger, and eating as much as he can. Marijuana is a marvelously effective analgesic. Phin is an expert when it comes to analgesics. The past few years of his life have been dedicated to a singular purpose: the numbing of pain. Physical, mental, and emotional.

After his terminal diagnosis, Phin dropped out of society. He left his job, because it was meaningless to work when you’ve been given a death sentence. He left his fiancée, because he wanted to spare her the torture of watching him die.

Since he had no hope for the future, he began to live day by day.

Sort of like a dog.

That’s not a negative comparison. Dogs live in the moment. They don’t think. They don’t dwell on the future. They exist to meet their base needs. Eating. Sleeping. Breeding. Surviving. No worries. No regrets. Minimize effort, maximize pleasure.

Phin tried to do the same. He lost himself in drugs, liquor, and whores. When the money ran out, he robbed dealers, gangbangers, pimps, and criminals. That led to hiring himself out as a rent-a-thug, solving problems for people who didn’t want to go to the police.

It worked. He was able to blot out his pain.

Then he met Jack. She arrested him after a fight with a group of Latin Kings. Later, he and Jack ran into each other at a neighborhood bar, and began to play pool on a semi-regular basis.

Which would have been fine if it didn’t go any further. But, unfortunately, they became friends.

Phin didn’t expect it to happen. He didn’t want it to happen. Friendship involved responsibility. Phin’s only responsibility was to himself, to his indulgences. To avoiding pain.

Yet Jack calls, and he comes running.

Just like a dog.

Phin shivers. His bare chest is gooseflesh, cold to the touch. The smart thing to do is to eat the weed, run into the woods, and try to find a hospital, a bottle of tequila, a few grams of coke, and a clean hooker. Forget Jack. He owes her nothing. He isn’t going to be around long enough to regret the decision.

Run away, he tells himself.

But he doesn’t run. Instead, Phin stands, crawls onto the hood of the Bronco, and gets up to the windshield. He’s wearing gym shoes. The rubber soles aren’t hard enough.

But he knows something that is hard enough. Something that routinely cracks car windows.

Friendship sucks, he thinks.

Then he shuts his eyes, rears back, and slams his forehead into the glass.

It brings out more stars than the ones currently occupying the clear night sky, but he manages to crack the windshield—a spiderweb pattern the size of a dinner plate. He didn’t break through, but it’s a start.

He waits for the dizziness to pass, realizes it isn’t going to, then spins around on his butt and drives his heel against the crack. Again. And again. And again. And again.

The spiderweb gets larger. The window bends, indents. Then his foot busts through.

Phin continues to kick, widening the hole until he can slip inside, avoiding cutting himself on the glass while climbing into the front seat.

His head hurts. So does his arm. And the tumor on his pancreas feels like a piranha trying to eat its way out of his insides.

But when Phin touches the sniper rifle, he can’t help but smile.

“The truce is over, Alex,” he says.

11:49 P.M.
JACK

I GET TO THE GARAGE as fast as I can, which isn’t very fast. The house feels more like a ship, rocking to and fro in the waves, making it challenging to stand. I stop in the doorway, feel for the light switch, and stumble over to the workbench.

I’m looking for the gun Phin said he dropped.

The light is just a single bare bulb, maybe a sixty-watt, and my loopy vision is further impeded by a black eye that’s puffed halfway closed. There are boxes strewn about the garage floor. Some Christmas decorations. A few books. I don’t want to let go of the bench because I’m afraid I’ll fall over, but I don’t see the gun from where I am. I’ll have to go searching.

I take two steps toward the mess, moving a box aside, peering beneath it. Nothing. The floor is cold, causing me to shiver. From inside the house, more gunshots.

Sniper fire.

I wondered if it was Phin who saved my life, grabbing one of the sniper’s rifles when he ran outside. It might have been Alex, who didn’t want anyone else to kill me because she was saving that particular pleasure for herself. Either way, I caught a break. Now I needed to capitalize upon it.

I kick away a piece of cardboard, almost lose my balance. No revolver underneath. A faint breeze tousles my hair, and I follow it and see the broken window, hidden behind the stacks of unopened boxes. If Phin dropped the gun in that maze I’ll never find it.

More gunfire. But this is from inside the house. It’s loud, even louder than firecrackers.

The Desert Eagle.

I don’t want to think about what that implies, but I do anyway. Even if the refrigerator door is thick enough to block the bullets, at close range the shooter can aim around it.

My last image of Harry McGlade—of, God help me, my brother—was of him charging the Ravenswood sniper, trying to save me.

I hope Harry’s okay.

11:49 P.M.
MUNCHEL

WAR IS HELL.

First Swanson bites it. Then Pessolano gets shot in the neck. The cherry on top is getting whacked full-body with a refrigerator door.

The blow knocks the wind out of Munchel, ramming him into the wall, sandwiching him against it. Like a true soldier he manages to hold on to the Desert Eagle. Unfortunately, Munchel’s arm is at his side, immobile, the door pinning his wrist. He can’t raise the gun, and has no leverage to push away from the wall.

A second shot whizzes through the window. Munchel jerks at the sound, but he isn’t the one who gets hit. Munchel stares at Pessolano writhing on the ground—the man’s leg looks like it has sprouted another knee in the middle of the thigh.

Another shot does the same thing to the opposite leg. Pessolano clutches at his throat, making a face like he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out. Munchel is horrified. It’s too much to watch, too much to bear. He squeezes his eyes closed and wiggles, trying to twist away from the refrigerator door. With a grunt and some hip action, Munchel frees up enough room to get his gun arm loose. He brings the gun around, shoots behind the refrigerator door where he guesses his attacker to be, the Desert Eagle sounding like cannon fire.

The one-armed man pinning him to the wall backpedals. Munchel fires at him twice more, his bullets pinging into the door as the man falls. Munchel has no idea if he hit the guy or not, but he takes a quick last look at Pessolano, sees his friend’s remaining good limb get turned into cube steak by more sniper fire, and decides he doesn’t want to be in this room any longer.

He sprints away from the big bay window, out of the living room, following the path of the chick cop through the kitchen and to a doorway. Munchel finds her in the garage, her back to him, rummaging through a large stack of boxes.

James Michael Munchel raises the big Desert Eagle. It’s time to end this.

11:53 P.M.
JACK

NOISE, FROM BEHIND ME. The Ravenswood sniper charges into the garage, and when he raises his pistol I throw myself forward.

Two shots in quick succession, both missing. The sound is painfully loud in the enclosed garage, echoing off the concrete floor. I tumble over a container of books, roll, and land on my butt, my body forcing a trench between two stacks of boxes. The single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling isn’t strong enough to penetrate the crevice I’m in, so I can’t see a thing.

I cover my head and wait for the sniper to start firing again.

He doesn’t. Instead, he starts kicking boxes, knocking them over, swearing and yelling. A crack opens up between crates, and I see he’s brandishing a knife now. One of those survival models, long and unwieldy, with a serrated blade. His face is a picture of anger and frustration.

“Come out of there, you split-tail bitch!”

I get on all fours, back away. There’s a breeze coming from my left—the broken window. Maybe I can make it outside. I crawl toward it, keeping low.

He pushes through ahead of me, cutting off my escape. He’s only a few feet away. He grins, baring yellow teeth.

“There’s my girl. Stay down. I like that position.”

If I got scared by creeps talking trash, I would have quit the Job after a week. Threats don’t bother me much. Knives, however, do.

“Where’s your friend?” I ask. I hold out a hand, touch the wall, keeping an eye on the blade.

“Casualty of war.”

I keep my voice even, keep the fear out of it. He seems like a guy who would be turned on by fear. “You don’t seem too upset about him dying.”

The man smiles. “He knew the risks.”

I stretch up onto my knees.

“Is that was this is?” I ask. “A war?”

“Life is a war. We have to fight for every little bit we get.”

“War is for soldiers,” I say. I shift my weight back onto my toes. “You’re not a soldier.”

He points the tip of the knife at me. “I AM a soldier!”

I lean back into a squatting position. “Soldiers don’t kill innocent people. They don’t threaten girls with knives. What’s your real job? Construction worker? Assembly line at a factory?”

I see that hits a nerve. The sniper snarls and rushes forward, slashing. I leap at him rather than away, getting inside the swing of the blade, throwing a hard right into his stomach and then driving him backward with my shoulder. We get tangled up, push through some boxes and up against the workbench.

I latch both hands on to his wrist, keeping the knife away. The Ravenswood sniper fights against my grip, then suddenly seems to realize he has more than one hand, and uses his free one to punch me in the face.

I hold on tight, tucking my chin into my chest. He hits me on the side of the head—in the ear—and my legs give out. Then he connects with my cheek and I release his knife hand, falling backward, my consciousness slipping away.

“I don’t work in no goddamn factory, bitch!” he screams. “I’m the best goddamn soldier you ever met!”

He switches his hold on the knife so it angles down, raising it up over my head.

I’m in no condition to stop him.

11:53 P.M.
KORK

I’VE GOT HARRY in my sights. He engaged in a brief tussle with the remaining sniper, the sniper shot at him, and Harry fell onto his back, right on top of Mom. I can’t tell if either of them got hit or not. He’s still moving, but doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry, which might indicate an injury.

Let’s make it worse.

I consider where the first bullet should go. Foot? Knee? Balls.

No. His other hand.

I’m such a little stinker.

I aim, adjusting for the wind, visualizing the shot like I learned in basic training.

Then a patch of grass explodes just a few feet to my left, accompanied by a BANG!

Phin found himself a rifle.

He obviously can’t shoot for shit. I’m less than a hundred yards away. Hell, with these guns a blind preschooler could shoot the shine off a penny from three quarters of a mile. I switch position, sight his blond head in the rear window of the Bronco, and squeeze the trigger a fraction of a second after I see him ducking down.

Crap. Miss.

No problem. He got lucky. And luck doesn’t last forever. Jack has learned that particular lesson well to night. Phin will learn it too.

I eject the round, seek out the backpack full of clips that the snipers have so graciously left me. Without taking my eyes off of Phin I select one, my fingers feeling to make sure it’s loaded. It’s empty. I try another. Also empty.

The whole bag is filled with empty clips.

Phin fires again, and it kicks up a clod of dirt only a few inches from my hip.

Rather than dwell on the misfortune of unfolding events, I decide to get proactive. I detach the night scope and stick it in my pocket. Staying on my elbows and toes, I inch backward down the slope of the small hill I’m perched on, stopping periodically to tuck down and roll left or right. Phin keeps shooting at me, keeps missing, and then I’m out of his line of fire, on my feet, and sprinting toward the woods adjacent to the road.

Shooting isn’t the only thing the marines taught me. I can also sneak like a cat.

I cut right, make my way through a hundred yards of trees, then circle back and head for the Bronco, slow and low, silent as death.

11:53 P.M.
MARY

MARY OPENS HER EYES.

She’s lying on the floor, and there’s tremendous pressure on her leg, accompanied by a dull ache.

A bullet wound?

“I need a fucking vacation.”

“Harry?”

That’s the pressure. Harry’s fallen on top of her.

“Mom? You got those codeine pills on you? Gimme about ten.”

“Were you shot?” Mary asks.

“I don’t think so. Only holes I got in me are the ones that are supposed to be there.”

“You’re on my leg, dear.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Harry moves, and the pressure is replaced by the pins and needles sensation of blood returning. Mary sits up and rubs her leg with both palms.

Gunshots. From the garage.

Jacqueline.

Mary looks around, spies the large handgun on the floor next to the dead man. She crawls over to it, clasps it between her hands. She tries to curl her fingers around it, but they won’t cooperate.

“Give it here, Mom.” Harry takes it in his left hand and points it at the refrigerator door. “Stand back.”

Mary obeys. Harry fires at the door handle, and it shears away, releasing his prosthetic claw.

“Should have done that to begin with,” he says. “Where’s Jack?”

“Garage, with the other sniper.”

Harry puts a protective arm around Mary, hustles her into the kitchen.

“Stay down, Mom. I’ll be back in a second, right after I give that son of a bitch a lead enema.”

Harry gives her a quick kiss on the cheek, then runs off.

That’s my boy.

11:55 P.M.
MUNCHEL

THE SPLIT-TAIL is at his mercy, and Munchel likes the feeling.

He likes the look of defeat on her battered face. Of submission. She’s resigned herself to death at his hands.

But he’s not ready to kill her yet.

He backhands her, and she doesn’t even try to block it. Such a far cry from the cocky cop who almost shot him.

Munchel grins. It’s always been a secret shame of his that he hasn’t ever had sex without paying for it. But he’s going to now. Her face is all bruised and puffy, but she’s got good legs, a nice ass. He’s going to ride this bitch like—

“Hey! Rambozo!”

Munchel whips his head around. Sees the man with the bionic hand standing in the doorway. In his real hand is Pessolano’s Desert Eagle.

“I wanted you to see it coming,” the man says.

Munchel backs away, his hands up in protest.

The man fires six times in rapid succession.

Miraculously, the first five shots completely miss.

Unfortunately, the last one doesn’t.

It drills Munchel in the stomach, and feels like getting hit with a miner’s pick. Munchel doubles over, dropping the knife, falling to his knees, and then to his side. He curls into a fetal position, clutching the fire in his belly. This isn’t like the other time he got shot, that wussy slap in the back. This is awful.

He lifts a hand to his face, sees the blood.

But I’m wearing body armor, he thinks. This isn’t fair.

“You okay, sis?” The man bends down next to the cop, helps her up.

“I’ll live. Where’s Mom?”

“I’m here.”

Munchel looks left, watches an old broad come into the garage. They all share a group hug. It’s a big happy goddamn Walton family reunion, and he’s lying here in agony, bleeding to death.

“Help me,” Munchel whispers.

The bionic guy walks up to him, squints. “You’re lucky I suck lefty. I was aiming for your head.”

“It hurts.”

“I can fix that,” the man says. “Don’t worry. I won’t miss this time.”

Munchel feels the barrel press against his forehead. His bladder lets go, soaking his fatigues.

“You…you have to help me,” Munchel states. “You’re a cop.”

“She’s a cop,” the guy says. “I used to be a cop, but they kicked me off the force for not following the rules.” The man grins. “I’m not big on rules.”

Munchel’s entire being is focused on the cold steel between his eyes. This isn’t how things are supposed to end.

“I’m begging you. Don’t kill me. Please please please don’t kill me.”

“Do me a favor. When you get to hell, give Hitler a kick in the balls and tell him it’s from Harry McGlade.”

He cocks the Desert Eagle.

“No!”

“Harry, don’t.”

The split-tail. She won’t let him do it. Thank God.

“You want the honors, Jackie?”

“Don’t waste the bullets. Alex is still out there.”

“Gotcha. How about I use the chain saw? See what this guy had for breakfast?”

Munchel starts to cry.

“Go find the cuffs, Harry. Check the kitchen.”

“Your house, your rules.” He hands the gun, butt-first, to Jackie the cop, then trots out of the garage.

“Call an ambulance,” Munchel whines. “Jesus, it hurts.”

“That might be a problem,” Jackie says. “Some assholes cut the landlines and are using a cell phone jammer.”

“Roof,” Munchel says. “Pessolano threw it on the roof.”

“Where on the roof?”

“Somewhere over the garage. Switch it off. Call for help.”

“Was it just the three of you?” she asks.

“Yeah. Me, Pessolano, and Swanson.”

“If there’s another one of you idiots out there, I might get killed, and then I’ll let Harry go Black and Decker on your ass.”

“I’m the last one. I swear. Find the jammer.” Munchel moans. It feels like he swallowed a hot coal. “Jesus, the pain is getting worse.”

Jackie pats him down, taking the Desert Eagle from his holster, and his wallet from his back pocket.

“James Michael Munchel,” she says, reading his driver’s license. “You have the right to remain silent.”

Munchel tunes out her spiel. He doesn’t give a hoot about his rights. He’s focusing on something else. Something only a few feet away.

Harry returns with a pair of handcuffs. Jackie snicks a bracelet onto his wrist, and then they drag Munchel across the floor over to the workbench.

Perfect, Munchel thinks.

Harry tries to pull Munchel’s fist away from his burning gut. Munchel fights it as hard as he can.

“Please! I’ll bleed to death!”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll get the stains up with some bleach.”

Harry wrestles his hand away, but again the cop stops him.

“Just cuff the other end to the leg of the bench. It weighs a ton. He’s not going anywhere.”

Harry obeys, locking the cuff around one of the metal pipe legs, above a crossbeam so Munchel can’t lift the leg to escape.

But Munchel has another way to escape. The real reason he wants his hand free is because he spotted something under the bench, next to a cat litter box, only a few feet away.

A revolver.

Munchel should be able to reach it if he stretches. Then he can shoot away the cuffs, kill everyone in the house, and use Pessolano’s truck to get to a hospital.

But he can’t do it while he’s being watched. Everyone has to leave the garage first, give him a little privacy.

James Michael Munchel groans again, biding time until he gets his chance.

MIDNIGHT
JACK

MUNCHEL’S DESERT EAGLE is predictably empty, but Harry’s has two bullets left. After I make several threats, he reluctantly gives me one.

“This sharing thing is new to me, sis.”

I eye him. “You accepted this whole sister thing pretty quickly, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “Give a starving man a cracker, it’s a banquet.”

That’s more insight than I thought Harry capable of, but I figure we can hold off on this discussion until we get our blood tests. And I have a couple of drinks in me.

“You okay?” I ask Mom.

She nods. “I’m going to check on Latham and Herb. Which one of you is going on the roof?”

“Jackie is.” Harry chews his lower lip. “Heights scare me, Mom.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Give me a break. Do you remember riding in a helicopter not too long ago?”

He nods. “I remember. It scared me.”

“I’m not leaving my mother alone, McGlade.”

“I’ll watch her.”

“I’ll watch her. You’ll get your ass up on the roof.”

“We can play rock, scissors, paper, to decide,” Harry says.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s fair. You ready? On three.”

I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Fine, Harry. One…two…three.”

I hold out my fist. Rock.

Harry holds up his metal claw.

“Paper covers rock, Jackie. I win.”

“That’s not paper!”

“You want to discriminate because I’m differently abled?”

I consider popping him in the nose with my rock, but that isn’t going to get him on the roof. I turn to my mother for support, but she shakes her head.

“You kids work it out amongst yourselves,” she says.

I consider calling Harry a name, like sissy or coward, but I hold off. The sissy coward just saved my life, so the insult probably won’t stick.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll go.”

“Don’t be sore, Jackie.” Harry raises his prosthesis. “Want to try two out of three?”

I stick my finger in his face. “Just protect Mom, McGlade.”

“No problemo.”

I give Harry my back, leaning down over Munchel. Ignoring the perp’s protests of agony, I turn him over and unbuckle his holster. Then I slide it off of him and cinch it around my waist. There’s a surreal quality to my actions, the combination of unremitting pain and fatigue. This has been an intense night, and it isn’t over yet.

The Desert Eagle goes in the holster, and I take a deep, steadying breath.

“I’ll need help getting up on the roof,” I say to McGlade. “Or do I have to ask Mom to give me a boost?”

Harry smiles. “I’m here for you, sis. Let’s do this.”

“What about him?” Mom asks, indicating Munchel.

I look at the holes in the garage door, and the broken window on the side wall. Too many ways to see inside here, too many angles Alex can attack from.

“He stays here. But I want you in the bathroom, Mom. It’s safer.”

The three of us walk back into the kitchen, keeping our distance from the living room window. But the lights are on, and I catch a glimpse of the dead sniper lying by the front door in an incredibly large pool of blood.

“I forgot to mention,” Harry says, “it looks like our buddy Alex found a rifle.”

I escort Mom quickly down the hall, peek in on the boys, find them still alive, and press on to the laundry room, where I left the flashlight. I stick it in my holster belt, then stop by the bathroom again on my way back.

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I say to Mom. “This is almost over.”

“I hope so, Jacqueline. This might not be the right time, but I’m thinking about moving back into the city. Would that be okay?”

I smile. “We’ll call a Realtor in the morning, Mom. Stay put. Harry will be by soon.”

We hug again, and I hurry back to the kitchen. Harry is at the kitchen table, holding his cell phone.

“Just erasing the picture of your head,” he says. “And another one I took up your skirt when you weren’t looking.”

I open the patio door and step outside, Harry in tow. The night has continued to cool off, and the wind blows through my hair and makes me shiver. It feels good, clean, almost energizing. Hopefully it will be energizing enough to get me on the roof.

“I’m going to climb up onto the veranda,” I tell Harry.

We push a lawn chair to the corner of the patio, and I stand on it. Harry braces himself against the post and bends down. I step onto his back and get my chin up over the top of the veranda. On any other night, I could have easily pulled myself up. But this small effort by itself has turned the world into a carousel, spinning me around and around. I take a few seconds to control my wobbling.

“Anytime now,” Harry grunts.

“You have to lift higher.”

He straightens his back, and I rise another few inches. It still isn’t enough.

“Push me up with your hand,” I say. Then I add, “Your real one.”

The aforementioned hand lands solidly on my ass, and he squeezes. I freeze up.

“McGlade, there’s so much wrong with what you’re doing right now.”

“I’m not enjoying it either, Jackie. You’re not exactly heroin chic.”

Fighting words. “Are you saying I’m fat?”

“No. Of course not. You’re…what’s the opposite of anorexic?”

I remind myself I only have one bullet and need to save it.

“Never discuss a woman’s weight with her, Harry.”

“Tell that to the loop of intestines bulging out of my side. It’s so big I can twist it into balloon animals.”

He grips lower, onto my thigh, and lifts. This is enough for me to get my upper body onto the veranda. But I’m having a little trouble swinging my leg up.

“Okay, Harry. Push on my—”

“Oh shit!”

Suddenly McGlade is gone and I’m alone, legs dangling. I slap my palms against the wooden slats of veranda top, trying to find something to grab hold of. All I find are splinters. If Alex is down there with Harry, I’m an easy target with my ass hanging over the ledge. I reach for the holster, ready to drop down and—

“Sorry, Jackie.” Harry is beneath me again, his hand pushing against my feet. “Your damn cat just ran past me, into the house. Scared the hell out of me.”

He shoves me, and I manage to finally get my whole body up onto the veranda. I lie on my back for a moment, staring at the stars in the night sky. My heart is beating wildly, and I try to summon up enough saliva so I can swallow.

“You okay?” Harry asks.

I’m about as far from okay as a girl can be, but I say, “Yeah. Get back in the house and keep an eye on Mom.”

“The cat’s in the house.”

“McGlade…”

“Fine. I’m on it.”

I wait, but don’t hear the patio door close. I twist my head and peek down through the slats. Harry is still standing there.

“Move it, Harry.”

“Yeah. It’s just…”

“It’s just what?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I should be the one on the roof.”

Unbelievable. “Little late for that now.”

“Just…just be careful, Jackie. I was an only child my whole life. I’m not anxious to be one again.”

I’m grateful I’m up here, because his tone implies he wants to hug me again.

“Don’t you have anything you want to say to me, Jackie?” he asks.

“Yes, I do, Harry.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you listening?”

“I’m listening. I’m here for you. Say what you need to say.”

“Here it is: Get in the house and watch Mom.”

Harry nods. “I understand. You’ve got all of these new feelings, and it isn’t easy to—”

“GET IN THE DAMN HOUSE!”

“Got it. I’m going.”

Harry goes back into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. I sit up, then carefully get to my feet. The veranda is flat on top, and I’m able to keep my balance. Walking from the veranda to the roof is a bit more problematic, since the roof is on an angle. Not a steep angle, but too steep for a woman with multiple injuries who was shot in the head a few hours ago.

Standing isn’t going to happen. Crawling on the rough shingles hurts my knees. So I settle for a sort of sliding scoot, navigating the roof on my butt. I tug the flashlight from my belt and flick it on, giving this side of the roof a quick scan. I have no idea what a cell phone jammer looks like, or even how big it is. I’m guessing it doesn’t look like dead leaves; that’s all I see.

I make my way toward the garage, my bare feet brushing the gutters, methodically checking every other scoot for anything that looks electronic. I make it to the end of the house, maneuver over the corner of the roof to the side of the garage, and still find nothing.

Unless Munchel is lying, the only place the jammer can still be is on the front side of the house—which is where Alex is waiting with her sniper rifle.

I pause, switching off my light. There hasn’t been any shooting for a while. That might mean she fled the area. Or it might mean that she’s just waiting for me to come into view.

I rack my brain for other options, and can’t come up with any. I have to find the jammer, the sooner the better.

Either I get shot, or I don’t, I think. Not much in the way of rationalization, but it’s all I have to work with.

I scoot over the corner, facing my driveway, and notice an SUV parked down the road. There’s a big hole in the windshield, and its headlights are on.

I can’t make out who’s inside, but lying on the ground, near the passenger door, is Alex. My first hope is that she’s dead, but that’s dashed when I see her slink closer to the front of the truck.

If she’s sneaking up to it, there must be someone inside. Everyone in the house is accounted for. That leaves Phin.

I have to warn him.

I draw the Desert Eagle, figuring I’ll fire one in his direction to get his attention. But that will leave me unarmed.

Alex sneaks closer.

I switch on my flashlight, wave it over my head, and yell, “Phin!”

I don’t know if he hears it. But Alex does. She turns her head, waves at me, then begins to climb the hood. She’s going to go in through the hole in the front windshield.

Phin came here because of me. I have to do something.

Without considering the wisdom of my action, I kick my legs out over the edge of the roof and brace myself for impact with the ground.

12:07 A.M.
PHIN

HE KNOWS ALEX is in the dark somewhere, stalking him. Phin can’t find her. And until he does, he’s stuck in the Bronco. This truck is a mobile arsenal, with enough ammunition to overthrow a small country. He can’t carry it all back to the house in one trip. And if he abandons it, there’s a chance Alex will appropriate the ammo for herself.

Hot-wiring a vehicle is beyond Phin’s criminal ability. All that remains is sitting here, trying to spot Alex, and keeping an eye on the front of the house.

He’s tired, and in pain, and worst of all, sober. This gives him an unfettered chance to dwell on a future he isn’t going to have, which hurts more than his cancer and his elbow combined.

Living without hope is a shitty way to live.

He considers the grass in his pocket again. That would help take the edge off reality. But he needs to stay sharp. For Jack.

On the other hand, Jack is his friend, and she wants him to be happy. He’s not happy sitting in a truck in the middle of the night, shirtless and shivering, with a broken elbow and a cancerous pancreas, throwing a major pity party for himself.

He sticks his hand into his jeans, touches the bag.

Leaves it there.

Phin isn’t sure why Jack inspires this loyalty in him. Is it a crush? Or maybe something more?

Phin kills the thought. He has no future. He has no hope. There’s no room for love in his life.

For his own protection, he needs to prove that he doesn’t care. The easiest way to prove it is to get high right now.

But he still doesn’t pull out the bag.

Rather than dwelling on what that means, Phin turns the headlights on so Alex can’t approach from the front. His rifle is loaded, and so is a shotgun he found in back. He uses the night scope to check the rear again, and the woods to the side. Then he shifts in his seat to watch Jack’s house.

There’s a light, on the roof. It’s waving around, and then he hears Jack cry out, “Phin!”

A warning cry.

Phin jerks around to the front, spotting Alex on the hood. He fires the shotgun through the hole in the windshield, hitting nothing but sky, and she rolls to the side.

The gun bucks in his hands, and he can’t rack it again with a broken elbow. He wedges the butt between his legs, the barrel touching the ceiling of the truck, and moves to pump it with his right hand. Before he has a chance to, Alex pours into the cab.

She doesn’t go for the gun. She goes for Phin’s injured arm, grabbing and twisting until all he can see is a big red ball of blinding pain. He yells, hits her in the head with the stock, but there’s no force to the blow.

Phin pulls away, raises up his foot, but there’s no room in the front seat to kick her. Alex lets go of his arm, but then she’s wrestling with the shotgun, her two hands versus his one.

She’s winning, and he can’t hold on much longer. Rather than release his grip, Phin pushes forward, forcing her through the front window, climbing on top and pinning her back to the hood.

Phin lets her have the shotgun—she can’t use it on him while they’re grappling. His knee digs into her solar plexus, and his good hand locks onto her throat. He squeezes to kill.

Alex rakes her fingernails across Phin’s eyes, but he shuts them tight, concentrating on crushing her windpipe.

Then she finds his elbow again, and yanks on it so hard that something else snaps.

Phin cries out, rolling off of Alex, landing face-first on the cool grass. The shotgun skids across the hood and falls in front of the truck, between the headlights.

Alex is closer. She scrambles for it, reaching down.

BAM!

The shot doesn’t come from Alex. It comes from behind them.

Jack.

The cop is only twenty yards away, jogging over with a huge handgun pointing in their direction.

Alex does a diving roll, then tears off into the woods, leaving the shotgun behind.

Phin crawls to the shotgun, pumps it with the butt on the ground, and fires it into the darkness after Alex. Jack staggers up behind him. She’s panting.

“She’s unarmed,” he tells her. “You can go after her.”

“No ammo,” Jack says.

“Take the shotgun.”

Jack reaches for it, goes wiggly, and collapses right onto Phin’s lap.

12:08 A.M.
MUNCHEL

“YOU LITTLE YELLOW-EYED BASTARD. The first bullet is going in your skull.”

Munchel slowly extends his hand, reaching for the revolver for the ninth time.

The damned cat hisses and lashes out its claw, tunneling three more deep scratches along Munchel’s wrist.

He jerks his hand back again and swears. Munchel’s arm is bleeding in so many places it looks like he stuck it in a blender. The pain almost rivals the pain in his gut. Over twenty scratch marks and three bites; one he’s sure went all the way down to the bone.

The revolver is only a few feet away, just within reach. But it’s right next to the litter box, which the cat is standing in. Every time Munchel reaches for it, the cat draws more blood.

Worst of all, the horrible feline seems to actually be enjoying itself. As if this is some sick game. Munchel tried waiting for it to use the litter box and leave, but it just sits there, yellow eyes sparkling, daring him to make another move.

Gunshots, outside. Munchel isn’t concerned with that. His entire world has become his arm, the gun, and the cat.

Munchel tried yelling. Tried slapping his hand on the floor. Tried talking sweet. Tried begging. He even tried nudging the litter box, but that’s the move that provoked the biting, and he isn’t going to attempt it again.

Munchel’s lower lip trembles, and the tears come. His stomach is getting even worse. It’s not even about escaping anymore. Even if he shot off the handcuffs, he wouldn’t have the strength to get to the truck.

Munchel wants the gun for another reason. His final request. He wants to shoot that split-tail and that one-armed guy who did this to him. And the cat. He really wants to shoot the cat.

Then he’ll use the gun on himself and end this terrible pain.

Just do it, he thinks. It’s just a cat. If it scratches you, no big deal. You’re going to die anyway. Be a soldier and do it!

Munchel extends his hand toward the revolver for the tenth time. He shows no fear, and doesn’t hesitate. The cat watches him, unblinking, as he gets within ten inches of the gun.

Eight inches.

Six inches.

Four inches.

Two inches.

Munchel grabs it! He lifts the gun up, his index finger seeking the trigger, and then there’s a blur of yellow fur and the cat has all four claws and its teeth locked onto Munchel’s hand. Munchel can’t help it—the cat hits a tendon or something that makes his hand pop open, causing him to release the gun. He screams, reining his arm in, lifting it up to beat the cat against the underside of the workbench. But before he can, the cat releases him, hopping back into the litter box.

The pain doesn’t abate. It feels like the cat is still clawing, still biting. Munchel looks for the gun, and sees it’s even farther away now.

And the cat, the damned cat, is licking Munchel’s blood from its paw.

There’s some noise, from the opposite side of the garage. Munchel swivels his neck around, and through a gap in the boxes he spies someone climbing in through the window.

It’s the woman. The badass woman who was trying to kill the split-tail cop. She navigates the boxes and walks over to Munchel, staring down at him.

The woman has a killer body, but her face is Phantom of the Opera. Still, she’s trying to kill Jackie. She could be a possible ally.

“We both want the cop dead,” Munchel says.

The woman lifts her foot up, lightly touches her toe to Munchel’s stomach. He howls, all thoughts of a possible alliance being wiped from his mind. Everything gets bright, then dark.

“It’s your stomach acid,” she says. “It’s leaking through the bullet hole, and dissolving all of your other organs. Bad way to die. Takes hours.”

She moves her foot up higher, nudges his shoulder. Munchel wonders if maybe he blacked out for a few seconds.

“What happened to your hand?” she asks.

Her eyes track from Munchel’s arm to the litter box, then to the revolver. The woman’s face twitches.

“Kitty won’t let you have the gun? That’s pretty damn funny.”

The woman bends down, looks at the cat, and says, “Scram.”

The cat hisses, then bounds out of the garage, back into the house. The woman picks up the revolver.

“Is this what you wanted? So close, but so far. That must have been awful for you.”

Munchel knows what he has to say, but can’t bring himself to say it.

“Let me take a wild guess.” The woman crouches next to him, wipes away one of Munchel’s tears with her thumb. “You want me to shoot you. Right?”

Munchel nods, and manages to add, “Please.”

“Normally, I’m a merciful chick. But you and your boys—well, you really fucked up my plans for the evening. So I think the best thing for both of us is for you to die in horrible agony.”

She’s not going to help him. But maybe he can force her to.

“I’ll…I’ll scream,” he says. “I’ll scream that you’re here.”

The woman straightens up and places her foot on Munchel’s stomach again, taking his breath away.

“No you won’t. Because I can make it worse.”

She reaches over his head, onto the workbench, and grabs two items: a funnel, and a bottle of liquid drain cleaner. She drops them next to Munchel.

“You make a sound,” she tells him, “even the tiniest sound, and I’ll fill you up with something that hurts a lot worse than stomach acid. Got it?”

Munchel nods, pissing his pants once more.

“Who has the keys to that truck outside?”

“Pess…Pessolano.”

“He the guy in the living room?”

Munchel nods again, wishing he would die.

“Inside. Are they armed?”

“…the guy, Harry…he’s got a Desert Eagle…only one bullet.”

“Anything else?”

“…no…please…”

She finally takes her foot off his stomach. Then she swings out the cylinder on the revolver, slaps it back in, and cocks it, heading for the doorway to the house. Before she goes through she looks at Munchel.

“Remember,” she says, putting a finger to her lips. “Shhh.”

Munchel closes his eyes and focuses all of his energy on being very, very quiet.

12:09 A.M.
JACK

I WAKE UP WITH MY HEAD in Phin’s lap. He appears concerned, an emotion I’ve never seen from him before. It softens his features, making him look like a different person.

“What happened?” I ask. The lawn is cool beneath my legs, and my various aches and pains are a little less acute.

“You passed out. After you jumped off the roof to save me.”

“I landed on an azalea bush. And I landed funny.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not that kind of funny. I think the plant got to third base.”

“Frisky, those azaleas. Did it buy you dinner first?”

“No. Not even a glass of wine. Where’s Alex?”

“She ran into the woods.”

I try to sit up. Phin helps. I’m groggy, but I can function.

“She might head back to the house,” I say. “We have to get there.”

“She’s unarmed.”

“That doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous.”

Phin nods. “Good point. I think we can handle her, though. Let me show you.”

He hands me the shotgun, then sticks his head in the passenger door of the truck and presses something on the dashboard. Then he walks around to the rear door and opens it up. Inside are two sniper rifles, half a dozen handguns, and box after box of ammo.

“I couldn’t bring it back to the house all by myself, but if we both load up, we can manage. Unless Alex is driving a tank, she won’t be able to get to us.”

“Let’s hurry.”

There’s a metal suitcase lined with foam, with cut-out impressions for the two Desert Eagles. I tear out the foam and fill the suitcase with bullets. Phin finds a duffel bag, and we pile in the guns and more bullets. We barely cram everything in.

I reload the Desert Eagle, Phin adds a few shells to the shotgun, and then I help him strap on the duffel bag, which weighs a ton. The suitcase and both rifles are mine to carry.

Satisfied we haven’t left a scrap of ammo behind, we head back toward the house.

My load is cumbersome, unwieldy, and after a few steps I have to rest. Phin urges me on. You never realize how big your lawn is until you’re hauling a hundred pounds of ordnance across it. I really hope Mom doesn’t change her mind about moving back to the city.

“I still have to find the cell phone jammer,” I tell Phin between labored breaths. “If you cover the front, and Harry covers the back—”

My words are cut off by the sound of gunfire, coming from the house.

12:11 A.M.
KORK

THE REVOLVER IS A .38. There are five bullets in the cylinder. That’s more than enough.

I creep into the house, silent and powerful. After a little hiccup in the plan, I’m back in control. Harry and his single-shot Desert Eagle don’t concern me. Even if he manages to get a shot off, he’ll most certainly miss.

I slip into the living room and grin when I see the cast-iron pot with the wire attached. Idiots. Then I kneel down next to Pessolano. His pants are a bloody, sticky mess, but I manage to fish out the keys to the Bronco. I shove them in my pocket, then concentrate on the hallway.

I hear whispering. Coming from the bathroom, behind the refrigerator.

I pause. Shall I shoot to kill? Or is there time for a little fun first?

I decide to play it by ear.

I bend down low, measuring each footstep, careful I don’t make a sound. I feel most alive during moments like this. I’m in control, a hunter stalking her prey. It’s what I was born to do.

“She’s in the house! She has a gun!”

Dammit. That sniper idiot. I thought I paralyzed him with fear, but he must have been made of stronger stuff than I assumed. I meld into the shadows, pressing my back up against the wall.

“Is that you, Alex?” Harry asks.

I wonder whether or not to answer, decide there’s no harm now.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Found yourself a gun, huh?”

“Yep. And I have more than one bullet, Harry. Where should I shoot you first? I’ll let you decide.”

“Come a little closer and I’ll tell you.”

I laugh, then take a step forward.

“You think you can hit me left-handed, Harry?”

“I don’t have to. Mom has that particular honor.”

Another step. “That old lady with the crippled hands? She can’t even hold a gun.”

“She’s not holding it. I am. She’s aiming for me.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Mom’s an expert markswoman. She taught Jack how to shoot. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

“Stick your head out, Alex,” Jack’s mother says. Her voice is strong and sure. “I’ll teach you how to make some mincemeat pie.”

I back up. Maybe they won’t hit me, but maybe they will, and a .50 bullet in capable hands is not something to take lightly. I’ll sneak back outside, come in a different way.

I head for the front door, and see Jack and Phin heading toward the house, their arms filled with weapons.

Shit. I buzz through a few quick scenarios in my head. I shoot at them, kill one, and the other rushes the house with superior firepower. Or I get lucky, kill them both, and Harry pops up behind me and puts one into the back of my head.

Maybe I could win with a better gun and more ammo, but a smart girl knows when to fight and when to run. It’s running time.

Still, I can spare one bullet.

I get down on a knee, support my wrist with my free hand, and draw a bead on Jack’s head. Then I wait for her to get within range. If she’s too far away, I’ll miss. If she’s too close, that will give Phin a chance to catch me.

Fifty feet seems to be a good distance.

I’m a little disappointed that it will end this way, but I can come back for Harry and the others later. Let them mourn Jack for a few weeks. Settle back into everyday life. Then I can surprise them with a return visit, after I’ve finished with the other thing I’ve got planned.

Jack reaches the fifty-foot mark. I line up the sights.

“Bye-bye, Lieutenant.”

I squeeze the trigger.

Jack remains standing.

I missed.

It’s the gun. The gun’s aim is off.

Damn, that is one lucky lady.

Phin stops, pointing the shotgun at the house. It’s time for me to go. I hurry back into the garage, hearing the shotgun thunder behind me. The sniper is on the floor where I left him. His eyes get comically wide when he sees me.

“I thought we agreed to be quiet.”

“I’m…I’m a soldier…” he stammers. “Soldiers don’t make deals with the enemy.”

“Soldiers also die badly,” I say.

I don’t have time to savor it, but I make good on my promise and manage to jam the funnel in, along with half the bottle of drain cleaner.

His screams follow me through the maze of boxes, over to the side window. And that’s when I see Jack rush into the garage.

Maybe her luck has finally run out.

12:15 A.M.
JACK

A SHOT BURIES ITSELF into the lawn a yard ahead of me.

“She found my gun,” Phin says. “Go, I’ll cover you.”

I don’t argue with him. All around us is open land. The only cover is near the house. Phin aims the shotgun and fires, and I move as fast as I can, beelining for my front door. I feel like I’m running in slow motion, my feet in quicksand, each step harder than the last. But the thought of Alex in the house with the people I love makes me discover reserves I didn’t know I had left.

I make it to my porch without being shot, wheezing and dripping sweat. I drop the gear, pull the Desert Eagle, and go in low, keeping a two-handed grip on the weapon.

The living room is clear. I hear screaming, can’t pinpoint it.

“Harry!”

“We’re fine!” he yells from the bathroom. “Alex took off through the garage!”

I rush over to the garage door, get a quick peek at Munchel on the floor, his stomach wound leaking bloody foam. He’s the one screaming.

I look past him, see Alex heading for the side window. I fire twice, missing as she dives through.

I can’t let her get away.

I hobble between the boxes, crouching low if she decides to fire at me, sticking the barrel of my gun out the window and jerking left and right to see if she’s hiding on either side.

Alex comes up from below.

She grabs my wrist and squeezes like a vise. I keep my grip on the pistol but can’t aim it toward her. I sense, rather than see, her gun hand coming up, and I reach blindly and latch on to it, stiff-arming the barrel away from my head.

Alex tugs, dragging me out of the window, broken glass scraping against my stomach, hips, and legs. I fall on top of her, each of us trying to gain control of our weapons without letting the other do the same, my face inches from hers as we both grunt and strain.

She rolls, swarming on top of me, straddling my chest. Slowly, inexorably, her gun begins to swing toward my face. There’s nothing I can do to stop it. I’m injured, close to passing out again, and Alex is so big and so strong and so damn evil. She’s not a human being. She’s a force of nature.

Her gun bears down on my forehead.

“After I kill you,” she says, “I’m coming back for your friends and family.”

I’m not scared.

I’m enraged.

I hear a yell—a bone-chilling, animalistic yell. It’s coming from me. And then I open up my palm, letting the Desert Eagle drop, flexing my biceps and grabbing hold of Alex’s hair and yanking her head so hard I give the bitch whiplash.

Alex falls to the side, off of me, and I shove her gun hand away and get my knees under me. Then I make a fist with my left hand and hit her square in the nose.

I can feel the cartilage crack under my knuckles. Her gun goes off, shooting into the night sky well over my head. She rolls with the punch, and I scramble to my feet, ready to lunge in under the gun and rip out her heart with my bare hands.

But she doesn’t attack. She runs.

The monster runs away.

I scan the ground, find the Desert Eagle, and snatch it up, but she’s already sprinting around the corner.

“Jack!”

Phin, at the garage window, shotgun in his hand. He looks sort of fuzzy around the edges, and I feel my legs start to wobble.

“Make sure she doesn’t get back in the house,” I tell him.

Then I go after her.

12:17 A.M.
KORK

I’M STILL SEEING STARS from where Jack popped me in the nose, but I don’t let it slow me down. I run around the back of the house, adrenaline pumping, rounding the other side, sprinting straight for the Bronco. I quickly look back, see that Jack is fifty yards behind me.

She’s per sis tent. I’ll give her that.

She also has a bigger gun, and by now so does everyone in the house. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

I slide on my belly across the hood of the truck and through the broken windshield. I wiggle myself into the driver’s seat, push the key in the ignition, and have a bad moment when the truck doesn’t turn over.

It’s the battery.

I check to my right. Jack has stopped less than thirty yards away. She’s in a shooter stance, aiming the big Desert Eagle at my head.

I kill the headlights, press the gas pedal, and crank it again.

The truck roars to life. I make a U-turn, burning rubber on the street and kicking up dirt and grass when the wheels go off the road.

I duck down right before Jack puts three shots into the driver’s-side window, peppering me with bits of glass. I keep the pedal pressed down, feel the tires grip the asphalt again, and continue to stay low until I’m at least two hundred yards away.

I tap the brakes when the road reaches an end, jerk the wheel right, and speed down the street and through a green light. Then I force myself to slow down.

I raise a hand to my nose, wipe away some blood, and it causes a spike of pain. I check the glove compartment, find a box of tissues, and wedge a wad up each nostril even though it makes my eyes water.

It hurts. But my ego hurts more. I had her. Had her. But when it came time to punch her clock, I got greedy and tried to draw out the moment, talking when I should have been pulling the trigger.

It’s not entirely my fault. There were unforeseeable circumstances. If it weren’t for those idiot snipers, I’d still be back at the house, controlling the situation, having some fun.

But what’s done is done. No point dwelling on the past.

Besides, this isn’t over yet.

Not by a long shot.

12:23 A.M.
JACK

I WATCH ALEX TEAR DOWN the road, and the Desert Eagle all of a sudden weighs a hundred pounds. I let the gun drop to my side, and a strangled sound that’s a cross between a laugh and a sob comes out of my mouth.

She’s gone. Alex is gone. And everyone I care about is still alive.

I walk back toward the house, but I don’t feel weak. I don’t feel hurt at all. For the first time all night, I feel pretty damn good.

I meet up with Phin on my front lawn.

“We’ll get her,” he says.

I meet his eyes. “I know.”

We enter through the front door. Harry is standing guard with a Desert Eagle. He blows out a big breath when he sees me. “That was some pretty intense shit. Who needs a beer?”

“I could use something stronger,” Phin says.

Harry nods. “Mom has some codeine, and I think there’s vodka left.”

“We’re not out of this yet,” I say. “We still need to find the jammer and get some help.”

“Phin and I will take care of it,” Harry says. “Don’t bogart the vodka.”

They head outside. I head to the bathroom, and Mom embraces me.

“Is she gone?” she asks.

“Yes. I still need to go outside, guard Phin and Harry.”

I look at Herb, who is sitting up. His color has returned. He’s trying to open a pickle jar.

“Don’t eat those,” I say, taking the jar away.

Herb frowns. “Harry said they were good.”

I ask Mom to find something else for Herb to munch on, then go to Latham. I touch his forehead, and he opens his eyes. His fever has gotten worse.

“Did the good guys win?” he asks.

I nod.

“I wasn’t worried,” he says. “Not with you here to save us.”

“Ambulance is coming soon,” I tell him. “We’re all going to be okay.”

“I love you, Jack.”

“Love you, Latham.”

“Love you more.”

“No, I love you more.”

Herb’s mouth is occupied with what appears to be a wedge of cheddar cheese, but he says, “For crissakes, I’m trying to eat here. Kiss him already.”

I smile, kiss Latham, and then hurry back into the kitchen. The screams from the garage have stopped. I take a peek. Munchel is dead. Then I go outside and witness the spectacle of Harry on Phin’s shoulders, reaching for the veranda.

“Dammit, Phin, push!”

“You want me to climb up there on my own, then pull you up?”

“Could you do that? Please?”

I lend two hands to the cause, and we manage to get McGlade onto the roof. And he had the audacity to comment on my weight. Everywhere I touch him, it feels like pizza dough.

“What’s it look like?” Harry calls from above.

“No idea,” I answer. “But it’s probably around front.”

I turn to Phin. “Any wants or warrants out on you lately?”

“I don’t think so. Worried about fraternizing with a known criminal?”

“Hell no. I was going to talk to a judge friend, get everything dropped.”

Phin smiles. “Can that apply to any future indiscretions I may commit? There’s a liquor store near my house just begging to be robbed.”

“Thanks, Phin.”

I give him a hug, since this is the Night of a Thousand Hugs anyway. His skin is freezing.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask.

He holds me tighter. “Not anymore.”

“Hey!” Harry yells. “I found a tennis ball! You play tennis, Jackie?”

I pull away from Phin, feeling a little awkward.

“I think Latham has some shirts inside. I’ll get you one, when Harry comes back.”

“Thanks.”

Harry farts around on the roof for a few more minutes, then yells, “Got it!”

He tosses the jammer down. It’s a black box, about the size of a walkie-talkie. I hit the off switch, and pull out the battery just to be safe. Then I turn on my cell phone and see those beautiful signal bars.

I call 911, give the operator my badge number, and request as many cops as possible. I also ask for six ambulances, and for an APB to be put out on a red Ford Bronco with a hole in the windshield.

Then I go to find a shirt for Phin, and a change of clothes for me.

The first cop arrives in four minutes. A minute after that, six more cops arrive. Then the ambulances come. All the swirling lights on my front lawn make it look like a Fourth of July fireworks display.

I give some very brief statements, and then oversee the loading of my friends and family into the ambulances. Mom. Latham. Herb—who fights with the paramedics to hold on to the cheese. Phin. And Harry.

“Mom invited me over for dinner next week,” Harry tells me as they’re strapping him to the gurney. “It will be nice to hang out with you when someone isn’t trying to kill us.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say.

“Does she like flowers?” he asks. “I’ve got forty-nine Mother’s Days to make up for.”

“She loves flowers, Harry.”

Only after Harry is carted off and everyone is safe do I allow my guard to ease up and finally let them put me into an ambulance of my own.

“I have a cat,” I tell one of the paramedics. “He isn’t good with people.”

“We’ll catch him, make sure he’s okay.”

“Might be wise to call animal control, let them help you.”

He passes along the info, then takes my vitals.

“Helluva night, huh?”

I laugh. It feels good. Real good.

“You have no idea,” I say.

1:24 A.M.
KORK

MY NOSE STOPS BLEEDING. I pull out the tissues, wipe away some of the extra blood, and make myself presentable. Then I ditch the Bronco in an alley behind a convenience store, jog six blocks to the ER loading dock, and sit down on a bench and wait.

This is the nearest hospital to Jack’s house, so it makes sense they’ll take the injured here.

The first ambulance arrives, and two paramedics hop out and open up the rear, pulling out someone I recognize all too well.

The .38 is lousy, but I don’t miss at point-blank range. Both emergency technicians drop, either dead or dying. I walk up to the gurney, taking my time, enjoying the moment.

“Thought you got away, huh?” I ask. “Life’s like that sometimes. Just when you think you’re in the clear, something blindsides you.”

I cock the gun and half of my face smiles.

“Any last words?” I ask.

All I get back is a defiant stare.

“Nothing? I was hoping for something witty.”

“She’ll find you.”

“I certainly hope she will. And just to make sure she goes looking…”

I aim for the head, and hit what I aim at.

Some people run out of the ER, wondering what’s happening. Time to go.

I run off into the parking lot, find an old guy looking for his car. We make a quick swap. I get his car keys, and his wallet, which contains eighty bucks and a few credit cards. In return, he gets a chop in the throat that breaks his windpipe, and a final resting place in his own trunk. A much better deal for me than for him, but life isn’t all that fair.

I pull out of the parking lot, considering my next move. It’s too risky to stay in the area. Plus, I have other things to do. While incarcerated, I did a lot of planning. Big planning. Some of it involved Jack. Some of it didn’t.

I need to get started on the stuff that didn’t involve her. But that doesn’t mean I still can’t keep Jack in the loop.

I pass several police cars on the way out of town, but they leave me alone. After driving for a bit I check into a suburban hotel using the dead man’s American Express.

I yawn. It’s been one hell of a day, and I’m exhausted. I strip off my clothes, take a hot shower, and climb into my first real bed in a long time.

The sheets are warm. The pillow is soft.

I fall asleep dreaming of the many deaths to come.

1:38 A.M.
JACK

I OPEN MY EYES when I realize the ambulance has stopped. I look over my shoulder. The paramedics are gone.

I get a feeling—a bad feeling—and reach up to unbuckle my straps. I open the rear of the ambulance and see the parking lot is a tangle of emergency vehicles, most of them cops.

A paramedic comes up alongside me.

“You don’t want to see this.”

I push him off, hurrying toward the nexus of activity near the rear of the hospital.

A cop is setting up some crime scene tape.

Oh…no…

I grab a nearby uniform and yell, “Who is it? Who’s dead?”

He doesn’t answer. Two more cops see me and begin to walk over, but I duck under the tape and see the dead EMTs, and there, on the gurney…

“NO!”

I become another person. Someone without any control left. Someone overcome by emotion. I rush over to the bloody body, punching anyone who tries to stop me, screaming and screaming because I just can’t stop.

Someone jabs me with a needle, and my consciousness floats away, and all I can think is that I failed, I failed, I couldn’t protect everybody, dear God I’m so so sorry…

4:57 P.M.
JACK

I’M MEDICATED. Something strong that makes it hard to stay awake.

People come and go all day. Doctors and nurses. Cops. People I care about.

I have nothing to offer them. Nothing to give.

My hospital room fills up with meaningless flowers. Friends. Police officers from around the country. Strangers who watched the news.

Captain Bains even shows up, offers his condolences. Tells me to take as long as I need to recuperate.

He even offers to help with the funeral arrangements.

I decline.

“We’ll get her,” he tells me. “We’ve got the Staties involved. The Feds. Every cop shop in Illinois and the surrounding states.”

His words don’t reassure me. I know they won’t get her. I know, because Alex has already gotten away.

She’s told me as much.

Before Bains arrived, one of my floral arrangements began to ring. Inside the planter was a cell phone.

I picked it up, and read the text message on the screen.

SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS, JACK.

I’M IN MILWAUKEE.

COME GET ME.

Along with the text was a picture. A shot of Alex, a half smile on her scarred face, standing in front of a restaurant.

I don’t share this information with the captain. Maybe I will later. I’m not sure. It depends on whether or not I’m going to stay a cop.

I look at it now. The phone. My direct link to the person who hurt me worse than anyone has ever hurt me before.

COME GET ME.

“You can bet on it, Alex. You can bet on it.”

Acknowledgments

Big thanks to the following people. You’ve helped me immeasurably, and I won’t soon forget. (Apologies to those folks I forgot.)

William E. Adams, Augie Aleksy, Tasha Alexander,

Feo Amante, Brenda Anderson, Patrick Balester, Sarah Bewley,

Dave Biemann, Irene Black, Michele Bradford, Wendy Brault,

Tisha Britton, Lynn Burton, William Conner, Gail Cooke,

Jim Coursey, Tammy Cravit, Blake Crouch, Josephine Damian,

Terri Dukes, Chris Dupee, Audrey N. Durel, Jane Dystel,

Barry Eisler, W. D. Gagliani, Miriam Goderich,

Norman Goldman, Terri Grimes, Jude Hardin, Joe Hartlaub,

Linda Holman, Kay Hooper, Adam Hurtubise, Eileen Hutton,

Bob Hutton, Steve Jensen, Cynthia Johnson, Jon Jordan,

Ruth Jordan, Richard Katz, Nick Kelly, Maria Konrath,

Talon Konrath, Chris & Mariesa Konrath, Laura Konrath,

Mike Konrath, John Konrath, Amy M. Krueger, Michele Lee,

Meredith Link, Brenda C. Long, Maggie Mason,

Joseph P. Menta Jr., Brenda Messex, Jim Munchel, David Omo,

Henry “Hank” Perez, Paul Pessolano, Barbara Peters,

Jeanine Peterson, Sharon L. Pritchard, Pat Reid,

Heather M. Riley, Terry Robertson, J. Greg Robison,

James Rollins, Marcus Sakey, Judith Saul, Terri Schlichenmeyer,

Rob Siders, Wendy K. Smith, Shaun A. Sohacki, Greg Swanson,

Linda Tonnesen, Leslie Wells, Matt Wilhite, Lloyd Woodall.

And special thanks to the many booksellers, librarians, interviewers, bloggers, reviewers, and booksellers (they deserve to be thanked twice) who have embraced my series. I owe every one of you a drink.

About the Author

J.A. Konrath is the author of four previous Jack Daniels mysteries, and lives in the suburbs of Chicago.

OTHER WORKS BY J.A. KONRATH

Whiskey Sour

Bloody Mary

Rusty Nail

Dirty Martini

Copyright

FUZZY NAVEL. Copyright (c) 2008 Joe Konrath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

Microsoft Reader MAY 2008 ISBN 9781401395391

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cherry Bomb

A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery

Cherry Bomb

J. A. Konrath

This book is dedicated to my wife,
my one true love,
and my very best friend.
Happily, they’re all the same person.
You’re magic, Maria.

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Front Matter

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

Acknowledgments

Also by

Copyright

CHERRY BOMB

1 oz. vodka

1½ oz. white crème de cacao

¾ oz. grenadine

1 maraschino cherry

Shake vodka, crème de cacao,

and grenadine with ice.

Pour into a rocks glass.

Garnish with cherry.

CHAPTER 1

AT MY FIANCÉ’S FUNERAL I got a phone call from the woman who killed him.

“I checked the Weather Channel.” Her tone was conversational, cheery. “It’s raining in Chicago. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Funerals on sunny days seem so wrong.”

The pastor hit the switch, and the mechanical winch lowered Latham’s casket into the ground on black canvas straps. Slow, like it was sinking into a swamp. The rain beaded up on the lacquered oak lid and I had an irrational urge to find a towel, wipe it dry. Latham didn’t deserve to spend eternity wet.

“I’m coming after you,” I whispered into the phone.

“That’s what he said. Before I shot him. He said you’d come after me. Latham had faith in you until the very end, Jack. Like a puppy dog. Poor guy. Murdered, just for loving the wrong woman.”

My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had been staring at me since the phone rang. Herb’s black suit was purchased back when he weighed less, the tightness making his large stomach seem even larger. His free hand—the one that wasn’t holding the crutch—reached up and touched my shoulder.

Alex? he mouthed.

I nodded.

“Is this your grand plan, Alex? Calling me to make me feel guilty?”

“I don’t need to make you feel guilty, Jack. You’re already guilty. Latham was a good man. I would have preferred shooting you in the head, but our game isn’t over yet. Later today I’m sending you a picture over the phone. Twelve hours from then, the man in the picture will die. Unless you can find him and save him. I hope, for his sake, you do a better job than you did with your fiancé.”

I gripped the cell phone so hard my hand was shaking. Latham’s casket dropped below ground level, and the tears on my face mingled with the rain. I managed to keep my voice even.

“And what if I don’t want to play your game?”

“The man I’m going to kill has a wife and kids. Leading the kind of life that you might have led, if you weren’t burying your future. If you don’t make an effort to save him, the next picture I send you will be of a playground filled with children. How much more guilt can you handle before you crumble and blow away?”

I wiped my cheeks, then turned away from the grave. Latham’s family stared hard at me. No pity in their eyes. Only disdain.

“Don’t cry. And if I may be blunt, don’t you think that skirt you’re wearing is a little short? Not very appropriate, unless you’re cruising the funeral for a rebound fuck.”

I glanced down at my knee-length dress, then did a quick 360.

“Careful, Jack. You’re spinning so fast you may knock your fat partner off his crutch.”

I covered the phone and faced Herb. “She’s here.”

Herb hit his lapel mike, turning on his radio and calling for a perimeter sweep. There were more than fifty cops at the funeral. As they scattered I dug my. 38 Colt out of my Gucci handbag and walked away from the grave site, scanning tombstones and monuments, heels sinking into the wet sod, worming my way through Latham’s family while they shamed me with hateful glares.

“You brought a gun to a funeral, Jack?” Alex asked. “Were you expecting me to show up?”

“I was hoping.”

The October wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves and cold air across my scalp, making my stitches sting. Twenty-plus years of on the job training made me keep low, a smaller target. Not that it mattered. Alex was a crack shot.

“Turn left,” Alex said, “another few yards, next to the mausoleum. There’s an angel watching over you.”

I followed instructions, feeling like I had a bull’s-eye on my forehead, and not minding much. I ran my eyes along the slanting granite roof of the stone structure, and noticed the statue of a cherub perched on top. Something was duct-taped to his hand. I moved in closer, gun arm extended, and saw it was a camera phone.

“Twelve hours, Jack. Then he dies. And keep your cell on. Never know when I might call with a hint. Don’t fail him like you failed Latham.”

Alex hung up. My legs decided they didn’t want to support me anymore, and I fell to my knees, my gun hand dropping to my side, cursing the day I became a police officer.

CHAPTER 2

MILES AWAY, Alexandra Kork sits in a coffee store chain, sipping a tall black dark roast. Alex doesn’t care for coffee, but the free WiFi access makes her Internet trail harder to trace. She moves a finger along her laptop touch-pad, and the camera zooms in on Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, kneeling in the mud. The image is in color, with a gorgeous 600 dpi resolution that is unfortunately blurred by the drizzle.

Behind the mesh veil, Alex smiles with half of her face. Like Jack, she wears funeral black, but her heels and her hemline are higher. The outfit is new, a Dolce & Gabbana two-button blazer with a matching skirt. No top underneath, just a push-up bra that reveals a lot of cleavage in the V-neck. The hat is vintage, purchased at a thrift store, wide brimmed and stylish in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way. The netting extends from the brim and curls down to beneath her chin, tickling her neck. For the discreet serial killer, it’s the next best thing to a hockey mask.

Above the scents of coffee and cinnamon, Alex catches a whiff of Lagerfeld. It stings her sore nose. She powers off the computer just as the man approaches her small table. Mid-fifties, balding, short. His suit is tailored, expensive, but still can’t hide the middle-age spread and the bullfrog chin. The gold wedding band is tight on his sausage finger.

“I noticed you sitting here, and I wanted to offer my condolences,” he says, speaking to her breasts. Men are laughably predictable. If she were topless, she wouldn’t even need the veil to hide her face—no man would bother looking above her collarbone.

“Thank you,” Alex says. “I’d offer you a seat, but I was just leaving.”

Alex stands. She’s two inches taller than he, and his eyes follow her cleavage like laser scopes. He seems momentarily unable to speak, so Alex prompts him.

“This may sound rash, but I’m feeling vulnerable right now, and I could use some company. Would you walk me back to my hotel room?”

Now his eyes meet hers. They widen with possibilities.

“Of course. Let me get my things.”

He hurries over to his table, grabbing his umbrella, reaching for the paper cup of coffee and open copy of the Wall Street Journal and then hesitating. Alex can almost see his thoughts pop up over his head in cartoon balloons. If he takes the paper and coffee, then he won’t have a hand free to help console the poor widow. He chooses to leave them, then spins fast and bumps into another man who is also staring at Alex. They exchange glances, one gloating, the other envious, and then he slips past and offers Alex his arm.

Alex tucks her computer into the carrying case, pulls the strap over her shoulder, and links her fingers around his biceps, feeling the doughy fat beneath the fabric. There are six people in the coffee shop, three of whom watch them walk to the door.

“I’m staying at the Hyatt.” Alex is louder than necessary. “It’s right up the block.”

The overcast day matches the hue of the stained sidewalk and dirty office buildings. Even the air smells gray, car exhaust melding with drizzle. Alex begins to stroke his arm. Her breath quickens in anticipation.

“I’m getting hot.”

“Do you want me to hold your jacket?”

“Not that kind of hot.”

Alex maneuvers him against the brick wall at the opening of an alley. She takes his hand, which is as pliant as a doll’s, and runs it over her chest, down her trim belly, to between her legs.

“Sex and death,” she whispers. “They’re connected. Part of the same cycle.”

His eyes bug out, and his jaw drops open, but he stays stock-still. She writhes against him, and he finally gets the hint, his chubby fingers beginning to explore her.

“Is it wrong?” Panting now. “That death turns me on?”

He moans something noncommittal, but the umbrella drops from his other hand and he grabs her left breast, seeking the nipple through the fabric.

“In the alley,” she says. “Behind the Dumpster.”

She leads him, walking backward, his hands stuck to her as if glued, and when the Dumpster shields them from the street view she runs a palm over the front of his pants and feels how much he wants her.

He reaches up, leaning his chubby face in, trying to lift up her veil and kiss her. She catches his wrist.

“You’d prefer it on,” she says.

His eyebrow lifts in a question. His face is close now, and Alex senses that he can see through the mesh. She’s wearing a lot of makeup, a special brand that fills in the indentations of scars, but it can’t cover everything. His expression changes from lust to worry.

Alex grunts, working open his fly, pulling his cock out over the waistband of his tighty whities. It’s long and hard and she digs her fingernails into the shaft. But his fingers have stopped moving, even as she tries to grind against them, and his eyes remain locked on her face.

She sighs, annoyed, and releases his wrist.

“Fine. You really want to see? Help yourself.”

He lifts her veil. His worried expression explodes into revulsion.

“Oh…oh Jesus God…”

He tries to pull away, but Alex grips his shaft tight. Her free hand unclips the folder knife from her garter belt, using the thumb-stud to flick open the three-inch blade. She jabs it in sideways, under his balls, slicing through to the femur.

The man screams.

Alex twists the knife, severing the femoral artery, then spins on her heels and shoves him face-first into the wall. She pins his shoulders while blood sluices down the bricks. His hands are clamped on to the wound, but it won’t help. She widens her stance as the pool of blood grows, avoiding stains on her Miu Miu pumps.

He struggles, and struggles hard, but Alex has both strength and leverage on her side. His moans are muffled by the wall and the traffic sounds. She’s still turned on. Alex thinks about reaching down, forcing one of his hands between her legs, but she doesn’t want to risk him getting loose.

“What do you think your family will say?” Alex gently chides. “Found dead in an alley with your prick hanging out?”

He strains against the wall. The harder he fights, the faster he loses blood. Alex leans in closer, whispers in his hairy ear.

“Maybe I’ll pay your wife a visit. Tell her how much you wanted me before you died. I bet your driver’s license has your address on it. Should I drop by the old homestead?”

He takes his hands off his crotch and pushes against the wall, grunting. The blood is really flowing now. His effort lasts less than a minute, then he slumps against the brick like a drunk embracing an old war buddy.

“I hope you were worth my time.”

She tries the front pockets first. Keys, a tin container of breath mints. Alex opens the container, and instead of breath mints finds egg-shaped yellow pills. Tadalafil, for erectile dysfunction. Not that this guy seemed to have any problems. Then she digs into his back pocket, freeing his wallet. Three dollars. Three lousy dollars. And his credit cards all say SEE ID on the back signature line.

“Shit.” Alex is no longer horny. Just irritated.

He’s almost dead, probably in shock, but she takes some time to vent her frustrations out on him. When she’s finished, his face looks a lot worse than hers ever did.

Then she squats next to a rain puddle and rinses off the folder before clipping it back to her garter belt. On her way out of the alley she picks up the dropped umbrella and opens it, shielding her face from the drizzle.

Alex needs money. The three bucks she just stole won’t even buy hair dye. When the body is discovered and ID’ed, there’s a chance it will lead back to the coffee shop. Cops will be looking for a blonde staying at the Hyatt who recently attended a funeral—all three false leads, once Miss Clairol gets involved.

Luckily, this is a big city, and money is everywhere if you know where to look. Alex checks her watch. She has some time before her date. More than enough time to make a few grand.

She heads uptown, a spring in her step, eyes searching for the perfect person to murder.

CHAPTER 3

TURNING LATHAM’S FUNERAL into a crime scene didn’t endear me any further to his relatives, but work was more productive than grief. I established the perimeter, organized teams to question the attendees and cemetery staff, bagged, tagged, and sent the camera phone to the Crime Lab, and led a search for Alex that proved fruitless.

My boss, Captain Steven Bains, waited for things to calm down before approaching me. He was short, stocky, with a crop of unnatural-looking black hair that may have been a weave, a toupee, a hair transplant, or some kind of dead animal.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you. And thanks for coming.”

“When one of these perverts attacks one of our own, we make it personal. We will catch her.”

“I know.”

“The key word there is we. Not you. You’re a victim. You can’t be on the case. You’re too good a cop to throw away your career on a personal vendetta.”

I did my best to look neutral. This didn’t surprise me, but it still rankled.

“Alex called you, right?”

“I gave my cell to Herb. He’s working on tracing the number.”

“Sergeant Benedict isn’t part of this investigation either.”

“He said he’d pass it along to Mankowski.”

Bains searched my eyes. If he detected the lie, he didn’t call me on it.

“I can’t imagine how much you want this woman, Lieutenant. But if I find out you’re trying to involve yourself in the investigation, your leave of absence will become permanent.”

The wind kicked up a notch. I shivered, and the act made me feel weak. Bains gave me an awkward half hug, sort of slipping around me and patting my back. I got a good look at the top of his head but still couldn’t tell what sort of hair he had up there. I fought the urge to touch it.

Bains eventually broke the embrace, and an impromptu line formed behind him, cop after cop shaking sad hands with me and offering words that meant nothing. I outranked most of them, and stayed stoic until I got to Herb.

“I should have done more,” he said.

“Jesus, Herb. You did everything you could.”

“So did you.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

He grabbed me like a bear.

“You’ll get through this, Jack. You’re the strongest woman I ever met.”

Like all strong women, I ignored compliments.

“If Bains asks about my cell phone, tell him you gave it to Mankowski.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain it later.”

Herb released me, staring over my shoulder.

“Ah, shit. The assman cometh.”

I followed Herb’s gaze and saw Harry McGlade walking over to us. Harry was an ex-cop, and my ex-partner, currently eking out a living as a private detective. He looked as he always did: expensive tailored suit that needed to be pressed, three days’ growth of beard, a Bogart hat, and a broad grin that made you think he was laughing at you. Which he usually was.

“Hi, Jackie. When are we going after the bitch?”

Harry had been there the night Latham died, and had his own reasons for hating Alex Kork, many of them just as valid as mine. But I’d worked with him in the past, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

“I’m on a leave of absence,” I told him.

“Good. We can take turns driving the Winnebago.”

“The what?”

“I just bought it. Stocked with all the latest spy shit. Phone tracers. Surveillance equipment. GPS trackers. It’s like a crime lab on wheels. If her ass is hiding in a Stuckey’s shitter in Mobile, Alabama, I’ll be able to find it.”

He grinned, winked, then nodded at Herb.

“How’s the knee?” Harry asked.

“Hurts.”

I hid my surprise. It was the first time I’d ever seen Harry and Herb be civil to each other.

“I see the pain hasn’t kept you from eating.” Harry rubbed his chin. “You’re going to give Rudolph and the other eight reindeer hernias.”

Herb smiled, but it held no humor. “The police report will say you lost your teeth resisting arrest. Bad for you, but good for your boyfriend.”

“Guys—” I stepped between them.

Harry stuck his head over my shoulder.

“I’m a heterosexual. Ask your mom. But you…you’re a hippo-sexual. How does it even work? Does Mrs. Claus hang above you in some kind of harness?”

Herb brought up his crutch like a sword. Harry snatched it in his prosthetic hand. There was a whirring, mechanical sound, and the aluminum frame bent in Harry’s metal fingers.

Herb smiled for real this time. “It’s time for a physics lesson.”

He shoved, knocking Harry onto his back. Several cops still in attendance came over, but Herb warned them away. He gripped the top of the crutch and leaned on it, forcing the end into Harry’s diaphragm.

“This would be a good time to apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry croaked, struggling to breathe. “Maybe you’re not fat. Maybe you’re just pregnant with a wildebeest.”

Bernice, Herb’s better half, gently took her husband’s arm and led him away, probably saving Harry’s life. Harry grinned up at me.

“I’m glad his trainer stopped him before he ate us all.”

I shook my head. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re my sister. But, disgusting as it sounds, I still can’t help looking up your skirt.”

I’d recently discovered that Harry might, might, be my half brother—a troubling fact that DNA testing would either confirm or deny in the next few days. If it turned out we were related, I’d have to double my weekly therapy sessions. Once I bothered to find a therapist.

“Go away, Harry. I don’t want to deal with you right now.”

“I’ll call you later. We can eat in the Winnebago. It’s got a kitchenette. You can cook stuff.”

I started to walk away, back to the casket.

“When you come over, bring food!” he called after me. “I haven’t bought any food yet! Pick up some steaks! Or a ham!”

“Shut up!” someone yelled. “It’s a funeral! Show a little respect for the dead!”

“Who the hell are you, Big Nose?”

“I’m Latham’s cousin Ray!”

“Well, I was with Latham the night he died, and his last words were: ‘My big-nosed cousin Ray is a dick!’”

Swearing ensued, and probably a scuffle. I didn’t look back to find out.

Mom stood at the edge of Latham’s grave, peering down. We’d spent six hours shopping for her dress, Mom dismissing one after another, convinced that Latham wouldn’t have liked them. They’d been close.

I reached out, held her hand, feeling swollen knuckles beneath thin, cool skin. I tried to recall the exact moment when Mom had become an old lady, and wondered when I’d reach that point myself. I stared at my hand, looking for signs of arthritis, and instead focused on my engagement ring.

The pain threatened to erupt. I shook with the effort to keep it buried.

“You have to mourn sometime, Jacqueline.”

Mom’s voice left no doubt she was following her own advice.

“I need to find her, Mom.”

My mom turned away from the grave, her red-rimmed eyes finding mine. The softness of her tone didn’t undermine its strength.

“I could tell you that revenge won’t bring him back. Or I could tell you that letting go is the only way you’ll be able to get on with your life. Or I could even plead with you to not chase Alex, because I can’t bear to lose you. But instead of all that I’m just going to say that when you need me, I’ll be there.”

I managed to choke out, “Thanks.”

We were silent for a moment, focusing on Latham’s final resting place.

Mom broke the silence.

“Revenge won’t bring him back.”

“I know.”

“You need to grieve and accept. It’s the only way you’ll get through this.”

“I know.”

“And if anything…happens…to you…”

I hugged my mother, her tears warm on my neck.

“I know, Mom. I know.”

After a few deep sobs, Mom stiffened. She held me at arm’s length, her face hard and set. The face she wore as a cop, de cades ago.

“Don’t try to arrest her this time, Jacqueline. When you have the chance, send her to hell where she belongs.”

I nodded, but I didn’t really want to think about that right now. What I had to say next didn’t come easy.

“Mom…I need you to go away for a while.”

Instead of showing anger, Mom smiled.

“I’ve already booked a cruise. Two weeks in Alaska. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

Color me surprised.

“Really? I thought I’d have to threaten you.”

“It doesn’t make sense for both of us to be worried about each other. Alex won’t be able to get me while I’m on a boat. And seeing glaciers and polar bears will help me forget that my daughter is hunting a maniac.”

“It will?”

Mom shook her head sadly.

“No. You’d better come back to me, young lady. Don’t make me strap on my gun and put her in the ground myself.”

Again I faced an internal battle to hold back the tears.

“I’ll be fine,” I managed.

“I assume Harry’s going with you.”

“Probably not.”

“You need help, Jacqueline. Someone to watch your back.”

“Harry is a…” My mind searched for a softer word than shithead. “…he’s difficult to work with.”

“He’s an obnoxious pig, and I say that knowing he might be my son. But he cares about you in his way, and you can use him.”

“Going on the road with Harry McGlade…I think I’d rather dance at a strip club for sex offenders.”

“You need someone. Herb won’t be any good to you with his bad leg. How about that other fellow who helped us? Phineas Troutt?”

“This isn’t his fight, Mom.”

“Alex seemed just as eager to kill him as she did us. Call him.”

“If you want me to.”

“Pinky swear.”

“Jesus, Mom. I’m forty-seven years old.”

She held up a gnarled pinky. I hooked mine around it.

“Fine. I pinky swear.”

Mom stared at the grave for another minute, said goodbye to Latham under her breath, then turned to leave.

“I’m going to Shirley’s. Your partner said he’d give me a ride. You sure you don’t want to come?”

Latham’s cousin was having a reception at his house following the funeral. Mom was invited. I wasn’t. I considered going anyway, weighing the pros and cons of being spat on by his family and friends. Much as I deserved it, I’d be a disruptive presence.

“I need to be alone for a little bit. If I don’t see you, have fun on your cruise.”

“I intend to. I’m hoping I’ll meet a nice man. Those tiny little cabins are much cozier when you’re sharing a bed.”

Mom winked, and touched my cheek. Then she headed back into the throng of mourners, which had now dwindled to only a few. I silently wished for someone, anyone, to come up to me and blame me for Latham’s death. Call me names. Even throw a punch. I was prepared not to defend myself.

Except for a few sour looks cast in my direction, I was ignored. I faced Latham again.

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled for the thousandth time.

I tried to get my lips to say goodbye, as my mother had done. They refused. I wasn’t ready to let go just yet. So I simply stood there and stared.

After a while, the grave digger came by with a backhoe and began filling in the dirt. Methodical. Disinterested. The elaborate ceremony of death, meant to offer comfort to loved ones, reduced to menial labor. I watched, staying put as the drizzle became heavy rain, cold, relentless, and unforgiving.

CHAPTER 4

THE MAN’S WRINKLES are caked with filth, and the layers of soiled clothing wrapped around his thin body smell of BO, urine, and worse. Alex takes no joy in slitting his throat. She mixes business with plea sure when possible, but for this old crazy bum it’s a mercy killing. Alex derives no plea sure from mercy.

She holds his shoulder, keeps him turned away so the spray of the carotid doesn’t splash her Dolce & Gabbana. He moans a little, but resigns himself to his fate quickly, collapsing into a clump of bloody, dirty rags. The alley, like most in the area, is narrow and deserted.

Alex lights a cigarette and waits for him to stop breathing. She doesn’t inhale, because she doesn’t smoke. If someone happens to walk by, a nicotine break is a good excuse for standing around in an alley.

Two minutes pass. No one walks by. For a population of six hundred thousand, there aren’t many people on the street. Maybe it’s the crummy weather.

“D…deh…deh…”

The bum is trying to talk, but he’s having some problems; most of his breath is bubbling out through the hole in his neck. She nudges a patch of unbloodied clothing with her toe.

“Last words are important. Try to finish.”

“D…deh…devil,” he manages, somewhere between a whisper and a gurgle.

Alex smiles, but only the right side of her face moves.

“The dev il isn’t real, buddy. I am.”

The bum expires, rheumy eyes going dull, and the blood finally stops pumping. Breaking his neck would have been quicker, but that would have meant getting behind him, finding a good grip. Changing her hair color is annoying enough. Alex doesn’t want to fuss with lice shampoo as well.

Alex peels back his sweatshirt, and the smell gets so bad it activates her gag reflex. She removed the bandage from her nose a few days ago, not because the break was fully healed, but because it drew more attention than her scars, even under a veil. Now she wishes she’d waited; a nose brace and plugs would have prevented this awful odor from assaulting her.

The money roll is in his pants pocket, almost the diameter of a soda can. During her stint in the marines, she knew of an MP who would roll drug dealers and pimps when he needed fast cash, the logic being they always had a wad. The downside was they also carried weapons, and had unsavory friends.

When Alex needed money, her solution was less complicated. Homeless people carry their entire fortunes on them. Though some were drunks and druggies, spending their last nickels to score, the schizos and psychotics tended to hoard cash. It took her less than an hour to find one on the street, muttering to himself. When she shoved him into the alley, he was more interested in protecting his plastic bags full of precious cans than his own throat.

She flips through the bills, which are surprisingly clean and crisp, and concludes she’s just made around six hundred bucks. Alex tucks the roll into her laptop bag, checks the sidewalk for pedestrians, then steps out of the alley and heads for her car. It’s parked on the street next to a small bookstore. A recent model Honda Accord, so popular it’s anonymous. In her younger years, she preferred to steal sports cars. But those are conspicuous.

Or perhaps, Alex thinks, I’m simply mellowing with age.

She approaches it from behind and inspects the trunk, satisfied that the car’s previous owner hasn’t begun to leak any bodily fluids. Since killing Jack’s fiancé three weeks ago, Alex has switched vehicles three times. Perhaps a bit overly cautious, but she doesn’t want to leave Jack such obvious bread crumbs. She prefers to keep the lieutenant guessing.

Exactly twenty days have passed since Alex was a guest of the Heathrow Facility, a maximum security prison for the criminally insane. She’d been put there by Jack, who had torn off half of her face in the process. The skin grafts, done by unskilled surgeons on the public dime, left Alex pink and mottled from her eye to her chin. She looked like a crazy quilt made out of Spam.

While in Heathrow, Alex had a lot of time to think. About revenge. And about the future. She planned two elaborate schemes. The first was to exact some payback. The second was larger in scope, but would be even more satisfying than killing Jack and company.

After a dramatic escape, Alex paid the lieutenant a visit, intending to kill her and everyone she cared about, including Jack’s mother; her partner, Herb; her fiancé; and two old friends, Harry McGlade and Phineas Troutt. But there were…complications, and everything went to hell.

Alex had been thinking about that night a lot. About how it could have gone differently. Jack and her friends got very lucky, no doubt. But Jack had also stood toe-to-toe with Alex, and broken her nose.

Alex had been in scores of fights, with both men and women. But no one had ever broken her nose before.

So, scheme number one got flushed down the toilet. But scheme number two is still viable. Scheme number two will make everything right. And there’s room for Jack to take a big role in it.

A very big role.

Alex takes out her keys and presses the button to open the car door. After she climbs in and buckles up, she considers her next move. It’s a little past two p.m. There’s time to buy some dye, do her hair, before her four o’clock date. Alex uses the onboard GPS system and searches for drugstore, finding one less than a mile away.

She chooses red for her new hair color. The dead bum would have approved.

Then Alex heads toward the Old Stone Inn near the airport, picked because the name is absolutely perfect, and muses about all of the people who are going to die in the next few days.

There will be quite a few.

CHAPTER 5

I WANTED TO GET GOOD AND DRUNK, but I’d been pretty much good and drunk for the last few weeks. Mourning. Hating myself. Wallowing in a pool of alcohol, antidepressants, and self-pity, biding time until I was able get my shit together.

The time had finally come.

I walked past acres of tombstones through freezing rain, exited the Graceland Cemetery on Clark and Irving, and hailed a taxi.

“UIC on Roosevelt.”

The cabbie glanced up at me in the rearview. I was soaked and shivering, my clothes sticking to me like they’d been painted on, my nipples jutting out like gun barrels.

“Wet out there,” he said.

I didn’t answer. He turned up the heat without being asked. I didn’t deserve warming up, but I had no will to argue.

Forty blocks later and thirty bucks lighter, I was spit out by the cab at the University of Illinois Chicago. The rain had changed its style of attack, cold fat drops replaced by wind-driven drizzle, which stung like needle pricks. The campus, normally gorgeous in the autumn, looked barren and dead. The trees were skeletons, their leafy skins shed in clumps all over the ground, brown and wet as mud.

The Illinois Forensic Science Center was on the south side of the street. Before it merged with the state police more than a decade ago, it was just known as the Crime Lab. One of the most advanced in the country, containing over fifty thousand square feet of crime-busting technology.

I showed my badge at the front desk, declined the offer of paper towels, and took the stairs to the second floor and Officer Scott Hajek, whom I’d phoned earlier.

Hajek had a roundish face and large blue eyes magnified to cartoon-ish extreme by his thick glasses. The top of his head came up to my nose. He had a crush on me, and had asked me out several times over the years. I always deferred, saying I already had a boyfriend. Hopefully he’d have the tact not to ask me again.

Per our call, I met Hajek in one of the many labs, this one crammed with computer equipment, expensive-looking electronic devices, and an impressive collection of empty pizza boxes stacked neatly in the corner.

Hajek, sitting in a swivel chair and peering at a computer, glanced over his shoulder at me when I entered.

“Still raining?”

I held my thumb and index finger an inch apart, indicating a wee bit.

“There are some takeout napkins on the table there, next to that container of Parmesan cheese.”

“I’m fine.” My teeth were only chattering a little.

“You hungry? I still got some pizza left over from lunch. Double pepperoni.”

“No thanks.”

“You don’t like pizza?”

“I just came from a funeral. I’m not very hungry.”

Hajek stared at me, and for a moment I saw his eyes flicker to my boobs, which felt ready to fire two shots across his bow.

“Maybe later to night? You have to eat, and if you want to talk, I’m a good listener.”

“Thanks for offering, Scott.” I tried to sound genuine, even though I was tired and he was annoying me, squinting to see through my dress. “Tell me what you got on the cell phone I sent over.”

Hajek blinked, swallowed, and turned back to his desk.

“It’s a PP Tangsung 117EX. Quad-band, GSM 1900 network, MMS and EMS. Or, in non-geek terms, a pay-as-you-go model with enhanced video and messaging capabilities, and a good antenna. I lifted two prints, both belonging to Alexandra Kork, but you probably already knew that.”

I shivered. “Traceable?”

Hajek swiveled to face me, except his eyes didn’t meet mine.

“She bought the phone at the mall in Gurnee, Illinois, six days ago. I called them, spoke to the employee who sold it to her. Said it was a tall woman, well built, with bandages on her face. Used a credit card in the name of Shanna Arnold. I ran a check; Mrs. Arnold was recently reported missing by her husband.”

“Were you able to trace the call? Where Alex called from? Her number?”

Hajek didn’t answer. His eyes were having a telepathic conversation with my breasts. I folded my arms over my chest.

“Officer Hajek?”

He blinked.

“Captain Bains called me. Said you’re on a leave of absence. You’re not part of this investigation.”

My demeanor grew as cold as my skin.

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“I could get into trouble, Lieutenant.”

“She killed my fiancé, Scott.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

I could have gone all superior officer on him, but instead I lowered my arms, knowing he’d look at my boobs again. Girl power.

“Please, Scott. Between you and me.”

He licked his lips, then slowly nodded.

“There isn’t a record of her activating the phone. That means she unlocked it, and used a different SIM card as a new number.” He cleared his throat. “Then she spoofed the caller ID.”

“In non-geek, please.”

“Basically, she hacked the phone to make it usable with any network, then put in a stolen Subscriber Identity Module so the calls are being billed to someone else’s account.” He held up the cell. “This phone is using Shanna Arnold’s SIM.”

“Can we find out the number Alex called from?”

“No. Because of the spoof. Alex used this phone as a remote camera, switching it on by calling it. When I checked out the caller ID recorded on the SIM card, it showed that fake number Hollywood uses in movies, 555-5555.”

I’d seen the 555 number myself, on calls from Alex. She probably thought it was funny. “How is that possible?”

“There are Internet ser vices you can sign up for that let you place a call and leave false caller ID numbers and names. You use a VoIP—a Voice-over Internet Protocol service—and punch in the ten-digit number you’re calling, plus the ten-digit number and name you’d like the recipient to see.”

I frowned. I’d been hoping there was a way to trace it through the provider.

“Can we get all the names of customers who had phones recently stolen, see if we can connect Alex with one of those?”

“Do you know how many people lose their phones every day? And not everyone who does reports it. In Mrs. Arnold’s case…”

He let the words trail off. I knew what he meant. Shanna Arnold was probably dead. It wouldn’t be beneath Alex to kill just to get a cell phone.

“So there’s no way to find out where she called from?”

Hajek grinned shyly, like a schoolboy.

“Tell me, Scott.”

“You sure you don’t want to have a bite to eat later? I live real close.”

The little extortionist. If I hadn’t been on a mandatory leave of absence and warned away from this case, I would have gotten seriously pissed.

“Not to night, Scott. But I’ll have some free time next week.”

“Tuesday?”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

He grinned. Something was caught in his two front teeth. Probably double pepperoni.

“MMS sent through GSM is stored on the SIM card, which also records the unique TAP/CIBER, which can be put into the HLR database—”

I held up my palm. “The bottom line.”

“If Alex sends video or text messages, I can use the SIM card to get the phone number and basic location of the phone she called from. She activated this camera from a phone in Deer Park.”

“Do you have the phone number?”

“There’s a problem.”

“What problem?”

“I tried calling the number already. When I did, this one rang.” He held up the phone from the cemetery.

“Meaning?”

“Alex must have known the SIM cards could be traced, so she set up a call-forwarding daisy chain. She calls phone number one, and it automatically forwards the call to number two, and so on, to as many phones as she wants, until the last one in the chain receives the call.”

“But if I find the phone, I can bring it to you, and you can trace it to the next one?”

“Sure. But it won’t be easy to find. A cell phone can only be traced to within three hundred meters of its location. It could be in a hotel room, in a parked car, or plugged into an outlet in some public place, like a library or a bus station. She bought twelve phones in Gurnee, plus she could keep adding more to the chain.”

“I’ll chance it. Gimme the number.”

“You need help, Lieutenant. A big team, working on this, is the best way to go.”

I chewed my lower lip, which still was sore from the same encounter with Alex that resulted in twenty-six stitches on my scalp.

“What if we had a phone that wasn’t part of the daisy chain? That was a direct link to Alex?”

“What do you mean?”

Alex had sent me a cell phone in a floral arrangement, during my hospital recuperation. I hadn’t told anyone, even Herb, because I didn’t want it taken away. I wasn’t on Latham’s murder investigation, but I wasn’t about to give up my only link to Alex.

Unfortunately, I needed Hajek’s expertise, and that meant disclosure. I didn’t know if I trusted Hajek. He’d done good by me in the past, but he was a by-the-book kind of guy, all about protocol and chain of evidence and forms in triplicate.

I weighed my choices, realized I had none, and took a leap of faith.

“Alex gave me one of those twelve phones. She’s called me, text messaged me, a few times. Could we get her location from the SIM card?”

Hajek’s face fell. “She gave you a phone?”

He sounded a bit more upset than I would have liked.

“I just said that. Can we get her phone number from it?”

Hajek rolled his chair a few inches backward, like I’d suddenly become a leper.

“Withholding evidence in a murder investigation is a felony, Lieutenant. Obstruction of justice.”

“Blame stress.”

“How long have you had the phone?”

The look on his face told me he’d gone from ally to adversary. I pulled the friendship card.

“Scott, this is really important to me.”

“I’ve followed this case. Read all the files for research. She’s seriously evil, and totally dangerous. If you’ve had the phone for more than a day or two, keeping it to yourself might have cost the lives of several people.”

I switched to the sympathy card.

“If that’s the case, I’ll head straight for the hundred and third floor of the Sears Tower with a glass cutter and a laminated photo ID so they can identify my body afterward. Come on, Scott. Alex killed the man I loved.”

He shook his head. “You have to turn it in.”

I tried the vamp card, walking up to him with a forced smile and trying my damnedest to get my voice low like Kathleen Turner in Body Heat.

“I’d be really grateful if you could help me out, Scott.”

Instead of melting into putty, Hajek grabbed for the landline on his desk.

“I’m not losing my job over you, Lieutenant. It’s my duty as a police officer to inform your captain that—”

I played my last card. The tough bitch card.

“Officer Hajek.” There was so much steel in my words that he flinched as if hit. “Put down that phone right now or this is going to get ugly.”

Hajek obeyed.

“Give me the number.”

“I…uh—”

“Now!”

Hajek grabbed a sheet of paper off his desk and offered it meekly. I spun on my heels and headed for the door, hearing him pick up the phone again as I left.

CHAPTER 6

AN ASTHMATIC BLOWS HARDER than the complimentary hair dryer in room 114 at the Old Stone Inn, but Alex makes do, brushing out her new strawberry red color while standing in front of the bathroom sink. She tilts her head forward, shaking out her long bangs, straightening while drying. When she finishes, her hair is still in front of her face. Alex looks into the mirror, then parts the bangs with her fingers, pushing the right side behind her ear and letting the left side hang flat. Covering her scars.

Alex stares. Sees someone she recognizes. Someone she hasn’t seen in a while. A beautiful old friend who has gone away and is never coming back. Fit. Trim. Still attractive, even a year shy of forty.

“I miss you.”

She kisses the tip of her index finger, then touches the glass, running it down the reflection of her jawline. Her hair falls back, revealing the pink ugliness underneath.

Without telegraphing the move, without even changing expression, Alex makes a fist and drives it into the mirror. Her image shatters.

She feels like there are coiled springs nestling in her muscles, bursting to be set loose. Naked, she lifts her arms above her head and rolls into a handstand, walking over to the area the bed used to occupy before she pushed it into the corner. She tilts farther forward, her feet touching the wall, and begins to do reverse chin-ups, her head touching the carpet with every dip.

When she reaches seventeen, the sweat comes, rolling down her ears and soaking into her hair.

Her arms begin to wobble at forty-six. She starts to pant, oxygenating her muscles, the lactic acid building and burning.

Alex pushes on to sixty, even though her arms are shaking so badly her balance is wavering.

By seventy-three, her left arm gives out, causing her to collapse onto her side. She rolls with the fall, tucking in her head, using momentum to get to her feet. Alex turns and launches into an explosive tae kwon do kata, kicking, twisting, and punching.

Her mind is both focused and clear as she forces her body through the moves, grunting exhalations called ki-hops with each blow. Her muscles remember every thrust and spin. The par tic u lar form she uses is traditionally done with four assistants, who hold boards at various heights to be broken by hands, feet, and head.

Rather than boards, she flails at the air, directing each strike at the unscarred face of Jack Daniels.

The kata ends in the splits, the toes on the forward leg pointed sky-ward, hands clenched into fists and spread out like wings. Her body glistens with sweat, and her breath comes in gasps.

With her heart rate still up, Alex flips over and begins a set of fingertip push-ups. She knocks off a hundred, rolls gracefully to her feet, and pads into the bathroom to towel off.

The cracked mirror tells her she’s still ugly. As if she needed the reminder.

The clock on the nightstand reads ten after three. Her date isn’t due until four, but from experience she knows he usually comes early. In more ways than one.

Alex doesn’t dress. Instead, she digs into her gym bag and removes a fresh roll of duct tape, a package of rubber bands, a box cutter, a Cheetah stun gun, and a handheld butane torch. The stun gun is pink, the shape and size of a cigarette pack. The torch looks like a phaser from Star Trek. It’s also pink, which delighted Alex when she found it at the home supply store. A girl has got to know how to accessorize.

Then she sits on the bed, lotus style, and waits.

Ten minutes later, David “Lance” Strang knocks on her motel door. She confirms it with the peephole.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Lance.”

She opens the door, lets him ogle her. Lance hasn’t changed much in the fifteen years since she’s last seen him. Same broad shoulders. Same strong chin. His thick brown hair has receded just a bit, and now it’s salted with gray, but other than that he’s exactly as she remembered him from their Geiger days.

Lance takes Alex in, staring at her legs, her tits, before moving up to her face. When he sees the scar, his grin falters.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Lance. And about this.”

Alex brings up the Cheetah and hits David Strang in the gut, applying a million volts to his nervous system. He jerks forward, and all two hundred and twenty fit pounds of him crumple to the carpeting.

CHAPTER 7

I CABBED IT from the Crime Lab, heading for the nearest Washington Mutual bank branch. Again, the driver commented on how soaked I was. Next time it rained, I’d indulge in a thicker bra. Or an umbrella.

During the ride I made some calls. One I didn’t want to make. The other I really didn’t want to make. I began with the easier one.

“Wilbur? It’s Jack.”

“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been better. Thanks for respecting my wishes and not attending the funeral. Mom would have shot you if she saw you.”

“Um, about that…”

I took a deep breath—never a wise move in a Chicago cab. This one smelled like gym socks and cheap incense.

“Tell me you weren’t there, Wilbur.”

Pause.

“Wilbur…”

“Your fiancé died. Of course I was going to come.”

“I didn’t see you there.”

“You didn’t see me at any of your graduations or your wedding either, Jacqueline. I’m good at being discreet. Look, I know I only met Latham once, when you brought him over, but for what it’s worth I really liked him. I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetheart. If there’s anything I can do…”

My voice got harder. “There is, Wilbur. In fact, there is.”

“Name it.”

“I need you to go away for a while. The person who killed Latham, she has a habit of targeting people close to me.”

Wilbur paused.

“Thank you, Jacqueline.”

“For sending you away?”

“For saying that I might actually be close to you. I know I’ve been an absentee father. I know how much I’ve missed out on. These past few months, as we’ve gotten to know each other, have been the best of my life. I mean that.”

“Good. Then you’ll get out of town for a few weeks, until this gets resolved.”

“Absolutely.”

“I mean it this time, Wilbur. No saying one thing and doing the other.”

“It’s already taken care of. In fact, I just booked a vacation. I’m taking an Alaskan cruise. It’s shipping out tomorrow.”

“Really?” Mom was also going on an Alaskan cruise tomorrow. I thought about mentioning it, but the chances that they would both be on the same ship were a zillion to one. Instead I said, “Good. Have fun.”

“I intend to. Maybe I’ll find a nice man on board.”

Mom said the same thing.

“Remember to wear protection. Or make sure he wears protection.” I wasn’t sure how my father’s relationships actually worked, and wasn’t sure that I ever needed to know.

“I promise. And speaking of protection, please make sure you protect yourself when you’re chasing Alex.”

“I will.”

“You’re going to kill her, aren’t you?”

I’d been wondering the same thing, but hearing a kindly old man say it made it sound horribly wrong.

“I’m…going to stop her.”

“I’ve saved every press clipping you’ve ever been in, Jacqueline. You arrested her before. She escaped. You can’t risk that again.”

“It’s…it’s complicated.”

“This isn’t murder, sweetheart.”

Jesus. The M word. I had a hard enough time living with myself as it was. I became a cop to catch murderers, because murder, in every single case, was wrong. Even in cases of revenge.

Every night since Latham’s death, I’ve lain awake in bed conjuring up scenarios where I blew Alex’s head off. Alex was always armed, trying to kill me as well. I evened the score, while also retaining my morality and humanity. But if I had the chance to murder her, in cold blood, would I take it?

“She’s a rabid dog, Jacqueline. It’s not murder. It’s mercy.”

I doubted the courts would see it that way. I doubted I would see it that way.

“Have a good time in Alaska, Dad. Call me when you get back.”

“You know, my heart gets a little bigger every time you call me Dad. I love you, sweetheart.”

Since Wilbur reappeared in my life, he’d accepted our relationship much more easily than I had. He’d been saying “I love you” for a few weeks now, but I wasn’t ready to return the sentiment yet. Being abandoned for thirty-plus years, even understanding the reason why, wasn’t easy to forgive.

“We’ll talk soon,” I said, and disconnected. Now for the hard call. His number wasn’t in my cell address book, so I had to use directory assistance. I hoped I’d get a machine, then I could leave a message, clear my conscience, without having to talk.

Just my luck, he picked up on the first ring.

“This is Alan.”

“Hi, Alan. It’s me.”

There was a pause. I wondered if he was thinking what I was thinking. About our years being married. About our recent affair. About him leaving me for a second time.

“I’m sorry about Latham.”

“Did Mom tell you?”

“I haven’t, uh, talked to your mother since we saw each other last. I signed up for this thing on the Internet. Google News. Every time you’re mentioned in the paper, they send me a link to the article.”

I was touched.

“You’re checking on me?”

“More like waiting for the obituary.”

Ouch.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I’m still among the living.”

“Jesus, Jack. You know I don’t mean it like that.”

“Then what did you mean?”

“You need a reminder? The reason our marriage ended was because I couldn’t stand worrying about you all the time. Do you know what it’s like to lose someone you love?”

“Yeah.” My teeth clenched. “I just came from his funeral.”

“Oh, hell. Shit. I’m sorry. I’m an insensitive bastard.”

“Yes. Yes you are.”

“Good. We agree on something. So why the call?”

I searched my mind for the right words, the words that would make him listen to me. The silence stretched.

“I’m sorry, Jack. You can’t come here.”

Being cold and wet didn’t stop me from blushing. “Excuse me?”

“I feel bad for you. And I still love you. But you know my feelings. We can’t be together unless you quit the force.”

If I still carried around any remnants of affection for this man I was once married to, they were now gone. The conceit, the nerve…

“Have you quit?” Alan’s voice went from accusatory to hopeful. “Tell me you’ve quit.”

I recovered, found my spine. “No, Alan, I haven’t quit, and I don’t want to be with you. I don’t want to see you. I don’t even want to talk to you.”

“Then why are you calling? You think it’s easy for me to talk to you?”

“I’m…” I took a deep breath, let it out slow. “I’m calling to warn you. The psycho who killed Latham might be targeting people in my life.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It would be best if you went away for a few weeks.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Alan, I don’t like it any more than—”

“Are you serious?” He’d gone up an octave. “Are you fucking serious? Your job just killed your boyfriend. That could have been me. If we were still married, I’d be the dead one. How many times have we talked about your fucking career, about how dangerous it is?”

I shut my eyes, trying to stay professional even though it would have hurt less if he were in the cab with me, stabbing me with a fork.

“Alan, I’m sorry, but you really need to leave town.”

“You’re unbelievable. Unbefuckinglievable. You know what? All these years, I’ve been waiting to say I told you so. Well, here it is, Jack. I told you so. Who’s next? Herb? Your mother? Your best friends from grammar school? All because you chase killers for a living?”

Professionalism flew out the window.

“This killer is chasing me, Alan! It doesn’t matter if I quit my job, move to Tibet, join a goddamn monastery! She’s after me, and she may go after you too! So, please. Please. Take a long vacation and let me fix this.”

“I can take care of myself, Jack. In fact, I’ve been doing that quite well since you drove me away. It’s too bad, for Latham’s sake, you didn’t drive him away too.”

The fork twisted so hard that tears came.

“Please get out of town, Alan.”

“Don’t call me again. Ever.”

“Alan—”

He hung up. The tears became sobs, and pretty soon I was bawling so bad my nose was running down my chin.

“Miss? I try not to eavesdrop on my fares’ conversations, even when they’re yelling like you were, but I noticed you said something about being chased by a killer.”

“Don’t worry,” I told the taxi driver between sniffles. “I’m sure you’re safe.”

“I hope so. We’ve had a dark sedan following us since you got in the cab. Turns every time we do.”

CHAPTER 8

STUN GUNS WORK on two levels. The first is through pain compliance. Being hit with a million volts hurts like hell, comparable to being jabbed with a hot poker. But unlike a hot poker, the electric current also overrides a person’s muscles, causing them to twitch uncontrollably while simultaneously being unable to fight back.

Alex holds the stun gun against Lance’s stomach long enough to drop him to his knees. Before he can recover, she hits him in the temple with the meat of her palm, hard enough to jerk his head to the side. He collapses.

She drags Lance into the hotel room, locks the door behind her, and muscles him over to the bed. He’s heavy, cumbersome, but she lifts with her legs and jerks him onto the mattress. He begins to moan, so she juices him with the Cheetah stun gun again, causing his limbs to twitch and contract. She holds it there for a few seconds, and when she kills the power he’s limp and a line of drool is running down his chin.

It takes a few seconds to start the roll of duct tape, but when she does she uses a long strip to bind his left wrist to the leg of the bed. The other limbs follow suit, until he’s spread-eagled and immobilized.

Using the box cutter, she starts at the cuff of his jeans and slices the fabric upward to his belt line, careful not to nick his skin. Then she does the other leg. Then his shirt, until all he has on are his shoes, socks, and Duff Beer boxer shorts. Alex tosses the knife aside and tears off the shorts with her hands, feeling the excitement build, feeling herself get wet.

It isn’t necessary for Lance to be naked. Alex could have gotten what she wanted just by unzipping his fly. But she likes seeing men naked. Especially good-looking men. It’s been a long time.

Since being out of prison, no one has stepped up to the plate. One came close, until he got a good look at her face and sarcastically demanded she wear two bags over her head, “in case one fell off.” She left him in a Chicago bar with two teeth in his mouth and a broken pelvis.

But things are definitely looking up. Alex runs her fingernails through Lance’s chest hair, then pinches his nipples. He stirs, glassy eyes focusing, and calls her a name he knew her by.

“Hi, Lance. It’s been a long time.”

Lance tries to move, sees he’s taped to the bed.

“What’s going on?”

“Shh.” Alex puts a fingertip to his lips. “No talking, or I’ll gag you. I need a few things from you, Lance. First, I need you to fuck me. Hard. Then I need to know where your EOD lieut lives, where he keeps his van, and what kind of toys you boys have in there.”

“What the hell are you—”

Alex grabs his ear, jerks his head to the side.

“I said no talking.”

He looks terrified, which is a terrific turn-on. Alex wants to kiss him, but doesn’t want to risk being bitten, or worse, rebuffed. Instead she runs her teeth across his neck and nibbles her way down his body, across his chest, to his belly button. He tastes good, like a man, tangy and hot. Alex grabs him, feels that he’s responding even though he’s frightened. This pleases her; she won’t have to use the tadalafil she liberated from the coffee shop guy.

She moves her head down, holding his cock in both hands, running her tongue up along the side of the shaft. A thought hits her: Will I be able to function normally? Half of her face muscles are gone. But when she takes him in her mouth he offers no objections to her technique. And as she lowers her head farther, opening her throat, Lance’s hips begin to pump.

Alex matches his thrusts for several strokes, then releases him, both of them breathing heavy. She’s hot, hot and wet, and she wants to climb on and impale herself. But they have done this dance, many times, in the past. And though Lance may have gotten better since those days, Alex doesn’t want to have to rely on his staying power. She reaches for the nightstand, tears open the bag of rubber bands, and winds a fat one around the base of his dick.

Lance makes a noise of protest, and Alex gives the rubber band a snap, shutting him up.

She straddles him, guides him into her, and moves down slowly, deliciously, until she’s filled. Hands on his chest, she begins to raise and lower her hips. Easy at first. No need to rush. At the bottom of each stroke she presses into him, grinding her hips, which makes her gasp with plea sure each time.

Alex wants to draw it out, to tease herself. But it’s been too long and the rhythm becomes involuntary, unstoppable. She pushes into him, harder, faster, and all too quickly the first spike of orgasm seizes her, building into a large peak that forces a cry, and then spreading to envelop her entire body like a shock wave, prompting a throaty scream that makes her feel whole again.

Alex doesn’t stop at one. Or two. Or four. She goes at him from many positions, and he’s so into it that by the second hour he’s begging her to undo the rubber band, to let him come. Alex promises she will, and as she rides his face and his probing tongue works her into a frenzy she orgasms a fifth time and almost considers keeping her promise.

Instead, Alex climbs off the bed, heart hammering and legs shaky, and gives him a gentle pat on the cheek.

“Jesus, I really needed that.”

“What about me, babe?” Lance looks so desperate, so pathetic. He wants her, even though she’s a hideous freak.

“Consider it payback for all the times when you got yours and I didn’t get mine. Now it’s time to move on to the second part of the evening. If you tell me what I need to know, I promise I won’t kill your wife and family. Hell, you may even live through this, if Jack is fast enough.”

Lance stares at her, his face a snapshot of confusion. Alex goes to the nightstand. She flicks on the butane torch, adjusts it to a blue flame, and gives him a quick, two-second taste on his thigh.

Lance howls.

“That’s nothing. I can keep it there for a lot longer. Or move to more sensitive parts.”

She gives his erection a playful flick with her finger.

“What…what the hell do you want?”

“I’ve followed your career. You’ve done well with the police department. Been in the papers several times. Always were a bit of an adrenaline junkie, Lance. Is that why you picked the EOD?”

He stays silent. Alex brings the torch up to his face. The flame makes a hissing sound, like a snake. Lance quickly nods.

“Most squads have a van or a truck with their equipment in it. They don’t like to leave dangerous materials at work. Too risky. So they take it home. Does your boss have one?”

Another nod.

“Truck or a van?”

“A van.”

“What sort of goodies are you boys packing?”

Lance opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His eyes are locked on the torch.

“Dammit, Lance. Focus. What kind of caps?”

“Bridgewire.”

“Sun cord?”

“Maybe three hundred feet on a spool.”

“Got a pigstick?”

“Yeah.”

“Rounds?”

“Two cases. Assorted.”

“How about initiators?”

“Yeah.”

“It sounds like you’ve got a very well-stocked van, Lance. Now tell me about the big stuff.”

“My…throat’s dry.”

“That’s because you’re afraid I’m going to burn you again. And I will, Lance, unless you focus. What else you got?”

“PENO.”

“Nice. That’s Finnish, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“How many bricks?”

“Six.”

“Anything else? Tell the truth now, Lance, or we’re gonna have a weenie roast.”

“We…we got a few M18A1s.”

Alex raises her good eyebrow.

“Really? Wow. That’s impressive. So far, so good. Now, the moment of truth.”

Alex leans forward, peering into his eyes.

“Where’s the van?”

Lance doesn’t say anything.

“You sure you want to play hard to get, Lance?”

His Adam’s apple bobbles up and down like a tetherball.

“If…if…I tell you, what are…what are you going to do to him?”

“I just want to borrow his van.”

“I don’t want him or his daughter to get hurt.”

Alex sits on the bed, running her hand over Lance’s chest.

“What is he to you? Best friend? Father figure? Fuck buddy? Caring about people never leads to anything but pain, Lance. Trust me. I know from experience. That’s why I’m going to tell you the truth. Lieutenant Lucky Andringa is as good as dead. And if his wife and daughter are home when I stop by, they’ll die too.”

Alex lightly pinches one of his nipples. Lance begins to cry.

“No tears, Lance. I just gave you a gift. I freed you from having to worry about him. It’s not your fault he’s dead. I’m the one that’s going to kill him. And there’s nothing you can do to prevent it. Now tell me where he lives.”

Lance turns away, burying his face in the pillow.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me? You’re going to tell me eventually.”

Nothing.

“Okay. Your choice.”

Alex picks up the duct tape, tears off a strip, and sticks it over his mouth while he thrashes back and forth. She runs her fingers through his hair, still sweaty from their sex.

“Thank you, Lance. I was hoping I’d get to try this out. Will you look how cute this pink handle is? It matches my nails.”

She smiles her half smile, then descends with the blowtorch.

CHAPTER 9

“STOP THE CAB.”

“You sure you don’t want me to call the police?”

“I am the police.”

The cabbie didn’t wait to see my badge. He pulled over. I threw some money at him, yanked my gun from my purse, and climbed out. The rain had come back, a downpour with more oomph than my vibrating shower head. The sedan parked behind the cab, and I stalked over, ready to shoot someone.

The driver opened his window.

“It’s raining.”

Were all men this tuned in to the obvious?

“What the hell do you want, Dailey?”

“I’m Special Agent Coursey. That’s Special Agent Dailey.”

Coursey used a head motion, indicating his passenger. They were both dressed identically in gray suits, blue ties, and silver Timexes. Age was tough to determine, since neither of them ever made any sort of facial expression that could cause wrinkles.

One of them, I forget which, once told me that they weren’t related, even though they looked more alike than most twins. I had a fanciful notion that our government grew Feebies in a lab somewhere, using some kind of genetic Jell-O mold.

“What the hell do you guys want?”

Coursey hit a button, and the back door lock snapped open.

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I’m on a leave of absence.”

“Is that why you went to the Forensic Science Center?”

When cornered, attack.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than follow me around? Like maybe catch some criminals? I hear you guys have a most wanted list with a few names on it. How’s that Bin Laden hunt going?”

They exchanged a glance, possibly communicating using their FBI brain implants, and then Dailey said, “We think we may know where Alexandra Kork is.”

I got in. The car was nice. Leather interior. Heated seats. Much better than my car. Especially since I didn’t have a car anymore. My Chevy Nova, a classic 1985 model, was recently towed to the scrap yard. Unlike those TV commercials where they pay you cash for your used vehicle, I had to pay them to take it away.

I leaned forward.

“Where’s Alex?”

Neither Coursey nor Dailey so much as glanced at my boobs. I wasn’t sure if I should be grateful, or insulted.

“We want some information first,” said Dailey.

“You help us, we help you,” said Coursey.

“Quid pro quo,” said Dailey.

“You guys learned that term from watching Silence of the Lambs.”

Dailey put his arm over the back of his seat and faced me.

“We know you’re looking for her, Lieutenant. We want to help you.”

“Fine. Where is she?”

“Are you willing to trade information?”

“What kind of information are you looking for?”

Coursey handed Dailey an 8 ×10 mug shot, and he passed it back to me.

“We’re looking for this man.”

I studied the photo. White. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Mid-thirties.

“What about him?” I asked.

“You arrested him several years ago.”

“I arrest a lot of people.”

They stared at me. I stared back. Feds are masters at staring. But so am I. I didn’t get to the rank of lieutenant by being easily intimidated. I can go days without blinking.

The staring contest continued, and I remembered the bank was going to close soon.

“What did he do?” I finally asked.

“Bank robbery. He tied three road flares together, walked into the drive-through lane, and placed the flares in the vacuum tube container.”

“Live flares?”

“No. Unlit flares. Along with a note saying it was dynamite, and he would set it off unless they gave him two thousand dollars.”

Coursey handed me a photo taken by the bank surveillance camera. The man stood outside the bank window, holding a small black box with an antenna sticking out of the top. He was smiling and waving.

“That’s a remote control car radio,” I said.

“The tellers didn’t know that.”

“They gave him the money?”

“Yes. Then he returned the container and asked for his road flares back.”

I shook my head, amazed. “He told them they were road flares?”

“He did. Then he apologized for deceiving them, and sent them a package of cookies.”

I suppressed a smirk. “Sounds like Public Enemy Number One.”

“Bank robbery is a federal crime, Lieutenant.”

“Did you canvass nearby convenience stores? You might also be able to nail him for trafficking in stolen Oreos.”

I watched Coursey actually write that down. Maybe my government Jell-O mold idea wasn’t as fanciful as I thought.

“So what do you extra-special agents want from me?”

“This guy’s off the grid. No address. No job. Doesn’t pay taxes or Social Security. According to his record, he’s only been arrested once,” said Dailey.

“By you,” said Coursey.

“Like I said, I arrest a lot of people,” said I.

“So you don’t know where he lives?”

“I don’t know where he lives.”

More staring. If they scrutinized me any harder, I might fall asleep.

“Look, if I knew where he lived, we could all drive to his place right now. I’d even spring for the milk to dunk those cookies.”

Coursey and Dailey shared another telepathy glance.

“So where’s Alex?”

“We have reason to believe she’s in Knoxville,” said Coursey.

“Knoxville,” I repeated.

“Tennessee,” said Dailey.

“How did you learn this? Witness? Informer?”

“Vicky.”

I almost slapped myself in the forehead. Vicky is the Violent Criminal Apprehension Team Computer.

“Vicky is the Violent Criminal Apprehension Team Computer,” said Coursey.

“We’ve had this conversation before, guys.”

“She compiles information, creates suspect profiles, and predicts future movements.”

Vicky cost the taxpayers sixty-five million dollars, and she couldn’t predict the time an hour from now.

I feng shuied my many negative thoughts and calmly asked, “Why does Vicky think Alex is in Knoxville, Tennessee?”

“She compiled information and—”

“I got that part. What led Vicky to believe this?”

They were silent. I heard a faint, mechanical sound, which may have been the gears in their robotic brain implants failing.

Coursey finally said, “There’s Dollywood.”

I blinked. “Dollywood?”

“It’s only thirty-five miles southeast of Knoxville,” said Dailey.

“You think Alex Kork went to Dollywood?”

More silence.

“Why would she go to Dollywood?” I thought it was a reasonable question.

“Everyone likes Western-themed rides and attractions,” said Coursey.

“And Southern hospitality at affordable family prices,” said Dailey.

I rubbed my eyes. “You rehearsed this. You planned this whole gag, and you’re going to laugh about this later on. Right?”

They exchanged another glance.

“Vicky cost sixty-five million dollars,” Coursey said.

My phone rang. The one Alex gave me.

“Excuse me, guys. I have to take this. Good luck with that cookie robber guy.”

I pulled on the door handle. Naturally, it didn’t open. Federal, state, city, or town—cop cars were all the same.

A second ring.

“You want to let me out?”

“Alexandra Kork has committed felonies in six states,” said Dailey. “So the Bureau is very interested in bringing her to justice.”

The phone rang a third time. I still didn’t pick it up.

“I promise I’ll check Dolly’s cleavage when I’m in Knoxville.”

“If you find her, call us,” said Coursey.

“We mean Alex, not Dolly,” said Dailey.

“If she contacts me, you’ll be the first to know.”

The door unlocked. I walked briskly away from the car, the rain a faucet on my head.

“It’s Jack,” I said into the phone.

No answer. I missed the call. I couldn’t call back, because the call would just forward to this number, giving me a busy signal. Shit. Then the phone beeped, telling me I had a text message. I accessed it.

THIS IS LANCE. HE’S A COP.

There was a picture. A man, from the waist up, duct-taped to a bed. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Late thirties or early forties. He had no shirt, and his bare chest was covered with black and red marks.

Burns.

On the bed, dangling over his forehead, was some sort of metal arm, holding what looked like a microphone a foot above his face.

Though he had tape over his mouth, I could tell he was screaming when the picture was taken: A feminine hand with a pink manicure held a miniature blowtorch against his nipple.

A beep. Then a second text message came through.

HE DIES IN TWELVE HOURS.

I checked my watch: 5:33. He’d be dead by morning.

The phone was getting seriously wet, so I shoved it into my purse. The Feds were gone. But by some huge stroke of fortune, a cab came up the street. I stuck up my hand and waved. He only slowed down enough to splash curb water on me.

The WaMu was only four blocks away. Since I couldn’t get any colder, or wetter, I walked.

I didn’t want this phone taken from me. It was my only link to Alex, the only way I could find her. But now I didn’t have a choice. A man’s life was at stake, and the clock was ticking. Detective Tom Mankowski was running the Kork investigation. He was a good cop. Plus he had a team behind him. Resources. Equipment. Funding. They could do more with the phone than I could. They’d have a better shot at saving that poor schmuck tied to the bed.

It was the right decision, morally and legally. Mankowski owed me a favor, so he’d keep me in the loop. I had to turn in the phone—the sooner, the better.

But I didn’t.

God help me, I didn’t.

CHAPTER 10

ALEX HAS THE CAR RADIO cranked to the max, singing along with the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ ode to Magic Johnson. It ends too soon, and some rap shit comes on. She hits a few presets, but the car’s previous own er apparently had a hard-on for hip-hop. A quick search of the glove compartment finds it crammed with every single goddamn CD MC Ice Koffee every recorded, plus three albums of other rappers doing MC Ice Koffee songs. She tries listening to one. After thirty excruciating seconds she chucks it out the window and fantasizes MC Ice Koffee is the one dead in the trunk.

She’s dressed in Levi’s, a Cubs hoodie she bought at the same thrift store she got the funeral hat, and some steel-toed Doc Martens. Her hair is in a ponytail under the hood, and an oversized pair of movie star sunglasses covers most of her face. From the sidewalk, from other cars, she’s ageless, sexless, anonymous, invisible. A lioness creeping through the high grass, unseen and unheard.

The GPS advises Alex to turn right in three hundred feet. She does. Bay View is one of the nicer neighborhoods in the city. Row after row of Late Victorian–style houses, tall green trees, well-maintained lawns.

“Arriving at destination.”

Alex pats the GPS screen and says, “Thanks.” She parks the Honda across the street from a white two-story bungalow. An American flag hangs above the front door, next to the obligatory porch swing. Alex half expects Aunt Bea to stick her head out the window and call Opie home for supper.

She pulls her purse onto her shoulder and subconsciously checks herself in the mirror, a habit she wishes she could break because it always sours her mood. This time is no exception.

“You need duct tape and rubber bands to get men to fuck you,” she says to her reflection.

Annoyed, Alex exits the car and walks up to the front door of the bungalow, giving the solid wooden door a firm knock.

A teenage girl, sixteen or seventeen, answers. She’s wearing a belly shirt that exposes a piercing, tight jeans that ride just above her crotch, and more makeup than Boy George in his heyday. Her hair is as blond as the bottles can get.

“You must be Leena. I’m Sergeant Friday. I’m working on a case with your father.”

Alex flashes Lance’s police badge and ID, her finger partially obscuring his picture. She needn’t have bothered; Leena’s eyes are glued to Alex’s face.

“What happened to you? Were you, like, burned or something?”

“Don’t you think it’s rude to ask that?”

Leena cocks out a hip.

“I think it’s rude to walk around looking like Freddy Krueger.”

Alex smiles, only half of her mouth moving.

“Is your dad home?”

A yawn. Alex is boring her.

“He doesn’t get home until six.”

“Mom?”

“Mom’s dead.”

“That’s hard.”

Alex knows this from experience. She helped to kill her own mother, and the bitch didn’t die easy.

“It’s a quarter to six,” Alex says. “I’ll wait for your father inside.”

She tries to enter, but Leena blocks her path.

“You can wait on the porch.”

Alex almost laughs.

“You’re not a very nice little girl.”

Cue the eye roll. “What ever.”

Alex leans in closer.

“I bet you get your way all the time, don’t you, Leena? Shake your perfect little boobies, stick out your size zero ass, and the men fall all over themselves trying to please you. I hope you’re getting it now. Because it doesn’t last.”

Leena doesn’t seem to know if that was an insult or not.

“I go to rainbow parties,” she says. “I’ve hooked up with plenty of boys.”

Alex glances left, looking up the street.

“Rainbow parties. I think I saw that on Oprah. You and your girlfriends take turns giving some guy head. What a waste.”

“You’re the waste.”

Alex looks right, down the street. All clear.

“It’s too bad you’ll never learn, Leena. Being a woman isn’t about giving.” Alex winks her good eye. “It’s about taking.”

Leena shrugs. “Are we done?”

“Almost. I was listening to MC Ice Koffee in the car. Do you like him?”

“Yeah. Ice is da bomb.”

Alex hits Leena hard enough to break the girl’s nose. Then she enters the house and shuts the door behind her.

“You ugly bitch!” Leena screams, hand pinching nostrils to stop the bleeding.

Alex takes Lance’s 9mm from her purse and puts a round through Leena’s flawless face, killing her before she hits the floor. Then Alex goes into the kitchen, prepares herself a ham sandwich and a glass of milk, and waits on the sofa for Dad to come home.

As Leena predicted, Lieutenant Lucky Andringa pulls into the garage at three minutes to six. When he steps into the house, Alex greets him with a bullet in the head, and another in the chest after he falls. Not very lucky at all. She takes his wallet, gun, and car keys, and marches into the garage.

The van is a new Toyota hybrid, meant to conserve gas and preserve the environment. Ironic, considering what it’s hauling. In the back there’s a custom storage trunk with ten locked compartments. Alex spends a few moments fussing with the keys, opening drawers and doors.

There’s everything Lance said there would be. Everything and more. Alex runs her fingertips over the PENO.

It gives her chills.

CHAPTER 11

“I WAS WONDERING when you’d call, Jackie. Did you buy a ham?”

“Haven’t had the chance. We need to meet. Where are you?”

“The Crimebago is mobile, sis. I can meet you anywhere.”

I winced. “Crimebago?”

“Crime plus Winnebago. Crim-e-bago. I was gonna have the name painted on the side, along with a chick in a garter belt riding a Harley, but since I’m using it for detecting, it’s better to keep things inconspicuous.”

As if a motor home was inconspicuous.

“Can you clone a cell phone?”

“Hell yeah, I can clone a cell phone.”

“Okay, meet me at the Washington Mutual bank on Diversey and Clark.”

“You got it, sis. I’ll—”

I hung up on him, crossed the street, and entered the WaMu, grateful they were open until six. The woman in line ahead of me had a pillowcase full of coins, and the teller fussed over her, both of them making predictions about the dollar value.

I finger-combed my wet hair back, probing the stitches on my scalp. They itched. I probably had an infection. Hopefully I wouldn’t die until I saw this through.

The change-counting machine spit out a receipt, and the teller gave the woman some cash, including a few coins, which went directly into the empty pillowcase. There was a metaphor for life somewhere in there, but I was too preoccupied to look for it.

“Can I help you?”

“I need to close an account.”

I gave the teller Latham’s bank card. After we became engaged, we added our names to each other’s bank account. I never touched his money, but Latham insisted on this as a precaution. Wills meant the IRS took a chunk, and probate took time. He said this was easier.

Practical Latham. I hadn’t given much thought about what I’d do with his money. I didn’t feel like I deserved any. I figured I’d split it among his relatives, maybe give some to charity. I didn’t have much of my own in the bank, but it was important I paid for his funeral out of my funds. The least I could do.

“Both the checking and the savings, Ms. Daniels?”

“Yes, please.”

The teller pressed some buttons.

“Are you sure you want to take all of it out?”

“Yes.” I paused, considered my reason. “I’m going hunting.”

Since Alex’s call this morning, I figured that would be the best use of Latham’s money.

“I need to speak to my supervisor to authorize a cashier’s check for this amount. Can you hold on for a moment, Ms. Daniels?”

“Sure. Out of curiosity, how much is the amount?”

“Four hundred and eighty thousand, six hundred and thirty-six dollars.”

I was sure I didn’t hear that right.

“Excuse me?”

She swiveled around the monitor so I could see. Latham had close to a half a million dollars in his accounts.

While Latham never seemed to hurt financially—he lived in a nice condo, had nice things—he never mentioned having this much money. I tried to recall any conversation we had that would explain this. And then I remembered one, from a few weeks ago.

“My CDs just matured. I think instead of letting them roll over, I’m going to try my hand at the stock market. What do you think?”

“You’re the accountant. I don’t know anything about investments. I’m just a lowly cop.”

“We could just take it all to Vegas, bet it on a single roulette spin.”

“You hate Las Vegas.”

“But wouldn’t that be exciting? A whole life’s work, doubled or lost in the blink of an eye.”

“I’d never do that. I can’t afford to lose the whole three hundred bucks.”

Then he’d told me he had three hundred in his wallet, and coyly asked if I’d like to double my net worth. We’d gone into the bedroom.

The last time we’d ever made love.

I couldn’t hold the tears back. I flat-out lost it in the middle of a WaMu, sobbing so hard it burned my tear ducts, crumpling to the floor and burying my face in my hands and hating myself so much that I barely even noticed as some strangers half carried me to a chair.

I cried until my mouth went dry.

A foghorn brought me back. I looked around, wondering if it was the bank alarm, hoping some ski-masked robbers had broken in so I could beg one to shoot me.

The horn blared again. Coming from the street.

The Crimebago.

And suddenly, I had a reason to live. I pushed the pain back, deep inside, and vowed not to let it out again. I’d deal with it later.

Someone offered me a box of tissues. I took a handful, filled them up with liquid self-pity, and tossed them in a can under a desk. Then I cleared my throat, stood up, and held my chin high.

My voice was steady when I said, “I’ll just take a five-thousand-dollar withdrawal. Cash.”

Another honk. I fished out my cell and called Harry.

“If you honk one more time, I’m going to impale you on the steering column.”

“Sounds fun.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

“See if they have any extra pens. I don’t have any pens.”

I hung up and waited at the counter while a teller counted out a never-ending stack of hundreds. First using the automatic bill counter, then by hand.

“Anything else, Ms. Daniels?”

The pen on the counter had one of those chains on it, so I sheepishly asked, “Does your bank have any pens?”

She handed me one with the bank phone number printed on it. I crammed the money into my purse, thanked her, and walked out to greet Harry McGlade.

The Crimebago was obscenely huge, the size and shape of a bus, white with blue and red stripes. There were six windows on the side facing me. I rapped on the center one attached to the trailer door.

The door swung out and a grinning, leering McGlade offered me a hand up. I chose to grip the door frame instead.

“Welcome aboard, Jackie. Did you grab me a fistful of pens?”

I handed him the pen.

“Only one? Weren’t they free?”

Unsurprisingly, the interior smelled like the same aftershave Harry apparently bathed in, so strong it made my nostril hairs curl. Also, for reasons only known to McGlade, the air-conditioning was on, making every pore on my body pucker into gooseflesh.

“So, you like it?”

“It’s freezing.”

“Yeah, I’m having some climate control problems. I’ve got the oven on to offset that. You want a tour?”

“I need you to clone a cell phone first.”

“That can wait.”

“It can’t wait.”

“It has to. Cloning a phone ain’t easy. I’ve got a reader that can copy the SIM and put it on a new card, but it takes a few hours. What do you need it for?”

“Alex is going to kill a cop. She gave me a phone, and she sends me clues. I can’t give it up, because it’s my only link to her. But I can’t keep the phone from the police.”

Harry scratched himself someplace I didn’t want or need or like to see.

“Cloning won’t work. If a phone gets cloned, only one can work at a time. The cops couldn’t listen in, and they wouldn’t get Alex’s messages. Or you wouldn’t—it depends who is closest to a cell tower.”

Shit.

McGlade took my elbow and walked me past a large sofa to the rear of the cabin. The floor was carpeted. The walls were trimmed in dark wood that matched the cabinets.

“This is the galley. It’s called a galley, not a kitchen. And this is the bathroom, but it’s called the head. I like that name. Head.”

“Can you trace a cell phone call?”

He shrugged. “Yes and no. I could get the number she’s calling from, but could only pinpoint it to within a few hundred yards.”

“What if she spoofed it?” I asked.

“Then no. This is the bedroom. There’s no bed, because it’s in the wall and comes out when I press the button to activate the sideout. It’s totally James Bond cool. Wanna see?”

“Not really.”

McGlade pressed the button anyway. The wall extended outward and a Murphy bed levered down. King size, with red velour sheets.

“You’re a chick. Does seeing this make you want to get naked?”

“No.”

“I’m getting a mirror installed on the ceiling next week. Would that seal the deal?”

“There’s no way to trace it through the phone company?”

He pressed the button again. The bed began to rise.

“You know how cell phones work, right? By radio transmission. So they need antennas. Chicago has a few, and each handles thousands of calls every second. We’d have to contact every cell phone provider in the country, get their rec ords, and go through each billing minute one at a time to find out which one matched Alex’s call to get the ID number. There had to be tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of calls at that time.”

The small amount of hope I’d brought with me was quickly fading away. Then I remembered what Hajek said.

“Could you trace it by analyzing the SIM card? If she’s sending text messages?”

Harry looked thoughtful, then scratched himself again. It was like he had a metal hand and a pair of magnets in his scrotum.

Actually, he did have a metal hand. But he didn’t use that for scratching, and probably with good reason. I’d seen Harry accidentally crush a doorknob with that hand.

“That might actually work, sis, because texts are saved on the card. The spoof fools caller ID, but it might not fool the SIM.”

Harry walked past, into the lounge area opposite the sofa. He flipped a switch on the wall and a cabinet opened, a table coming down. It had a built-in keyboard and a flat-screen monitor, which flipped up. He dug a small white box out of a drawer and attached a cord to one end, plugging the other into a USB slot on the keyboard.

“Open the back of the phone and gimme the SIM.”

I pried out the little data card and handed it over, then spent a minute tracking down the vent that was blowing cold air in my face. I closed it, but that only made the other vents blow even harder.

“You like my screen saver?”

I glanced at the monitor, expecting to see some naked girl eating a banana. Instead it was a pic of Harry with his arm around my mother. Both were smiling. I felt myself wince.

“It’s…nice,” I managed.

“Me and Mom have a lot of catching up to do. Mother and son stuff.”

“You know, the DNA results haven’t come—”

“Gotcha, you little bastard! There’s the TAP/CIBER, and now I run the decryption program. This will take a few seconds. You get Mom anything for her birthday? I’m thinking a cat.”

Speaking of non sequiturs.

“We’ve already got a cat.”

“I know. Mr. Friskers, right? Is he still meaner than spit?”

“He’s currently in a kitty motel. It’s seventy-five bucks a day, plus we have to pay for injuries to the staff.”

“That could get pricey.”

“Hopefully that groomer won’t need eye surgery.”

“Does Mom like dogs? Or maybe a monkey? I’d like to have a monkey. You can teach them to fetch you things, like beer. A beer monkey. That would be cool. We could smoke cigars and watch King Kong together. I love the remake. It’s got the extended footage, which means it’s seventeen hours long. We can watch it later, on Blu-ray, if you want.”

“Were you ever tested for ADHD?” I asked.

“Yeah. But the Ritalin makes me hyper. Okay, the decryption is finished, and…there’s the phone number. I’m amazing.”

Harry pointed at it, and I wanted to punch the screen. It was the same Deer Park number Hajek had given me. My phone wasn’t a direct link to Alex, as I’d hoped. It was part of that call-forwarding daisy chain he had mentioned. I explained this to Harry.

“All’s not lost, sis. I can find the phone in Deer Park, get the SIM, and then locate the next phone in the chain. It will lead to Alex eventually.”

“There could be ten phones in the chain, Harry. You said you can only pinpoint the call within a few hundred yards, and she could have these hidden all over the country.”

“It’s a start. I’ve got an RF detector. I can find the phones.”

I closed my eyes, thinking. Normally, when I was chasing a perp, there were witnesses to interview, evidence to examine, clues to follow up on. Alex was effectively invisible, and could be anywhere. How the hell do you find a person who only shows you what she wants you to see?

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re our only hope here, Harry. There’s no other way to find her.”

“I can do it. It’ll just take some time.”

“Time is something we don’t have.”

“So I see.”

Harry brought the picture up on the monitor, of Lance taped to the bed and screaming. I checked my watch.

“Unless we can find him, he’s dead in just over eleven hours.”

Harry didn’t say anything, which was out of character. I wondered if the picture brought him back to the time he was Alex’s captive. She was the reason he had a prosthetic hand, and though he never talked about it, I knew a blowtorch played a part.

“We’ll find him,” Harry eventually said.

“How, if we can’t trace her calls?”

“She left us a clue.”

“What clue?”

“He’s a cop named Lance. Probably hundreds of those in the U.S. But how many have one of these?”

Harry pointed to the metal tripod, which held the thing that looked like a microphone over Lance’s head. I leaned in closer, squinting, and couldn’t believe I missed it earlier.

“It’s a pigstick,” I said.

“Yeah. Looks like old Lance is on the Bomb Squad. The pigstick is armed with a shotgun shell, attached to a blasting cap. That wire is shock tube, probably leading to a timer. When the time is up, the round fires into poor Lance’s face.”

If Alex was being honest. For all I knew, Lance might already be dead. Or he might not be named Lance at all. I stared at his face again, his agony forever frozen in time. I wondered if Alex was still burning him.

“Alex sent me an earlier text, a few weeks ago. Said she was in Milwaukee. I don’t know if she’s telling the truth or not.”

“She’s a lying crazy psycho bitch. Believing her is a mistake.”

“She bought this phone in Gurnee, which is on the way to Milwaukee. Maybe we should start heading up there.”

“If she’s lying, we could be heading in the wrong direction.”

I chewed my lower lip.

“You need to bring in the troops on this, Jackie. They can send out a bulletin to other cop shops. Maybe even get his face on TV.”

Harry must have noticed my reaction, because he shook his head.

“We don’t have to give them the phone. Or even a clone of the phone. We can forward the pictures and texts to one of their phones. Send it to fatso. He’ll take care of it.”

“Fine.” I held out my hand. “Give me the card back.”

“Let me save this first. Resolution is for shit. Maybe I can tweak it, get a serial number on the pigstick. Can’t be that many of those out there.”

Harry opened up a photo program, but my mind was elsewhere. I’d met a few Explosive Ordnance Disposal cops. Serious, professional guys. A pigstick was a portable arm that held a shell or a high-pressure water jet, used to remotely detonate suspicious devices. Detonation wire, shock tube, and blasting caps were tools of the EOD. But they weren’t the only tools.

Most bomb squads had bigger, more dangerous devices.

If Alex had a pigstick, what else could she have?

CHAPTER 12

THE JORDAN HISTORICAL SOCIETY, located only a mile from the beach, has closed for the day. It’s dark and quiet.

Alex drives past the empty parking lot, over the grass, and pulls to a stop behind some fir trees. She kills the engine, grabs her army surplus duffel bag, and leaves the Honda, walking back toward the main building. The night has cooled off to the mid-forties. She tucks her hair under the hood and pulls the cords tight around her face. It’s doubtful anyone is watching, but it never hurts to be careful.

The M4 Sherman tank sits in front of the building on a dais of concrete, just like in the Web site pictures. Alex walks up to it, touches the cold green steel. It’s smaller than she expects, several yards shorter and half the weight of the MI Abrams. The 60mm gun on the turret is pointed east, poised to protect the shoreline from approaching enemy armadas. Metaphorically, of course, because the barrel is filled with concrete.

Alex rests the duffel bag on the front tread fender and sticks a mini Maglite in her teeth. Pointing downward, she tears the paper off a brick of PENO. The plastic explosive is gray, without odor, heavy for its size. Alex pulls off a fist-sized hunk and rolls it between her palms. It’s stickier, and slightly stiffer, than modeling clay. She forms it into a pyramid shape, then places the base against the frontal hull of the tank, which the Internet says is sixty-one millimeters thick.

Returning to the duffel bag, she removes a bridgewire detonator and loops the bag’s strap over her shoulder. The blasting cap is pushed into the tip of the pyramid, and Alex attaches a shock tube to that and plays line out of the spool until she’s fifty yards away, behind the side of the building. She crimps the detonation cord into an electric sparker and smiles her half smile.

“Fire in the hole.”

The explosion shakes the ground and momentarily deafens her. She remembers to open her mouth like she was taught, which equalizes the pressure on both sides of her ear drums. It still hurts, almost like getting struck in the head. The ringing continues as she approaches the tank, winding the now empty shock tube around her arm as she goes. There’s no fire, and the smoke has almost dissipated. Alex points her flashlight at the hull and sees a jagged twenty-inch hole where armor used to be. It smells like hot coals and melted iron.

“Perfect,” she says, but can’t hear herself say it. She stuffs the used tubing back into her duffel bag and heads for the car.

Phase one of the plan is finished. Time to start phase two.

CHAPTER 13

“YOU SHOULD TURN THE PHONE IN, Jack.”

Herb Benedict. We’d been partners for over a de cade, and often played conscience for each other. But right now I needed an enabler.

“I have to see this through, Herb. Start with Milwaukee PD. See if anyone on their Bomb Squad is named Lance.”

“How do you expect to find her? Track her cell phone?”

“It can’t be tracked. Not directly. Long story.”

“Then how? She could be anywhere. You’re just going to sit around and wait for her to send you clues?”

“That’s all I can do right now. That and prepare for when I’ll have a shot at her. Does your cell accept pictures and text?”

“You’ve seen my cell. I think it’s the very first one. It uses rotary.”

I sat on Harry’s sofa, shivering, and switched the phone to my other ear. The leather under my butt was cold.

“I want to send you what Alex is sending me. I know you’re off the case too, but I’m hoping you can be my ears while I’m gone.”

I could picture Herb thinking, probably rubbing his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Bernice has one of those new Motorola phones, the kind that does everything except make you a sandwich. Send it to her.”

He gave me the number.

“Thanks, Herb. I owe you so many I’ll never pay them all back.”

“There’s this mail order steak place. Grade-A prime-cut Angus beef. Ships them to you frozen. Their number is 1-800-MEATS4U. The 4 is a number and the U is the letter U.”

“Consider it done.”

“I like rib-eyes. And T-bones. And New York strips. And filets. Basically I like everything. They also sell Turduckinlux. That’s a turkey breast, stuffed with a duck breast, stuffed with a chicken breast, stuffed with bacon-wrapped hamburger patties.”

“I’ll call them as soon as we get off the phone.” I swallowed, hating to say what came next. “Look, Herb, I know you’re being cautious, but Alex might take a shot at you. Or your wife.”

“I could have Bernice stay with her mother, come and help you out.”

“No way.”

“My leg’s not that bad, Jack. I can move fast if I have to.”

Herb was loyal, smart, and tough. But he could never be called fast. And with his injury, all he’d be doing was putting himself in danger.

“Stay with your wife and heal. That’s an order.”

“What if I had some psycho killer after me? Would you stay out of it?”

“My psycho killer, my rules. I need you to stay close to the investigation, Herb. Keep me in the loop. Besides, I have some help.”

“That idiot McGlade? He’s a card-carry ing asshole. I’m serious. He once showed me the card.”

I eyed Harry, who was squinting at porn on the computer screen.

“He’s not that bad,” I said.

“Please don’t tell me you’re with him in that stupid RV.”

“It has really good air-conditioning.”

“Want me to turn it up?” Harry asked, never taking his eyes off the screen. A gorilla had joined the party. No—just a guy in a gorilla suit. What ever happened to normal, old-fashioned porn?

“Jesus, Jack. How am I supposed to sleep knowing that bonehead has your back?”

“I’m getting more help.”

“Who? The criminal guy? Phineas something?”

“Troutt.”

“What makes you think he’ll help you?”

I got an image in my mind, of the last time I saw Phin. He had hugged me, holding it longer than our friendship warranted.

“He’ll help.”

Herb sighed, loud and dramatic.

“I want you to call me. Every eve ning at seven. If you don’t call, I’m coming after you.”

“Thanks, Herb. We’ll talk soon.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. At seven. Sooner if I hear anything. And tell that asshole McGlade to sit on his mechanical thumb and spin.”

Herb hung up, and I tucked the phone back into my purse.

“How’s the partner?” Harry asked. “Still fat?”

“He says hi. Can you send the picture and texts to him?”

I handed Bernice’s cell number to Harry.

“Sure. I got a program that can do it from the computer.”

“We also need to go to Wrigleyville. Joe’s Pool Hall, to see if Phin is there.”

“Check and roger.”

“And turn off the porn.”

Harry batted his eyelashes. “Anything else I can do for you, Your Highness?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of Alex. “Take me to the nearest gun shop. I need to exercise my second amendment rights to bear arms.”

CHAPTER 14

ALEX SITS IN A BOOKSTORE CAFÉ, dressed in her funeral best.

The WiFi is free, and her laptop is open. Her back is to the wall so no one can see her screen.

She uses a search engine to find her next victim. First the name. Then the town. It takes less than three minutes to get a phone number, and another two minutes to find the address. Scary how easy it is to find someone, Alex muses. People should pay closer attention to protecting their privacy.

The drive will take a few hours. Alex decides to wait until morning before leaving. She can’t go back to the Old Stone Inn, because her bed is currently occupied. She calls the cell phone using the computer program, and a window opens, showing her a live feed of Lance. The picture isn’t very good—even with all the lights on, the room is pretty dim. The camera phone is taped up to the wall, offering a wide angle. She presses some buttons, zooms in on Lance’s chest.

He’s asleep. Or unconscious. The burns have stopped bleeding, begun to scab over. It makes the symbols easier to see. She saves a picture of her laptop screen as a JPEG, crops it in Photoshop, and uploads it to her cell, viewing it from various angles, and judging it clue-worthy.

It’s all Greek to me, Alex thinks.

Jack will get a copy later to night.

Alex hits the hibernate key, blanking out her screen, and lets her eyes prowl around.

The bookstore is one of those large chains, ten times bigger than the library in the town where she grew up. Alex’s father hated libraries. Believed that people only needed one book, the Bible, and that all others led to Satan. But according to Father, pretty much everything led to Satan. He blamed the dev il for his appetites. He should have learned to embrace them. Indulge them without remorse.

Like she does.

Alex yawns, stretches out her long legs, and leans back in the chair to scope out women.

One walks by, wiggling her hips, getting in line for coffee. The right build. Right age. She orders something called chai tea. Alex doesn’t know what that is. It would be a good thing to use as a way of introduction. But when Alex stands she notices how short the woman is, and doesn’t bother. She sits back down.

Another woman, tall enough, but too young. Some men, whom Alex barely glances at. Then, a brunette. Age and height fine. A big ass, but people can lose weight. Alex gets into line behind her.

The woman orders a large vanilla latte and a pecan Danish, neither of which will help narrow her gluteus maximus.

“Are the Danish good here?”

The woman glances over her shoulder.

Alex doesn’t smile behind the veil. She knows how it contorts her face, makes her look even more freakish. It’s a definite handicap. Smiles disarm people. Taking a smile away from a recreational killer is like taking a pinky from a major league pitcher.

“They’re pretty good. Not as good as the coffee place on Prospect.”

The woman faces the cashier again. She’s either in a hurry, not wanting to chat, or Alex’s veil has set off subconscious warning bells. Strangers aren’t to be trusted. People who hide their face are hiding something else.

Alex moves in a little closer, watches as the woman digs into her purse for a wallet. Though her clothes are decent, expensive, her handbag looks more like a backpack than an accessory. Alex catches glimpses of a tissue pack, some children’s Tylenol, and a large key ring attached to a Lucite-encased family photo.

No good. Alex returns to her table, and is surprised to find a little girl standing next to it. She’s blond, perhaps eight years old, and staring at Alex’s laptop screen.

“Is that man hurt?”

She points at the live feed of the hotel room. Lance has woken up, and he’s thrashing around on the bed like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The child must have pressed a key, brought the computer back from hibernation mode.

Alex closes the cover, then looks around to make sure no one else saw anything.

“It’s a movie. He’s pretending to be hurt.”

“My favorite movie is Toy Story. Have you seen Toy Story? It’s about a cowboy named Woody, who is really named Tom Hanks. There’s also Toy Story 2, but we don’t have it anymore because it got stuck in the DVD player and Mommy threw it out.”

Alex stares at the girl. So small and fragile. Father would have liked her. Alex prefers adults to children. Nothing can induce a migraine like a little kid screaming hour after hour. Even gagged, the high pitch is piercing enough to call stray dogs.

“Melinda!”

A woman hurries over, her expression a mix of concern and disappointment. She’s tall, thin, pretty, platinum blond. Alex notices how she moves, in an easy, assured way. Athlete. Possibly a dancer.

“What have I told you about wandering off? You were supposed to stay by the picture books.”

“The lady has a computer like Daddy’s.”

Melinda points to Alex’s laptop.

“It is like Daddy’s, but that doesn’t mean you can go and touch things that aren’t yours.” Her blue eyes mea sure Alex. There’s no hesitation, no drop in confidence, even when she notices the veil. “I apologize. Melinda, she’s a curious little bug. I hope she didn’t disturb you or ruin anything.”

“You might want to keep her on a tighter leash.” Alex puts a bit of iron in her voice. “There are some pretty crazy people in the world.”

“Tell me about it. Look, it’s not my business, but is that blazer Dolce and Gabbana? It is freaking gorgeous.”

“Yes, it is.” Alex appraises the woman’s outfit, jeans and a red top. “Those jeans are Italian, aren’t they?”

The woman lights up. “Yes! You won’t ever guess what they’re called.”

“They’re called My Ass. I used to have a pair. The belt line in back dips down, like the top of a heart.”

The woman spins on her toes and lifts her shirt, revealing the divot, along with an intricate lower back tattoo. No visible thong or panty lines. Her heels are three inches, gold lamé. Alex amends her initial assessment from dancer to stripper. She’s the perfect height, and no wedding ring either.

“I used to love those jeans. I bet your husband does.”

“I’m not married.”

“My mistake. Melinda said Daddy, so I just assumed…”

“Daddy died,” Melinda chirped in, just as cheerful as when she was talking about Toy Story.

“We were never married,” the woman explained. “Her father died last year. Car accident.”

Alex’s interest rises several notches. She still isn’t sure about the woman’s sexual orientation, so she plays it coy.

“I’m new here, so I don’t know where any of the shops are. Where can a girl buy Louis Vuitton in this town?”

“I love Louis Vuitton! See?”

She holds up her brown purse, which Alex had spotted immediately after noticing her.

“It’s freaking gorgeous,” Alex says. “I’m Gracie, by the way.”

“Samantha. Sammy for short.”

Sammy offers her hand, smirks. Her touch is soft, and she tickles her index finger on the inside of Alex’s palm when she shakes.

“Look, Sammy, this may sound kind of forward, but I need someone to help me shop. I’ve been hiding from the world for a while. Car accident. Really messed up my face. This is the only outfit I feel I can wear in public. I haven’t been out of the house in months.”

“God, Gracie, that’s awful.”

“Are you and Melinda free now? We could hit a few shops, then I’d buy you guys dinner.”

“Shit, that would be fun. But my shift starts in an hour.”

“Is Sammy your stage name?”

Sammy grins wide, revealing perfect caps.

“Stage name is Princess. You used to be in the life? You’ve got the body for it.”

“I’ve worked a few poles in my day. Which club?”

“High Rollers. It’s uptown.”

“Long hours. Does Grandma watch Melinda while you dance?”

“Grandma is in heaven with Daddy,” Melinda says.

Sammy puts both arms around her daughter, cradling her face. “Our neighbor watches the bug. I only work four nights a week.”

“Money that good?”

“It’ll do till I get my business degree. I’m taking some classes during the day, when she’s in school.”

No husband, no mother, and a stripper to boot. She’s almost perfect.

“If to night isn’t good, maybe sometime later?”

“Definitely. Let’s trade numbers.”

Sammy digs a pen out of her purse, writes down Alex’s cell phone number on the back of a McDonald’s receipt. She rips the paper in half, and gives Alex her number.

“One more thing, Sammy. And this is embarrassing. When I was working, sometimes the customers would want a little extra attention, and I got busted. As a condition of my parole, I’m not allowed to associate with any known criminals. If you’ve got a record…”

Sammy shakes her head.

“I’m clean as a whistle. High Rollers gets stung all the time, under-cover cops coming in, trying to get the girls to do more than dance. Two of my friends got nailed, so I don’t do that. Not that I think it’s wrong or anything. Just can’t risk getting arrested when I’ve got Melinda to look after.”

“Cool. Good luck to night. Make some money.”

“I always do. Hopefully we can hook up soon, Gracie.”

Alex smiles her half smile and pats Melinda on the head.

“You can count on it.”

CHAPTER 15

PHIN WORE JEANS and a white T-shirt, an outfit I’d seen him in many times. When he was bald from the chemo, it made him look like Mr. Clean, right down to the broad chest and narrow hips. He was currently in remission and his hair was back, blond and cut short.

He was leaning over the pool table, lining up his shot using a bridge. I’d never seen him use a bridge before, but when I eased through the throng of bar patrons and got closer I saw the reason. His left arm was in a sling.

Phin glanced up at me, looked back down at the table, and worked the stick. The cue ball hit the six, which knocked the nine into a side pocket, winning the game. His opponent, a blue-collar guy with mean eyes and a fuzzy beard, swore and dropped ten bucks on the rail.

“Lucky shot, crip. Let’s go again.”

Phin laid down the cue and the money disappeared into his jeans.

“Some other time, pal. I’ve got some other competition.”

“Like hell. We’re going again. I got money to win back.”

“I said later.”

“I said now!”

Mean Eyes grabbed Phin by his bad arm, high on the biceps. Phin spun, so fast he was a blur, coming up behind the guy and snatching his hair. He yanked, flipping his attacker over an outstretched leg and onto his back. Phin placed a boot heel on his throat as Mean Eyes flailed his arms. The flailing stopped when Phin raised the cue, directly over the man’s eye.

“I beat you at nine ball one-handed. You want me to kick your ass one-handed?”

Mean Eyes attempted to shake his head. Tough to do, when someone is stepping on your neck.

Phin raised his foot, and the guy scrambled away, pushing through the gawkers. Then Phin tilted up his head at me. My dress was still damp and clingy, and his stare lingered on my body in an unmistakably male way. I’d been gawked at by men all day, but this time it didn’t bother me. Truth told, it made my skin flush, which warmed me up for the first time in hours. When Phin’s eyes finally met mine, they were kind.

“Hi, Jack. Latham was a good guy. I’m sorry I couldn’t go to the funeral.”

I had expected Phin to make an appearance, after all we’d been through together. But my earlier chat with the Feebies explained his absence.

“Too many cops there,” I said.

“Not my kind of crowd.”

“Last time we spoke, you told me you weren’t wanted for anything.”

“You had enough on your mind, Jack. Didn’t want to burden you.”

I should have been pissed, but the smile was already on my lips.

“Road flares?”

Phin’s face stayed blank.

“What are you referring to, Lieutenant?”

“You want to play coy? You weren’t coy for the bank cameras. The Feds showed me a nice picture of you waving.”

“Must have me confused with some other handsome guy.” His voice betrayed nothing, but his eyes crinkled at the edges.

“You don’t trust me, Phin? Think I’m wearing a wire?”

“I know you’re not.” His eyes moved down. “Not the way that dress is hugging you.”

I blushed harder, hoped he didn’t notice it, then wondered why I cared one way or another. Phin was a friend, and nothing more. He was also a criminal. Our relationship went as far as playing pool, and doing each other occasional favors. Sex was not among those favors, and it should have been the last thing on my mind at the moment.

I came closer, resting my hip against the table.

“How’d you hurt your arm?”

“Dislocated elbow. Happened that night with Alex.”

“You never told me.”

“You had enough on your mind. Didn’t want to burden you.”

He moved a step closer, until we were less than a foot apart. His expression was friendly, playful. In the bar lighting his blue eyes appeared deep purple.

“You here for a game?”

“No time. How bad is the elbow?”

Phin removed the sling, stretched out his arm. I watched his face. If he was in pain, I couldn’t tell.

“I’m supposed to keep it immobile, but I have a full range of motion.”

“Painkillers?”

“Nonprescription. Alex back?”

I nodded.

“Who’s on our side?”

“Just me and McGlade.”

“So now we’re three. When are we starting?”

“Now. You free?”

Phin leaned in, until our bodies were almost touching. His friendly stare became something else.

“I’m always free for you, Jack.”

His breath was warm, and smelled faintly of cinnamon. When he touched my hip, I moved away. I needed Phin’s help, but unlike with Hajek, I wasn’t willing to lead him on to get it. Not because I felt anything for Phin. But because, unlike with Hajek, I didn’t think Phin would be dissuaded once he was encouraged.

“We need guns,” I said.

Phin took the hint, gave me some space. “I know a guy.”

I grinned. “I do too. He works at Sports Authority. Can you fire a rifle?”

“Haven’t had much practice. But I’m a quick study.”

“I meant with your injury.”

“I’m good at coping. But I need to pick up some things first.”

“No time. Latham’s paying for this. We can get you clothes and toiletries at the store.”

“Some things aren’t for sale at the store.”

I wondered what he meant, then wondered if I really wanted to know.

“We need to go now, Phin.”

“Okay.” Phin dug his hands into his pockets. “I’m yours.”

We made our way through Joe’s, weaving through laughing, happy people, and one who wasn’t laughing or happy.

“Liar! You ain’t crippled!”

Mean Eyes broke through the crowd and launched himself at Phin. I caught a glimpse of something in his hand, and my leg whipped around in a spin kick, my head snapping back to take aim. I planted my foot dead center in the guy’s gut, as hard a blow as I’ve ever landed. He fell to his knees, dropped his knife, clutched his belly, and began puking up beer. I should have arrested him, but I didn’t have my badge on me, didn’t have any handcuffs, and didn’t have the time.

I bent down and grabbed his knife, a four-inch folder with a serrated blade. Phin squatted next to me and picked up my heel, which had broken off.

“Nice. Red is my favorite color.”

I didn’t understand what he meant, because my dress and shoes were black.

Only when we walked outside did I remember that my pan ties were red. My dress must have ridden up while I was kicking.

I felt myself flush, embarrassed, even though I had no reason to be. Phin was a friend. Nothing more.

I kept saying that to myself, over and over, as we walked back to the Crimebago.

CHAPTER 16

ALEX CAN’T SLEEP.

True, it’s only ten p.m. But it has been a pretty full day. She killed two people, got laid, tortured an old friend, killed two more people, flirted in a bookstore, and planned her next murder. She should be exhausted. But instead, she’s wired.

The Motel 6 room she’s in is nicer than the one where she left Lance. The bed is bigger, softer. The pillows fluffier. Sleep should come. But she stares at the ceiling, jaw set, unable to relax. Her mind refuses to shut off. The end is in sight. Not quite the home stretch, but each passing hour brings her closer to her goal. A goal that will fix everything in Alex’s life.

Jack is no doubt on her way. That idiot McGlade is probably with her. And Phin, whom Alex finds dangerously attractive. She imagines having Phin tied to the bed, and predicts she wouldn’t need to use a rubber band with him. If circumstances were different, she might not even need bindings. Phin wouldn’t mind a woman with scars. Perhaps he’d even find them sexy. She senses in him the same predatory nature as Charles, her one true love.

People like Phin and Charles are rare and exotic as snow leopards, and just as hard to catch. Unfortunately, you can’t put an ad in the personals that reads Freakishly scarred serial killer looking for soul mate, must have great abs and enjoy guns, violence, and romantic candlelight dinners.

But Phin is an enemy, and a serious threat, so he has to die. They all have to die. They killed her beloved Charles. They sent her to prison. They took her face.

Alex rolls onto her stomach. The room is dark. The sheets are cool and smell like laundry detergent. She closes her eyes and parts her legs.

Maybe Alex can plan it so she can give Phin a farewell fuck. See how many times he can get it up before she peels off his skin.

McGlade won’t get a farewell fuck. While he’s also an enemy, he doesn’t pose the same danger as Phin and Jack. Alex decides to let him live—after she removes his other hand, his eyes, and his balls. And perhaps throws in some third-degree burns as well.

The idea of burning McGlade makes her tingle. She arches her back, then presses against the mattress.

An ambulance. Or hospital. She’ll break into one sometime in the next few days. Steal some antibiotics, sutures, and a few IV bags. When she gets Harry McGlade alone, she wants to make sure he survives his extensive injuries to lead a horrible, disfigured, unhappy, and very long life.

Getting warm in here. Alex yanks off her cover blanket, reaches down.

Now Jack—Alex has spent hours obsessing over how Jack will die. First, emotional and psychological suffering. Alex wants to make Jack regret becoming a cop. To break her down until she has no will to live.

Then, when the physical suffering starts, Alex will prolong her death until she gets bored. Perhaps rent a cabin in the north woods, keep Jack chained there, visit her a few times a week for some female bonding over extended sessions of excruciating pain. Maybe I’ll pick up a paper, Alex thinks, check the real estate listings for someplace secluded.

Revenge is best served cold, but fantasizing about what she’ll do to Jack makes her hot. So hot that she considers going back to the Old Stone Inn and riding Lance again.

But Alex can’t go back there. Time and again, Jack has proven herself a smart and worthy adversary. While Alex is pretty confident that Jack won’t find Lance in time, she doesn’t want to risk the lieutenant bursting into the room while she’s bouncing toward the Big O.

However, there are other ways for a horny girl to get her rocks off. Ways that are a lot more satisfying than self-gratification.

Alex rolls to the edge of the bed and flips on the light. The drive will take a few hours, but she’s not tired. If her victim is home, and the setup looks good, Alex might even get laid to night.

Sex and death. They go together like chocolate and peanut butter.

She dresses as fast as she can, jeans and a hoodie, grabs the things she needs, and hangs a Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob before heading to the car.

It’s time to go looking for a cop.

CHAPTER 17

“SO FAR,” Herb’s voice was tired, frustrated, “not a single bomb squad has responded saying they have a cop named Lance on their team.”

“No hits on the picture?”

I was back in the Crimebago, and warm because of Phin. Not due to sexual tension, or anger, or embarrassment. Phin had been able to fix Harry’s air conditioner.

“You know how hard it is to ID by pic, Jack. How differently people look in different situations. In Lance’s case, he’s got duct tape around half his head and he’s screaming in agony. We might not even recognize him if he was eating a five-course Mongolian BBQ across from us.”

Leave it to Herb to work food into the discussion.

“Any MIAs?” I switched my cell phone from my left hand to my right.

“One. A Detective Don Oakes, EOD out of North Carolina. Didn’t report in today. His lieut said the pic sort of looks like him.”

“Where in North Carolina?”

“Wilmington. On the coast.”

“You’ve alerted their department?”

“Got an all points on Oakes. They’re bringing in the Feds, suspected kidnapping.”

“Thanks, Herb.”

“Keep me in the loop. And don’t forget my Turduckinlux.”

Herb hung up. Harry plopped himself on the couch next to me. The aftershave smell made me wince.

“Alex told me she went through basic training in North Carolina.” He scratched himself in a bad place. “Makes sense she’d go there.”

Phin folded his arms. “I don’t want to get within a mile of Alex without long-range backup. If we go to NC, we have to leave the rifles behind.”

We’d just spent several thousand dollars of Latham’s money at a local sporting goods store, buying two H-S Precision professional hunting rifles with twenty-six-inch barrels, chambered for .377. But no traveling cases for them, and no time to get any. My watch said 10:30 p.m. Lance would be dead in seven hours. Assuming we could get a late flight out, we wouldn’t have much time to find him.

“You scared of a girl, Phin?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Phin said.

Harry nodded. “Me too. I vote we stay here, see if something else shakes loose. The WPD probably won’t let us in on the investigation anyway.”

“I agree with Harry. But this is your decision, Jack.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force a brilliant thought. I settled for a semi-apparent one.

“How did Alex get the pigstick?”

Harry made a face. “Duh. She stole it from Lance, who’s on a bomb squad somewhere.”

“Did she just find a random EOD cop and follow him home?”

Phin leaned against the kitchen counter. Or the galley counter, in Harryspeak. “I get it. She knows him.”

“Fatso hasn’t found anyone named Lance on any bomb squad?”

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“Maybe he’s not civilian.” Harry scratched the stubble on his chin. “Maybe he’s military police. Someone Alex knew when she was in the marines. Those guys would have pigsticks, det wire, all that shit.”

Phin appraised Harry. “Did Alex talk about any old boyfriends?”

“I don’t remember. She didn’t mention her past much.”

“How about her old unit?”

Harry grinned. “Heh heh. You said unit.”

“Focus, Harry. You spent more time with Alex than we did. You have to know her better.”

“If I knew her so well, think I’d have this?”

Harry held up his prosthetic hand. There was a whirring, mechanical sound, and his middle finger raised up. Crude way to make a point, but valid nonetheless. Alex had fooled us all. I met her under false pretenses, and actually considered her a friend up until the point she tried to kill me. She could lie and manipulate better than anyone I’d ever known.

I rubbed my eyes, which stung from all the crying I’d done today. “Okay, we stay put, follow the military angle. I’ll call Herb, see if he can get access to Alex’s rec ords. Maybe we can find someone in her past named Lance.”

Harry shook his head. “Lance is probably dead already. We should head to Deer Park, try to trace the first cell phone in the daisy chain. That’s a sure path to Alex.”

“Can’t we do both?” Phin asked. “Split up?”

Harry rocked himself up off the couch and slapped an arm around Phin’s shoulders.

“Good idea, Phin old buddy. Me and you. Two men on the open road. We can find the phone between marathon sessions of poker and drinking. Hell, with no women around we don’t even have to bother showering or getting dressed.”

“I’m going with Jack.” Phin met my eyes. “If that’s okay.”

I shrugged. “It’s a full night of going over reports, case histories, those shrink sessions while she was at Heathrow. Nothing exciting.”

“Two can read faster than one. And if I’m there, we can keep each other up.”

An unwarranted thought popped into my head, of Phin without his shirt. He had a terrific body. Defined pecs. Six-pack abs…

Focus, Jack, you’re being an asshole. We were chasing a killer, Phin was a crook, and I was still mourning the man I loved. What the hell was up with my hormones lately? PMS?

I calculated when my period was due, and the answer startled me.

Last week. It should have been last week. And I was never late more than a day or two, not once since the age of twelve. I could set my watch by my cycle.

Stress. Could be stress. That’s why I missed it.

Or it could be…

“You guys got a thing for each other?” Harry asked.

“We’re just friends,” I said quickly. Maybe too quickly.

“I hope so, because you’re like twice his age. Besides, women over forty-five shouldn’t have sex. Unless they’re Cher.”

“Ready to go?” I asked Phin, giving McGlade my back.

He put out his hand, helped me up off the couch. His palm was cool, soft, and he held on for longer than necessary. I gently disengaged, and we began to gather up all the stuff we bought at the sports store.

“You sure you want to go with her, Phin? I got a thirty-pack of Old Style in the fridge, and I just downloaded the entire Pink Floyd discography from a file sharing network.”

Phin stared at me, hard. “I’m sure.”

Harry shrugged. “Okay. Your loss. You want me to drop you off somewhere?”

“My truck. It’s parked in a long-term lot on Addison.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be driving, anyone needs me.”

Harry wandered up to the cab of the RV. A moment later Pink Floyd came on, shaking the walls and rattling the windows. I used the knife I’d liberated from Phin’s pool buddy and opened up three plastic blister packages containing walkie-talkies. Then I inserted their batteries and made sure all were on the same frequency.

“I’m leaving you a radio,” I yelled at Harry over “Dark Side of the Moon.”

“What?”

“A radio!”

“Got a CD in already!”

Harry turned up the volume so high it vibrated my tonsils. I shoved the other two radios into a backpack with a portable GPS, two Bushnell rifle scopes, two forty-caliber Beretta semiautos, and several boxes of ammo. Phin was folding clothes. We’d both opted for T-shirts, sweatshirt hoodies, and sweatpants. Nikes and a sports bra for me. Boxer shorts for him. The sporting goods store also carried pan ties, but I figured I could get another day out of the French-cut red pair I had on. It had nothing to do with the fact that none of their pan ties were sexy. Or red. That Phin seemed to like red was completely irrelevant.

The RV jerked to a stop, jarring me off my feet. I reached out my hands to break my fall. Caught Phin. He gave me a look. I needed to nip this thing in the bud.

“Phin, we’ve got a lot of work to do and all this flirting bullshit has to—”

His mouth pressed against mine, cutting off my words. Phin’s lips were firm, insistent, demanding, like I was the most important thing in the entire world and he had to have me. His tongue searched for mine, touched it gently, and I didn’t pull away, instead meeting it with surprising urgency. One of his hands tangled itself in the back of my hair and the other cupped my ass and then my body betrayed me and I hooked my right leg around his and ground into him, a hungry moan escaping my throat.

I wanted his hands on me, his mouth on me, all over. I wanted to stop thinking and stop hating myself and stop being afraid and have him inside me, right away, right now. Was it wrong? Hell yes. When we were finished, I’d add it to the list of reasons I hated myself.

My fingers fumbled with the top button on his jeans, popped it free.

“Bed,” I managed to gasp in the brief second I came up for air. “Harry’s bed.”

But I wasn’t sure we’d make it to the bed. My dress was hiked up, and he already had my bra up, rough fingers teasing my nipple, making me want to do him right there standing up, and then there was a groaning sound and it was coming from me and it wasn’t a happy sound at all.

Phin stopped kissing me. He drew back, a question on his face. My tears were on his cheeks.

I covered my eyes, not wanting to watch him watch me cry. My shoulders shook, and I clenched my teeth to keep the major sobs in, but a few of them got out anyway.

Phin put his arms around me again. There was no urgency this time. Only sympathy. I buried my face in his shoulder, wishing he was Latham, wishing it so bad it made my ears ring.

Or maybe that was the Floyd.

I caught my breath and forced the pain back. Disengaged myself from Phin. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t say anything. Pulled down my bra, then busied myself instead with gathering up the remainder of our purchases, feeling his pity like laser sights all over my body.

The music cut off mid-tune and Harry called to us.

“You kids know anyone in a dark sedan? They’ve been following us for five blocks.”

I hurried up to the cab, checked the enormous side-view mirror.

The Feebies. Bastards must have tailed me. Which means they knew I was with Phin. Bad for me. Bad for him. Worst of all for Lance, if I had to spend all night answering questions about aiding and abetting a known felon.

“They’re Feds, Harry. After Phin because he robbed a bank.”

“Good for you, Phin!” Harry called behind him. “Win one for the little guy! You pay for gas next stop!”

I put my hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“We need to lose them, Harry. If they find him with us, we’re screwed.”

Harry snorted. “Lose them? Jackie, we’re driving an RV on a Friday night in one of the most traffic-congested cities in America.”

“You have to try.”

“It’s not gonna happen. He can hide in the refrigerator. I made sure I got one big enough to fit into.”

“Please, Harry.” The word didn’t want to leave my throat, but I said it anyway. “Bro.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, grinned, and slammed down on the gas.

CHAPTER 18

THE HONDA’S SPEEDOMETER is up over ninety mph, and has been for close to half an hour, but Alex hasn’t seen a single squad car on this stretch of highway. None hidden. None passing. Not even one coming in the other direction on the opposite side of the street.

It’s discouraging. Don’t cops have monthly quotas? Who’s protecting our nation’s roads from reckless drivers?

Finally, after blowing past an obvious speed trap semi-hidden by a cluster of bushes, Alex grows a red and blue tail. She waits for him to hit the siren before taking her foot off the accelerator and rolling to a stop. Traffic on the interstate is sparse at this time of night. They’re past the city limits, in the country. No stores, houses, exits, or oases, for two miles in either direction. Just plains and trees, stretching out and fading into unpopulated darkness.

The cop parks behind her, but farther out on the shoulder, protecting himself from being accidentally run over. He aims his side-door spotlight directly in Alex’s rearview. She angles it downward, deflecting the glare, and turns around in her seat to see him coming, hoping he’s not too short or fat.

Alex likes speed, and because of that she has been stopped many times in the past. Flirting, flattering, showing some leg, has gotten her out of many a ticket. But with her face the way it is, no cop will be anxious to get her phone number.

This time, however, she’s not looking for a free pass.

He climbs out of his car, and Alex is surprised. He is actually a she.

Girl cop. Cool.

Alex digs into her purse, palms the stun gun. Waits.

“License and registration.”

The cop is standing a foot behind the driver’s-side door. One hand is on her belt, near her holster. Alex squints behind her, doesn’t see a partner in the squad car. She opens the door.

“Stay in the car, ma’am.”

It’s an order, delivered with authority. The cop’s hand has now unsnapped her holster and is on the butt of her pistol. It’s hard to tell with the light silhouetting her, but Alex guesses her at about thirty years of age, tall, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. A pro, by the way she’s conducted the traffic stop so far.

But Alex is a pro too.

Alex fumbles with her purse, pretending to search for her wallet.

“Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry, I know I was speeding, I can’t find my license, my boyfriend, he hit me—”

“Get back into the car, ma’am.”

Alex takes a step toward her, hand still in her purse. The cop’s name tag reads Stark.

“The hospital, I need the hospital, look what the bastard did to my face—”

Now Officer Stark draws her weapon, aims at Alex’s chest.

“Drop the purse and hands above your head!”

“Why? I didn’t do anything. My boyfriend—”

“Drop your purse and hands above your head! Now!”

Alex halts. She’s excited, even a little scared. Alex drops the purse, slowly raises her hands.

“Turn in a complete circle!”

Alex complies, her shirt riding up, showing the cop there is nothing in her pockets or her belt.

“Get on your knees! Hands behind your head!”

Different cops arrest suspects in different ways. Some order them to palm the car or the wall. Some order them to lie facedown on the ground and spread out their arms and legs. Some prefer the knees and the hands behind the head routine.

Which Alex had been hoping for.

“On your knees! Hands behind your head!”

Alex nods quickly, getting down, the asphalt cold beneath her jeans. She puts her hands on her neck, under her long red hair. If Stark had ordered her to palm the hood of the car, Alex first would have fallen to her knees and faked sobbing, face in her hands. If Stark had wanted her to eat the tarmac, she would have complied, but put her hands behind her head. But any way it went down, Alex still would have been within easy reach of the stun gun she’d stuck in the hanging hood of her sweatshirt.

“Look the other way!”

Alex turns her head, knows that the cop will approach her from a different angle to keep her off balance. As expected, Officer Stark comes at Alex on her left side, snicks the cuff on Alex’s right wrist with her left hand, grabbing Alex’s thumb to hold her steady. But it’s impossible to fully handcuff a suspect while holding a pistol. Stark has to holster her weapon before slapping on the other cuff. As she does this, Alex’s free hand snakes into the hoodie and grabs the Cheetah. Alex tilts left, twisting around under her armpit, and jams the stun gun into the officer’s hip, letting her feel a million volts.

Officer Stark folds in half and drops to the street. Alex reaches for the gun, but it’s secured by a strap. She takes a second to find the release, then the pistol—a Sig Sauer .45—comes free. Alex sticks it in the back of her jeans.

A car whizzes by, doesn’t slow down. The cop moans. Alex juices her again, then drags her between their cars, onto the dirt beyond the shoulder. She unclips a Maglite from Stark’s belt and takes her pepper spray and radio. The handcuff keys are in her breast pocket, and Alex removes her bracelet and binds Stark’s wrists. Then she waits.

The cop stirs, opens her eyes. Alex focuses the beam on her.

“Full name and car number.”

“Ma’am…you’re in a lot of trouble.”

Cops like Maglites. Illumination is only one of the reasons why. Alex raises it, heavy with six D batteries, and brings it down on Officer Stark’s leg. Not hard enough to break it—that would cause a delay—but hard enough to hurt like hell.

This produces a sound somewhere between a whimper and a howl. Alex repeats the question.

“Val…Val Stark. Car Five Victor Seven.”

“Good. Now on your hands and knees. Back to your ride.”

Alex follows while hunched over, keeping out of sight of the occasional passing car. She helps Officer Stark into the backseat.

“Be right back, cutie.”

Alex winks and slams the door. Then she gathers up the items from the back of the Honda and transfers them into the passenger seat of the cop car, save for a fist-sized chunk of PENO, a pyrotechnic blasting cap, and four feet of pink thermalite fuse. She pushes in the Honda’s cigarette lighter, then spends a few dirty minutes crawling under the chassis. Alex hums as she works, sticking the PENO to the gas tank, and the combined fuse and cap into the plastic. The road, and the undercarriage, are still damp from the earlier rain, but the explosive sticks like peanut butter.

Boom time.

Alex pops out the lighter, admiring the orange glow. She hesitates, savoring the moment, letting some anticipation build.

The fuse ignites, hissing and sparking and making Alex feel like she’s ten years old again, behind Father’s barn with Charles, lighting cherry bombs and blowing up tin cans.

Four feet of pink thermalite equals eighty seconds. Alex pockets the lighter and strolls to the police car, no hurry, and climbs into the driver’s seat. Officer Stark has left her keys in the ignition, the car still running. The car computer—a laptop—is attached to the armrest, its white screen blinking. Alex shifts into reverse and backs up along the shoulder until she’s a good hundred feet away from the Honda. Then she chews her lower lip and watches, eyes wide. Waits for it…waits for it…

Eighty seconds pass.

Nothing happens.

The radio squawks, making her jump.

“Five Victor Seven, status on the 10-73. Over.”

Alex locates the handset, picks it up.

“This is Five Victor Seven.” Alex’s pitches her voice higher, to match Officer Stark’s. “Standby, Central.”

“Ten-four, Five Victor Seven.”

Still no explosion. Alex wonders if the wet road snuffed out the fuse. Or if she grabbed an electric blasting cap by mistake. There could be a dozen reasons why it didn’t go off, but going out and checking doesn’t seem like the brightest of ideas.

“Check under the can, Alex. See if it’s lit.”

“You check, Charles. I don’t have to know that bad.”

But in this case, Alex has to know. Her prints are all over that car, and a quick peek at Officer Stark’s computer shows it has been reported stolen. If the Honda doesn’t explode, it will give Jack an unfair jump on Alex’s location, and let the lieutenant know she has plastic explosives. Not to mention alert the local cops that an escaped serial killer is prowling the area.

Alex speaks into the radio, reading the call number off the screen.

“Central, this is Five Victor Seven. Negative on that 10-73. It was the own er, spent a few days out of town, forgot to call home, over. I’m giving her a warning. Over.”

“Roger that, Five Victor Seven.”

Alex turns around, faces the cop in the backseat.

“Officer Stark, I need you to check to see why my car hasn’t blown up.”

Officer Stark doesn’t move, and her face reveals she isn’t pleased with the idea.

“Chances are pretty good that it went out,” Alex says, soothing. “I don’t think it’s going to blow up in your face.”

“Then you go check.”

“I have the gun, so I don’t have to. Now, are you going to help a civilian out, or do I have to put two in your knees?”

“You’re making it worse for yourself. You need to stop before this goes too far.”

Alex considers this woman. She’s tall enough, but the eyes are wrong.

“Are you married, Stark?”

“Yes. I have a husband and three kids. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”

“Exactly. Which is why you’re the one who’s going to check the fuse.”

Alex exits the vehicle and walks around to Stark’s door. One hand opens it. The other points the Sig.

“Check if the fuse died, or any other problem you can find.”

“I don’t know anything about explosives.”

“It’s easy. If you see a spark, run. And make sure you run this way, or I’ll shoot you.”

Stark pulls herself out of the backseat—not the easiest of tasks with cuffs on—and stands before Alex.

Alex extends her empty hand. Stark flinches, but Alex brings the gun up under her jaw to keep her still. She pushes a stray auburn bang out of Stark’s face, tucks it behind her ear.

“Don’t be afraid,” Alex says. “Things happen beyond our control. We can’t do anything to stop them. But we do have control over how we react. How we respond. Being afraid is a choice.”

The speech seems to have the opposite effect on Stark, who begins to tremble. Alex rolls her eyes.

“Just get over there, ’fraidy cat.”

Stark moves like a robot, joints stiff, head down, scanning the road. Alex waits behind the open door of the cruiser, one hand aiming the Sig, the other aiming the Maglite.

The closer Stark gets to the Honda, the slower she becomes. At this rate, the sun will be up before the car explodes.

“Let’s pick up the pace, Officer Stark. I’m hoping to get laid to night. You find the fuse?”

Stark mumbles something, the words lost in the night.

“Crouch lower,” Alex says. “It’s a skinny pink fuse.”

Another mumble. Alex aims, fires a round over Stark’s head, close enough for her to feel the wind. The cop drops to the ground.

“That’s what I mean. Keep looking.”

Another minute passes, along with three rubberneckers. One slows down enough to maybe see that things aren’t right. The radio squawks again.

“Five Victor Seven, what’s your twenty? Over.”

Alex doesn’t know radio call signals. And she can’t trust Officer Stark to give her the correct response. She chooses to ignore it, hoping to get out of there shortly.

“See the fuse?” Alex calls to Stark, who is now on all fours next to the Honda, shaking so bad she looks like a wet dog.

“No.”

“Check underneath, by the gas tank.”

Stark doesn’t budge. Alex shoots out the tire Stark is crouching next to, the pop almost as loud as the gunfire.

“I hate repeating myself, Val.”

“Five Victor Seven, status.”

Goddamn radio. Alex opens the front door, grabs the hand mike.

“Just finishing up here, Central. Computer problems.”

She tosses the mike back inside, and notices Officer Stark is under the car. But there’s a faint blue light under there with her.

The bitch has a cell phone. Probably one of those ultra-thin models for Alex to have missed it in the pat down.

“Five Victor Seven, do you have a 10-86? Over.”

Dammit. Alex figures she said something wrong, which means another patrol car will cruise by any minute. She needs to get out of here, pronto.

“Throw away the phone, Val!”

Alex fires two rounds into the trunk of the car. The cop can’t drop the phone fast enough, and it skitters across the pavement.

“Now grab the plastic explosive I put on the gas tank!”

Val cowers, hands covering her head, as if that will protect her from a forty-five-caliber bullet.

Alex takes a deep, calming breath, then exits the vehicle.

“I’m going to count to three. If I don’t see the plastic in your hand, your children will grow up without a mother. One…two…”

Officer Stark holds up the PENO.

“Good. Now run back here. Move it, double time.”

Stark half jogs/half stumbles to the squad car. Her face is wet.

“Gimme the plastic, and get in the backseat. Close the door behind you.”

The cop follows orders. Alex studies the PENO. The fuse has fallen out. Alex frowns with half of her face. She places the PENO on the passenger seat.

“Now take your clothes off, Officer Stark.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Faster would be better. If you follow directions, you’ll live through this.”

She uncuffs her and Officer Stark strips. Alex enjoys the show. From experience, she knows how difficult it is to undress a body. It’s much easier, and quicker, when they undress themselves.

“Underwear too. This is just so you won’t be able to follow me.”

Alex gives Officer Stark credit for not losing it. There are tears, but no begging or sobbing. Tough broad. Not a bad body either.

“Very good, Officer Stark. Now I want you to get into the Honda. I’m going to leave you there.”

Alex opens the door, checks for cars, then marches the cop to the Honda. Moving bodies is an even bigger pain in the ass than undressing them. Much easier to let them move themselves.

“Sit in the driver’s seat, put your hands out.”

Alex tucks the gun into her waistband. Naked, the cop has lost the will to fight back. It takes a few seconds to uncuff one of her wrists, then attach it to the steering wheel.

“Are you afraid, Val?”

Officer Stark stares hard at Alex.

“Yes. But I’m controlling it.”

“Good. Good for you. Are your children proud of you? That their mother is a cop?”

Stark nods.

“They should be.”

Alex hurries back to the squad car, picks up the PENO and two feet of thermalite fuse. Dispatch comes on the radio. Alex switches it off, concentrating on inserting the fuse into the blasting cap. Once she’s satisfied it won’t fall out, she returns to the Honda, stopping once to pick up Officer Stark’s cell phone.

“Normally I savor things like this, Val, but I’m short on time.”

Alex takes the cigarette lighter from her pocket, and leans across Stark to press it into the outlet.

“I’m using a forty-second fuse. I won’t light it until your call goes through. Forty seconds probably isn’t long enough to say goodbye to your kids, but it’s an unfair world.”

Alex hands Stark the phone. She looks deep into the cop’s eyes, sees it all. Disbelief. Realization. Anger. Despair. Acceptance. Out of everyone Alex has killed today, this is the most memorable. Too bad she can’t stick around to watch her face during the final moments.

The lighter pops out.

“Call home, Val.”

Val’s hands are shaking so badly she has to dial three times. Finally, she gets a connection.

“Honey? It’s Mommy.”

Alex caresses Val’s hair. Then she lights the fuse and tosses the PENO under the Honda.

As she walks back to the patrol car, Alex wonders what she would do with only a few seconds left to live. What would she say?

Nothing. She’d say nothing, because she doesn’t have anyone to call.

The explosion is loud, and rattles the police car, but there is no huge pyrotechnic fireball like on television. The car burns, but it’s a small fire, won’t last long.

Alex hits the siren and peels out. Mission accomplished. On to the next goal.

CHAPTER 19

THE CRIMEBAGO ACCELERATED with the speed and grace of a three-legged elephant, blowing through a red light and prompting a honking frenzy from all four corners of the intersection. Harry alternated between steering and punching buttons on the dashboard CD changer. I gave him a friendly tap on the back of the head to keep him focused.

“What the hell are you doing, McGlade? Watch the damn road!”

“I’m looking for car chase music.”

“I’ll do it. Pay attention to driving.”

“Find Steppenwolf. It’s disc five or six.”

I pressed some random buttons, and Pink Floyd came on again.

“Too mellow!” McGlade yelled, jerking the wheel left and turning onto Halsted. I fell into the passenger seat, and Phin appeared and punched off the stereo.

“Is there a door to the roof?”

“Skylight opens. Latch is above the sofa. Why’d you kill the tunes?”

“Pull up next to a bus, then slow down and let them get close.”

“You want to jump from the Crimebago to a bus?”

“Yeah.”

“Motorhead would be perfect for that. I think it’s disc eight.”

Harry fussed with buttons. Phin locked eyes with me and said, “Make sure he does what I told him.”

“I’m going with you.”

It was slight, but he still smirked. It annoyed me. I shoved Phin to the side, grabbed a walkie-talkie, and turned it on.

Then the RV exploded, a deafening thunderclap that made my knees buckle.

“SACRIFICE! PAY THE PRICE!”

No, not an explosion. Harry had found the Motorhead CD.

I clawed my way up to the cockpit and smacked it off.

“I’m the driver, dammit! I pick the music!”

“Focus, McGlade. Get next to a bus and make sure the Feebies are right behind you, then come to a stop. They won’t be able to see up onto the roof if they’re hugging the bumper.”

Harry reached for the stereo. I smacked his fake hand.

“Are you listening?”

“Jesus, sis, I got it the first time.”

“We’ll go on your say-so. Lead them around for another ten minutes, then pull over. Got it?”

“There better not be a body cavity search. I’ll give you up if they threaten me with a body cavity search. My ass is exit only.”

“Relax, Harry.” Phin patted him on the shoulder. “They won’t think I’m hiding up your ass.”

Harry nodded, then accelerated to catch up to a bus several car lengths ahead. Phin and I went to the kitchenette, strapping on our backpacks. He smirked at me again. I frowned.

“I’m going with you to find Alex, Phin. That’s the only reason.”

“I know.”

His grin didn’t fade. I thought about mentioning the obstruction of justice charges I’d be facing if we were caught, along with accessory after the fact, all because he robbed a goddamn bank instead of getting an honest job. But instead I said, “What’s so damn funny?”

He shook his head slightly. I realized he wasn’t amused by the situation, or anything I was doing. He was staring at me the way Latham used to, the way Alan did before our marriage imploded. Not lust. Something even more dangerous.

Love.

A quick romp in bed was one thing. An actual relationship was something I couldn’t even consider, especially at that moment. I wanted to smack him for being ten kinds of inappropriate.

“They’re on my bumper!” McGlade yelled back.

“How close?” I turned away from Phin’s stare but still could feel it.

“Close enough to give me a reach-around. Bus is on the left. You got about twenty seconds before the light turns green.”

Phin shouldered the backpack and hopped onto the sofa, fussing with the latches on the ceiling panel. It swung upward on hinges. He stuck his arms through, got his palms onto the roof, and hoisted himself up. I hung my purse around my neck and cast a longing glance at the rifles. We’d have to leave them for the time being.

“Cross traffic is flashing the Don’t Walk light,” McGlade said.

A hand reached down. I stepped onto the sofa and grabbed Phin’s wrist. His fingers locked onto my forearm and he yanked me through the opening, up onto my butt.

Vehicle exhaust soured my sinuses and cold city wind spit drizzle on my cheeks. I knelt on the roof, rainwater soaking through the seat of my sweatpants.

“The Don’t Walk light is solid.” McGlade’s voice was muffled, competing with the sounds of the street. Engines, honking, a siren in the distance. I looked behind me, couldn’t see the Feebies’ sedan. We were too high and they were too close.

Phin pointed left, to the bus. A Chicago commuter, green on white, about a foot taller than the RV and too far away to jump onto.

But Phin wasn’t reading my thoughts, and he sprinted up from a crouching position, took three big strides, then launched himself through the air.

His jump took him at least eight feet, and as his arc crested and waned I knew he didn’t have enough height to make it. Phin must have realized it as well, because he tucked in his legs midair, and hit the roof of the bus on his knees, sliding across the top in a spray of dirty water.

I knew I couldn’t follow. Too far.

“Yellow light!” McGlade warned.

Phin twisted around, beckoned me to jump. I got on my feet, but there was no way. Not without wings and a stack of mattresses. I shook my head.

“Green light!” Harry yelled. “Wait—traffic is blocked! Two cars! Feds! They’re Feds!”

I crouched down, crawled to the edge of the roof. Special Agent Dailey—or maybe it was Special Agent Coursey—walked directly under my line of sight, heading for the front of the RV.

I played out the upcoming scene in my head. Coursey/Dailey would produce a warrant, because neither of them took a leak without first going through proper channels, Harry would stonewall for a minute or two, then the Feds would search the Winnebago, find the open roof panel, discover me and Phin. Then we’d be chased and eventually arrested, Lance would die, Alex would continue her reign of terror, and Phin would go to jail for a very long time.

Now was a pretty good time to run like hell.

I glanced over at Phin, still motioning for me to jump. On my best day, on dry ground, I couldn’t make it. On a slippery roof, twelve feet above the street, I’d break bones for sure.

I heard Harry say, “How do I know this is a real warrant, and not something you printed on the Internet?” and decided that was my cue to give myself up. Phin could escape on his own, and we could contact him later. Depending on their evidence, maybe I wouldn’t have to spend all night at FBI headquarters answering questions. I pointed at the street, mouthed the word run at Phin.

“He’s on top of the bus!”

I glanced down. A Feebie had his gun out, bringing it up. Phin backpedaled out of range, shrugging off his backpack. He jerked down the zipper and reached inside.

There were Berettas in the backpack.

Bank robbery was one thing. Shooting a federal agent was another. I couldn’t let Phin do that, not even to save himself.

I fumbled for my purse, yanking out my Colt, cop mode on autopilot. Without hesitating I pointed my gun at the man I’d been making out with only a few minutes ago.

Phin tugged something small and black out of the bag, I yelled “No!”, and my finger reflexively tightened on the trigger, the hammer drawing back.

Walkie-talkie. He was holding a radio.

He cocked back his arm to toss it to me, and hesitated when he saw my gun out and trained on his chest. It was tough to see his expression in the drizzle and the darkness, but I imagined it was a combination of shock and disappointment. We both got over it quick enough, and I tucked my gun under my armpit just as he threw the radio across the gap. I caught it, and then he disappeared over the other side of the bus.

“On the RV!”

My shouting had done more than give away my position. It also confirmed that I was aiding and abetting a federal criminal. I was in deep. I shoved the radio and the gun into my purse and wondered what the hell I should do next.

“We followed you to the pool establishment, Lieutenant. You’re under arrest.”

I turned, saw Dailey or Coursey peeking over the rear of the RV, climbing the aluminum ladder attached to the back. His gun wasn’t out. He probably figured I was trapped. A quick look at the street around me confirmed this: The Feds had the Crimebago surrounded.

“Give up, Lieutenant. There’s nowhere for you to go.”

But he was wrong. The bus was still there. I didn’t think I’d make it, but I didn’t have a choice. In less than seven hours, Lance would be dead, and it didn’t matter to him whether I was in Cook County Jail or Cook County Hospital.

I set my jaw, sprinted for the edge, and jumped.

CHAPTER 20

ALEX PUSHES THE PATROL CAR up past 120, sirens screaming and lights flashing, flying over the state line. It’s a rush. She can see what drew Jack to a career in law enforcement. No wonder so many cops are dicks. How easy it is to power trip when you have a car, a badge, and a gun.

Unfortunately, she can’t keep it. The car will be reported missing, if it hasn’t been already, and it probably has a GPS locator in it somewhere. The sooner she can ditch it, the better.

Luckily, getting another vehicle is as easy as pulling one over.

Alex chooses a Hyundai, dark blue, which is having some trouble staying in a single lane. Alex parks behind it and approaches the driver. He’s older, a gray beard, looking guilty and confused and pretty plowed.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” he slurs.

Alex orders him out of his car, over to a ditch by the side of the road, and puts two in his head. Twenty bucks in his wallet. More goddamn SEE ID credit cards—why were people so damn paranoid? And a silver flask in his jacket. Alex unscrews the cap. Gin. Not her favorite, but it will serve her purpose.

She rips off the man’s shirt, then hikes back to the squad car. Sprinkling alcohol on the cloth, she spends a few minutes wiping down the door handles, wheel, radio handset, and anything else she might have touched. Then she grabs what she needs and climbs into her new Hyundai, already focusing on her next victim.

Her original plan involved a time bomb, perhaps some plastic explosive wedged inside an orifice. Alex has killed a lot of people in a lot of different ways, but that would be a new one. Jack would enjoy a close-up pic of that, especially since it is someone she knows so well.

But a quick search of the police car had revealed something even better. An AED. Alex will have a great deal of fun with that. The role-playing possibilities are limitless.

The Hyundai conveniently has a GPS, which directs her off the expressway and into town. She reaches her target twenty minutes later.

It’s a nice area, single-family homes each with neatly trimmed trees in their fenced-in backyards. Quiet, peaceful, but the streetlights are bright enough to read a book under. Probably a very low crime rate.

“Until now,” Alex says, half her face curling into a grin.

She finds the right address and pulls up to the correct driveway. The house is completely dark, no lights inside or out. Sleeping? Possibly. It’s not a stretch that he forgot to turn on the exterior lights. Or maybe there’s no one home.

Alex pulls past, thinking it out. She can call, confirm if he’s home. That might also let her know if anyone else is in the house too. But all she has is her cell phone, and she didn’t bring her laptop along so she can’t spoof the caller ID. A pay phone is a possibility, but there aren’t many of those left, and Alex doesn’t know where to look for one.

Better to just knock on the door. She should be able to assess and secure the situation easily. Especially in her new uniform. That’s why she went through all the trouble to get it in the first place.

Alex drives out of the development, then finds a nice, dark stretch of road. She parks and quickly dresses in Officer Stark’s discarded clothing. It’s a little loose in the rear, and tight across the chest, but a good length. She fingers the badge on the leather jacket and buckles the utility belt. Alex can’t find a band for her hair, so she tucks it under her collar for a more professional look. The cap fits fine. Then it’s back in the car, and back to the house.

When Alex walks up the driveway, she does it with a swagger.

Wearing the uniform is an even bigger kick than driving the car. The stun gun is in her jacket pocket, the Maglite in her left hand, Stark’s pistol on her belt. She presses the doorbell.

Twenty seconds pass. No sounds from inside the house. She presses it again.

Nothing.

There’s a chance Jack knew she’d pick this target, and warned him away. A good chance. But if he went away, where would he go?

No way to know, standing out here.

Alex examines the door. It’s heavy, painted aluminum, a dead bolt. She grabs the knob and tugs. The jamb is solid, the lock tight. She searches around the door for any signs or stickers warning of a burglar alarm. There aren’t any.

Alex walks across the lawn, around the side of the house, over to the gate for the backyard. It’s open. Unlike the street side, the back of the house is dark, so she flips on the Maglite. If a nosy neighbor sees her, they’ll see a cop. It’s doubtful they’ll call the police when the police are already here.

She automatically searches the backyard for bones, poop, toys, bowls, or anything else that would indicate a dog. There wasn’t any barking when Alex knocked, but a well-trained mutt might keep silent. She finds nothing.

First Alex tries the sliding glass patio door. Locked. She knocks again, waits, then switches her grip on the Maglite and hits the door with everything she has.

As expected, the window splinters but doesn’t fall to pieces. Safety glass, like an auto windshield. Alex strikes it three more times in the same spot, breaking through the plastic coating, until she can stick her hand into the hole and unlock the door.

She steps inside, sweeping the flashlight beam across a sofa and a TV. It’s the living room. Alex locates a wall switch, flips on the lights.

In a perfect world, there would be a vacation brochure sitting on the table, or an open phone book with a hotel name circled. Alex finds neither, but isn’t discouraged. She sees a cordless phone next to the sofa and hits redial.

“Marino’s Pizza.”

Alex hesitates, thinks about ordering some food, then dismisses the idea and hangs up. A quick search of the living room provides no clues as to where he went. If he even went anywhere. Maybe Jack didn’t warn him, and he just stepped out to get a six-pack.

Alex heads into the kitchen. She begins to search for a calendar, address book, Day-Timer, anything that might list friends, family, schedule. There’s another phone, and she presses redial while rifling through a junk drawer.

“Thank you for calling the Holiday Inn. Press one for reservations.”

Alex presses one, gets the front desk.

“Can I leave a message for a guest?”

“What’s the guest’s name?”

“Alan Daniels.”

“Just a moment.”

Alex gets put on hold, music comes on. She recognizes the tune as MC Ice Koffee. What the hell is wrong with the world when someone like that is pop u lar?

“Would you like me to connect you?”

“Actually, I think I’ll just drop by. What room is he in?”

“We can’t give out that information, ma’am.”

“No problem. Can you connect me to the restaurant?”

“Just a moment.”

Alex endures more hip-hop before a woman answers.

“I believe you had a guest there to night, single man, in his forties, blond hair. His name is Alan Daniels. Can I speak to his server?”

“That’s me. I waited on him.”

“I promised to buy him dinner. Can you check to see if he put it on my room number?”

“Let me check. Here’s his ticket. He charged it to room 212.”

“Thank you.” Alex disconnects. “Thank you very much.”

CHAPTER 21

SOME URBAN LEGENDS are too good to be false. There’s the one about the crazed man, high on PCP and adrenaline, who displays superhuman strength and snaps police handcuffs in half while being arrested. And there’s the oft-repeated tale of the desperate mother who lifts up a car to save her child trapped beneath it.

So there was a precedent, however slim, that I could leap from the RV to the bus solely fueled by fear, determination, and adrenaline.

My footing was good, and I measured my steps perfectly, launching myself into the air at the very edge of the roof, my new Nikes gripping despite the drizzle, my aim true and sure.

Halfway there I knew I wasn’t going to make it, and three-quarters of the way there I knew it was going to hurt, bad.

I held my hands out in front of me, slapping palms onto the top of the bus while my ribs slammed into the side. The wind rushed out of me like I’d been, well, hit by a bus. Bright motes punctuated red and black splotches in my vision, swirling around and adding a shot of disorientation to the pain cocktail. My jaw connected with the roof, reminding me of the last time Alex hit me in the face, which then reminded me that this wasn’t Alex, it was a bus, and I was twelve feet above the unforgiving blacktop and going to break something—probably several somethings—when I fell in a second or two.

As anticipated, my palms found no purchase on the slick bus top, and my ribs contracted and expanded, giving my body a springboard push off the side, and then I was falling backward through the cool Chicago night, wondering if the twinkling skyscrapers above me were the last things I’d ever see.

I may have shrieked a little.

But, incredibly, when I hit, I didn’t hit hard, and I managed to remain lucid enough to wonder why. Rather than cold wet asphalt and hot sticky blood, I felt something semi-soft envelop me, wrapping itself around my legs and shoulders.

There was an “uumph,” which didn’t come from me, and then another small drop, and I stopped flailing long enough to see I was sitting in someone’s lap.

Phin.

No time for thanks, or apparently even a tender glance, because he roughly shoved me off and then just as roughly grabbed my armpit and yanked me to my feet.

I sort of remember running through cars, people yelling, horns blaring, and someone blasting Motorhead. When my wits partially returned Phin and I were beating feet down the sidewalk, each of my steps less wobbly than the last.

Two blocks later Phin jerked me into an alley. We pressed our backs against the wet brick of an office building, the scent of old garbage mingling with the ever-present car exhaust. I was breathing like an asthmatic on a hay ride, and Phin was bent in half, hands on his thighs, sucking just as much wind as I was.

I inventoried my aches and pains. Jaw hurt, but a quick tongue probe proved I still had all of my choppers. Ribs hurt, but nothing seemed broken. Left palm hurt, and I squinted in the darkness and saw I’d scraped it trying to keep hold of the bus’s roof.

Amazingly, I still had my purse. Even more amazingly, I wasn’t dead. I stared at Phin.

“You saved my life.”

Between breaths he said, “I knew you were going to go after me, figured you wouldn’t make it, so I ran around to play catch.”

“My hero.” I coughed. “Except that’s bullshit. You didn’t think I’d go after you. I practically shot you.”

He grinned, shrugged.

“The Feds chased me around the bus, and I just happened to be there when you fell.”

That made more sense. “Well, thanks.”

“My plea sure. Thanks for not shooting me.”

He stared at me hard again, and I didn’t mind as much this time. But when he moved in for the kiss I forced my elbow between us and gave him a less-than-delicate jab. The exhilaration of being alive was soured by the fact that I was now a federal criminal.

“They’ll question Harry, but I don’t know how long they can detain him for. He’ll deny knowing you were wanted, lawyer up, and probably be on the street again tomorrow.”

Phin gave me some space, rubbing his sternum.

“So what’s our next move?”

“We need to go through Alex’s files, see if there’s a mention of a cop named Lance in her past.”

“Your partner have the files?”

“No. They’re probably with the lead detective. Guy named Mankowski.”

I searched through my cell phone numbers, found the right one. Mankowski was a good cop—smart, honest, sort of looked like Thomas Jefferson.

“Got my files in the trunk, Lieut. Figured I’d get some reading in on the road.”

“I need to see them, Detective.”

“Might take a while. I’m in Indiana. Gary. Was following up with some of Alex’s hometown friends. Sorry I missed the funeral.”

I glossed over the sentiment.

“We can come to you, Tom.”

“Might not help. Car is in the shop. Radiator blew. If it’s locked in the garage I can’t get it until morning.”

“You up to speed?”

“Sergeant Benedict filled me in. I know we only have a few hours left. I could maybe find the mechanic, get him to let me in, but there are three boxes of files. A lot to read.”

“You go through them yet?

“Just enough to know that Alexandra Kork is a serious wack-job. But I haven’t seen the name Lance mentioned anywhere.”

I crunched the numbers. Three-hour round trip to Indiana, and several more hours to read through that stack—if Tom could even locate the mechanic. Maybe he could fax them, but there were hundreds of papers, and faxes weren’t exactly lightning quick.

“See what you can do.”

“I will, Lieut. You can also try that Crime Lab cop. He had the files checked out before me. Really into her case. I heard he was writing a book about it.”

“Which cop?”

“Weaselly little guy named Hajek. He might know who Lance is.”

Hajek had told me he read the files for research. It was for a book? Now I wondered if he’d actually been hitting on me, or simply wanting an interview.

I thanked Mankowski and hung up. I could call Hajek, even though he’d been less than receptive to my previous plea for help. News of my retreat from the Feds would be all over the airwaves by now, and once Hajek heard about it he’d never give up the information. Assuming he even had any information.

I stared at Phin, saw him looking at me with concern. I didn’t return the sentiment. I had so many conflicting feelings about Phin right now that remaining neutral was my best course of action.

I called Herb.

“Talking to me is an aiding and abetting charge.” I explained the situation.

“I’m hoping you thought all of this through, Jack. Is this guy worth it? Can you even trust him?”

I thought about having Phin in my gun sights, almost pulling the trigger, and didn’t have an answer.

“I need a cop’s address. Scott Hajek. CSU guy, lives near the Crime Lab. If I call Dispatch it’ll throw up red flags.”

“Call you back in two.”

I looked past Phin, down the alley, trying to keep my mind on Lance. Save him first. Then deal with everything else.

Herb called back in seventy seconds.

“He lives in an apartment on Halsted.” He gave me the address, then said, “Shit, Jack. Feebies calling on my other line.”

“It’s my career, my life. Not yours. Cover your ass, Herb.”

“With both hands. Don’t forget my Turduckinlux.”

Herb disconnected. I wouldn’t be calling him again, no matter how hot things got.

“Lieutenant Daniels? This is Special Agent Coursey, FBI.”

The voice came from my purse. The walkie-talkie.

“You need to come in, Lieutenant, before this escalates.”

Phin and I stared at each other. I had an irrational urge to drop my purse and run away from it. Or maybe it wasn’t so irrational.

“Lieutenant Daniels, you have to remember that you’re a professional. We understand you’ve been through a rough patch, but you’re still a police officer.”

“Let me talk to her.” Harry. “Carmalita, honey, that wasn’t Immigration. You didn’t need to run. Those ten men don’t want to take you back to El Salvador, chicita. Now you need to bring back my walkie-talkie. It has a ten-block radius, and is very expensive.”

“May I have the radio, Mr. McGlade?”

“I got two words for you, Special Agent Pinhead: Carmichael and Levine. They’re my lawyers, and they’re going to sue the bone marrow out of you. They’ll make you wish you never came aboard the Crimebago.”

“We need to move.” I switched off the radio. “Feebies have ten men. Figure two are with Harry, that’s four teams of two out there.”

Phin nodded. “Searching a ten-block radius. Harry isn’t as stupid as he seems.”

“No one is as stupid as Harry seems. Including the Feds. They’ll add more teams, widen the perimeter. How far away is your truck?”

“Maybe four blocks.”

“Could the Feebies know about it?”

Phin shrugged. “No registration. Stolen plates. But everything leaves a trail.”

“It’s still our best shot,” I decided out loud. “Let’s move.”

We moved.

CHAPTER 22

ALEX CALLS ALAN’S ROOM from the house phone in the hotel lobby. Jack’s ex-husband doesn’t pick up. She sets the receiver next to the phone without disconnecting and crosses the lobby to the stairs. Alex takes them three at a time, orients herself on the second floor, and quickly finds room 212. Placing an ear to the door, she hears the phone ringing inside.

“Mr. Daniels?” Alex makes a fist and raps hard.

No answer.

He might be a sound sleeper, assisted by pills or alcohol. But the smarter bet is he’s not in his room.

Alex adjusts her bangs, finger-combing them over the scars while considering her next move. Alan might be elsewhere in the hotel, maybe the bar or the gym. She knows his face from his Web site. Alan Daniels is a freelancer and all freelancers have homepages. But people might see her approaching him, recall the police uniform she’s wearing. Better to wait until he returns to his room.

Alex doesn’t like waiting. She likes action. Always has. She remembers being a child in Indiana, when a bully picked on Charles during the walk to school. She kicked the bully between the legs, hard as any eight-year-old ever kicked anyone. They ran away, but the bully promised he’d take care of both of them once school let out.

Alex didn’t even make it through the first hour of classes. The waiting was excruciating. So she asked for a pass to go to the toilet, snuck through the halls until she found the bully’s room, and rammed a sharpened pencil in his eye when he looked up from the math book he’d been leaning over. Well worth the expulsion.

She hurt him bad, but knew from experience that a wounded dog was more dangerous than a healthy one. So later that night, after the police released her, she and Charles rode their bikes to the hospital and used a pen knife on the bully’s other eye.

Good times.

The bully didn’t die. Not then. He grew up, coped with his loss of sight, became some sort of minister. A few years ago Alex followed him home after church, and they had a thoughtful conversation about the nature of good and evil before Alex skinned him.

Alex has lost track of the number of people she’s killed. While in Heathrow, her shrink made some half-assed attempts to get her to talk about previous murders. Alex played it coy. The truth is, she has no idea how many have died at her hands. It’s like counting the number of times you’ve had sex. Maybe you can remember the first fifty. After that, everything becomes a blur.

If there’s a secret to being a good killer, it’s not finding anything wrong with killing someone. Enjoying it can be a plus, but some people with the thirst—like Charles—enjoyed it too much and got sloppy. The best way to treat murder is with apathy. Sometimes it’s necessary, often it’s fun, but it shouldn’t be a compulsion.

Alex thinks back to the bully minister’s death. He begged, like they all do. For fun, she made him renounce the God he’d spent more than half of his life serving. But she didn’t consider her act evil, any more than a shark killing a seal is evil. Pain and death are part of life. And everyone knows it’s better to give than to receive.

Speaking of giving…

Alex looks down the hallway, at all the closed doors. Like a giant box of Valentine’s Day candy, offering the potential for limitless fun. Fun, but necessity as well. Alex can’t check into the hotel—they’ll ask for ID and credit cards, which she doesn’t have. But she needs a room in order to deal with Alan properly.

She approaches the door next to Alan’s, raps twice, turns her head so her good profile and police officer cap are viewable through the peephole.

“Who’s there?”

A child’s voice. Alex can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl.

“It’s the police. Is your mom or dad there?”

“They went to eat. I’m playing video games. I’m not supposed to open the door.”

“That’s very smart. But police officers are your friends. Push a chair to the peephole in the door and stand on it so you can see me.”

Alex takes a step back so the child can take in her full uniform.

“I see you.”

“Here’s my badge.” Alex holds it up. “When a police officer asks you to open up, you have to. It’s the law.”

“I still can’t let you in unless you know the code word.”

Half of Alex’s face twists into a smirk. She considers pushing it, maybe telling the child that his or her parents are hurt. But this seems like a well-trained kid. One cell phone call to Mom and things could get complicated. Better to find easier prey.

“I understand. I’ll come back later when your parents finish with dinner. Have a nice night.”

Alex tips her cap, then moves on to the next door. Knocks. No answer. Moves another door down.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice.

“Police. Can I ask you a few questions?”

This time the door opens. The woman is at least a de cade younger than Alex, short, a bit plump. She’s got the security latch on and is peering through the three-inch gap. Alex could break in with a single strike of hip, shoulder, or foot, but the finesse is more satisfying. She likes it when victims torment themselves with why did I let her in? thoughts.

“Have you been a guest here for long, ma’am?”

“Two days. Is everything okay?”

“There was an altercation earlier. We’re interviewing witnesses.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Actually, you were named as a participant.”

“Me? I’ve been out all day.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I just need to verify your whereabouts.”

The door closes. Alex listens to the latch being removed. The door opens again.

Alex enters the room. It’s dark, the bed unmade, the TV with the picture paused. Open suitcase in the corner, some clothing scattered on the floor. Room ser vice dishes sit on the desk, fish bones and squeezed lemons. The woman is wearing red sweatpants and a T-shirt, no makeup, no bra. Her hair has unnatural red highlights. She’s attractive, in a Gen-X kind of way.

A moment after she closes the door behind her, Alex lashes out with the knife edge of her hand, catching the woman on the bridge of her nose. The woman collapses. Alex gets on top, pressing her face into the carpeting, tearing at her cotton top for use in binding her hands. The scream is still building up in the woman’s throat when Alex muffles it with a cloth napkin. Legs are tied using some discarded panty hose, and Alex hoists the woman up to the bed.

“Don’t move, don’t make a sound, and I won’t hurt you.”

The woman freezes, stock-still, eyes wide with fear.

“Now I want to ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly. Nod your head if the room ser vice fish was good.”

There’s a slow, unsure nod.

“Are you positive? Because I saw the restaurant menu downstairs and they have a prime rib special. I like prime rib, but I’ll try the fish if you think it was worthwhile.”

Another nod, more emphatic. Alex has learned not to trust people who fear for their lives, so she picks up the phone and orders both the fish and the prime rib. Just to be safe.

“So what’s on?” Alex asks. She flops onto the bed next to the woman, gently strokes her hair, and hits the pause button on the remote.

CHAPTER 23

SCOTT HAJEK’S EYES bugged out when he saw me, and they practically escaped his skull when he noticed Phin. He tried to slam his apartment door, but my new Nikes were faster and I blocked the attempt.

“You can’t be here.” Hajek’s face pinched. “The Feds are after you both.”

“You found that out pretty fast.” I pushed my way in. “Do you listen to your police scanner on your nights off?”

Hajek folded his arms. “Yes. I do.”

The apartment was furnished in 1980s male fanboy, science fiction posters and paraphernalia of the Star Wars and Battlestar Galactica variety everywhere I looked. Phin followed me in and closed the door. I briefly wondered what his apartment looked like, and would have bet some serious money he didn’t own a single collectible figurine.

Hajek reached for a Buffy the Vampire Slayer phone, and Phin stepped in front of him, fists raised.

“You’re a fugitive. I’m calling the police.”

“You are the police,” Phin said. “You want to read me my rights?”

Hajek persisted in his quest for the phone. “I’m calling for backup.”

Phin caught his wrist. “No, you’re not.”

“Or else, what? You’ll beat me up?”

“That sounds about right.”

Hajek thrust his lower jaw at Phin.

“You’re not going to lay a finger on me with the lieutenant watching.”

“Jack,” Phin said. “Close your eyes for a second.”

I turned away, heard the fist connect with Hajek’s face. Not the way I wanted to play it, but I didn’t want Scott to get into trouble for helping us. If he had a black eye, that was proof we’d forced him. Not a shining moment in my career, but we only had a little less than six hours to find and save Lance.

“Want me to turn away again?” I asked.

Hajek had his palm pressed to his right eye. The defiance had drained out of him.

“What is it you two want?”

I walked over. “You’re writing a book about Alexandra Kork.”

“I’m compiling notes, mostly. Haven’t written much yet. Did he have to hit me?”

Phin picked up a replica Death Star bookend and whacked Hajek across the knuckles.

“Jesus! What the hell is wrong with you!” Hajek took the hand away from his eye to cradle the new injury.

“We made you give us information,” Phin said, “but you fought back like a tiger.”

Hajek looked at the blood on his fingers and grinned.

“Yeah, I did. Could you smack my other hand too? Make it look like I went all Charles Bronson on you?”

“Maybe later,” Phin said.

“We should get some of your blood on my carpet. Maybe on my shirt too. For the DNA match. It will look like I really kicked your ass before you subdued me. I think I’ve got a syringe someplace.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Okay. Can you spit on me, maybe? We can get DNA from that. Or when you’re working me over, I can spit on you. Get in your face and be all You can’t make me talk.”

“No one is spitting on anyone,” I said. “We need your help, Scott.”

Scott held out his hand. “I should put some Neosporin on this.” He eyed Phin. “You think Bronson used Neosporin?”

“Sure,” Phin said. “Those punks he beat up were probably lousy with germs.”

“Do you have germs? I mean, I don’t want to imply that you’re germy or anything. You’re not germy, are you?”

I tapped his shoulder. “Scott, focus for a minute. I know more about Kork than anyone else. I could tell you things not in any files or newspaper stories. That’s why you wanted to have dinner with me, right?”

He squinted at me with his good eye. “Partly. I also used to find you attractive, until you started bullying me around.”

I took out the cell phone, showed him the picture of Lance on the bed, along with the text message.

“Ever see this guy in any of your research?”

“No.” He rubbed his chin. “But that’s a pigstick. They use them on bomb squads.”

“We think he’s an EOD cop. He’s only got a few hours left to live. We need to save him.”

I reached out, touched Hajek on the shoulder. He flinched a little.

“He might be from Alex’s past, Scott. You’ve read the files. Did she know anyone named Lance?”

“I dunno. I can’t remember.”

“Can we see your notes?” Phin asked.

“Sure. They’re in the study. I should get my Neosporin first.”

“Notes first.”

“That works too.”

We filed into the study. Scott rubbed his knuckles on his computer screen, and across the top of his keyboard, but the bleeding had already stopped so I doubted the CSU would pick up anything.

“Can I have a few hairs at least?” he asked Phin.

Phin sighed, then bent down, allowing Hajek to pluck out a few blond strands and sprinkle them across the desk.

“Scott? The clock is ticking. We need those notes.”

“Okay. I’ve scanned in a lot of Alex’s files and used an OCR to turn the text into a Word document.”

His screen saver, predictably, was Xena, but his computer desktop background surprised me.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Didn’t mean for you to see that.”

Phin gave me a small nudge. “That’s a good picture of you.”

It was candid shot, at a crime scene. A close-up of my face. I was talking to someone out of frame. The detail was very good, and I looked closer and saw he’d used some computer program to airbrush out my crow’s-feet.

“I took it a while ago,” Scott said. “I think it captures the lieutenant’s professionalism while also showing a softer side. She was breaking the news to the victim’s mother here. If you look closely, at her left eye, you can see the underlying sadness, even though the face is all business.”

Phin leaned in closer.

“Yeah. I see it. You see the sadness there, Jack?”

“The notes,” I repeated.

Hajek pressed some keys, opened a word processing program. I wondered how many other candid shots of me were on the computer, and whether I should be flattered or paranoid.

“I’m searching for Lance. And here we are.”

We all read the sentence. In some notes taken by Alex’s court-appointed psychiatrist, she’d mentioned a relationship with a man while still in the marines and stationed at Ft. Geiger. But Lance wasn’t his name. His name was David Strang, and he was a lance corporal.

“Can you find out anything about him?” I asked.

“I’m crawling the search engines now. Okay, here’s a newspaper article. He’s a cop in Milwaukee. Bomb Squad. No picture, but let me look for images.”

Hajek found Strang’s police ID photo. He was late thirties, mustached. I held up the picture on the cell phone and we compared the two.

“Same ears,” Hajek said. “It’s him.”

We could be in Milwaukee in about ninety minutes. That left about four hours to find Detective David Lance Strang before the shotgun shell in the pigstick blew his head off.

“Thanks, Scott.” I tugged Phin’s arm. “We have to go.”

“Wait!” Scott said, so loud I stopped in my tracks. “I, uh, maybe I should have a few strands of your hair too, Lieutenant. So they believe the story.”

“You’re not touching my hair, Officer Hajek.”

Phin nudged me again. “Other ways to leave some DNA evidence, Jack. Give the little guy a break.” He puckered his lips and made a kissing sound.

I sighed, then plucked out a few strands of my hair, offering them to Hajek. His eyes lit up like he’d just been handed the Holy Grail.

Phin led us out of the apartment. I could have told Hajek to contact the Milwaukee PD, but I knew he was on the phone before the door even closed.

“I think he likes you, Jack.”

I followed Phin into the stairwell. “Do you know the quickest route to Milwaukee?”

“Did you know he was pining for you like that?”

“He’s not pining.”

“He looks at you every time he turns his computer on. That’s either pining or stalking.”

“He admires the job I do.”

“He admires more than that. I think you came close to giving him a heart attack when you gave him some of your hair. I bet he’s building a shrine to it right now.”

We exited at the lobby, and I nodded at the doorman who’d let us in.

“So far, Alex isn’t lying to us. She was telling the truth about being in Milwaukee, and the cop’s name isn’t Lance, but I bet the nickname has stuck with him.”

We hit the sidewalk. The rain had started up again, even colder than before.

“You’re shivering. Anything I can do to warm you up?”

I frowned at him.

“Phin, you and me, it’s not going to happen. I almost shot you on the bus.”

“But you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. There are some trust issues here. I’m flattered you’re interested, but I’m a mess right now. Christ, I just buried my fiancé. My career is probably over. And we’re chasing a psychopath who is sending me pictures of people she’s going to kill. This isn’t a good time to start a relationship.”

My opinion apparently didn’t matter much to Phin, because he tugged me close, his arms snaking around my waist and holding me so tight I could feel his heartbeat, and kissed me. For a few seconds everything wrong with the world vanished, and we existed only to feed our senses. The cold rain on my cheeks, Phin’s warm tongue on my lips, his strong hands pressing into the small of my back, the sounds of our breathing lost in a thunderclap overhead, the taste of the cinnamon gum he’d been chewing, the ache in my jaw from when I hit the bus and a much different kind of ache building up between my legs.

“We’ll take I-94,” he said, breaking the kiss.

I was a little weak in the knees, and a little out of breath, and I hated him for that but didn’t trust myself to say so. Like everything else that happened that day I’d have to file it away and figure it out later, when I had time.

I followed Phin to his Ford Bronco, climbed into the passenger seat, and didn’t look at him until we reached the expressway.

CHAPTER 24

“GOOD CALL ON THE FISH, CYNTHIA. The prime rib was too well done for my taste. Sure you don’t want any?”

Cynthia shakes her head, the napkin flapping in her mouth like a flag.

According to her driver’s license, her full name is Cynthia Paulino, and she lives in Illinois. After the movie—a cute romantic comedy with Matthew McConaughey—Alex searched the room while asking Cynthia questions about her life. She didn’t remove the gag, so the questions were all yes or no. But Alex was still able to determine that Cynthia was single, had a boyfriend who didn’t want to commit, worked for a company that sold polymers—which are plastics—and was in town to run a trade show booth. The booth gig was boring, and resulted in very few sales, but Cyn liked it because it got her out of the office and the company picked up expenses.

Alex shared as well, talking about what she had done to Lance, what her big plan was, and how she might be obsessing a tad about Jack Daniels.

“She killed the man I loved, I killed the man she loved, so we should be even. But I still can’t stop thinking about her, Cyn. Maybe part of the problem is that I like her. I mean, her sense of morality is really, really infantile. But she’s a good dresser, good with a gun, good with her fists. Kind of like an older sister. You know, before she figured out I was a serial killer, we got along pretty good. Do you have any enemies, Cyn?”

Cyn nods.

“Someone at work?”

Another nod.

“If you want to talk about it, I’ll take your gag out. But a warning first: If you start begging for your life, or try to scream for help, I’ll cut you from your crotch to your breastbone. Got it?”

Cyn bobs her head up and down, then spits out the napkin.

“Can I have some water?” she asks, voice horse.

“No. I like your voice that way. Kind of sexy. Now tell me about this enemy.”

“Her…her name is Gina. Works in Accounting. Has been a real bitch ever since I started there.”

Alex flips onto her stomach, gathering a pillow under her to keep her head propped up.

“What did she do to you?”

“Little things at first. Like asking me really rudely if this is my natural hair color. I mean, of course it isn’t. But she waits until there are people around to try to get a laugh.”

Alex nods. “I hate her already. What else?”

Cyn’s lower lip quivers, but she manages to work through it. “Every time I do one of these trade shows, she acts like a Nazi with the expense account. I mean, if I skip lunch and get a bigger dinner to compensate, she won’t allow it.”

“I bet she’s tough with booze too.”

“No liquor at all, even if I’m taking customers out. They want me to get sales, but they don’t want me to buy a round of beers first? That’s stupid.”

Alex agrees. “Bitch. What else?”

“I can’t be sure, but I think she started a rumor…a rumor…”

Alex reaches out, wipes a tear off Cyn’s face. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. Everywhere I go, people talk about me in whispers. Right in front of me, like I’m blind and deaf as well as scarred. Words can hurt, Cyn. Sometimes they can hurt worse than anything.”

“Please…oh God…please…I don’t want to die…”

Alex frowns, only half of her face responding to the command her brain sends to her mouth.

“Cynthia, we’re having a nice conversation here. Don’t ruin it.”

“Gina…G-Gina doesn’t matter. None of it matters. Nothing matters. It’s all…all bullshit. I still want to get married, have kids. I don’t wanna—”

Alex sighs, stuffs the napkin back into Cynthia’s mouth. She wonders if Jack’s ex-husband is in his room yet, and uses the phone to try him. It rings and rings. Earlier, Alex had called from the lobby phone and let it ring, so she should have gotten a busy signal. Does that mean Alan is in his room and answered the phone earlier? Or that someone in the lobby found a phone off the hook and hung up?

After five more rings, Alex hangs up. She yawns, exhaustion washing over her. A few hours of sleep would be a smart idea. Especially since she wants to tune in and watch Lance during his last moments, which will happen in less than five hours.

Alex looks at Cynthia.

“I’m bushed. How about you, Cyn? Must have been a long day for you. Want to get some shut-eye?”

Cyn looks uncertain, but she nods.

“You should probably go to the bathroom first. If I untie your legs will you walk to the bathroom without giving me trouble?”

A nod. Alex uses the steak knife to cut the nylons binding Cyn’s legs. Cynthia stumbles when she tries to stand, but Alex catches her under the arm and helps her keep her footing.

Cyn looks at the toilet, then looks at Alex. Alex laughs.

“No, I don’t want to watch, Cyn. I’m not a pervert. Let me help you with your pants.”

Alex reaches down and shoves Cyn backward, into the shower. Less mess there.

With her hands tied Cyn lands hard on her butt. As she starts to scream Alex forces the steak knife between her ribs, the blade twitching in her grip as Cyn’s heart tries to keep beating.

Alex checks her uniform, happy that she managed to keep it blood-free. As Cyn dies, feebly trying to remove the knife—impossible because suction is keeping it in—Alex drops her pants and urinates in the toilet.

“Now who’s the pervert?” she says, closing the shower curtain to block Cynthia’s staring. Then she wanders back to bed, undresses, orders a wake-up call for five a.m., and sends Jack the latest picture of Lance, along with another text message. She falls asleep to a pay-per-view slasher movie, amused because the writer got the violence all wrong.

CHAPTER 25

THE PHONE WOKE ME UP. In the darkness of the Bronco’s front seat, I fumbled around for my purse and located it by my feet. On the third ring I fished it out and flipped the top open, hearing several beeps.

Alex. Sending me another picture. Phin glanced over at me while I accessed it.

Lance appeared even worse than before, his face contorted with pain and blurred by motion. The lighting was a little better this time, the burn marks on his chest darker and more pronounced. I held it up for Phin, who divided his attention between the photo and the road.

“Are those letters?”

“Where?”

“His wounds,” Phin said. “Connect the dots.”

I traced my fingernail over the burns, and the letters seemed to pop out at me.

There was also a text message.

FOUR HOURS LEFT.

“What the hell is Zd?” I asked.

“One of the elements? Zirconium?”

“That’s Zr.”

“Maybe an abbreviation. Or initials.”

I closed my eyes, tried to think. Zd meant absolutely nothing to me. Maybe something in connection with Lance? Bomb squads? Some kind of explosives or equipment? Or something to do with Milwaukee?

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Just across the Wisconsin border. Got about forty minutes left.”

I wanted to call Herb, but I promised myself I wouldn’t bother him again. Harry was probably still occupied with the Feds. Hajek was almost certainly occupied with the authorities as well, and I had no delusions that a few strands of hair turned him from adversary into ally. That left Detective Tom Mankowski, still in Indiana. I fished out my personal cell and found his number.

“Lieutenant? I haven’t been able to get in my car yet. Did you talk to Hajek?”

“Yeah. Cop’s name is David Strang, out of Milwaukee. Look, Tom, things have gotten complicated, and I’m persona non grata with both the CPD and the Feds. Alex just sent me another picture. It’s Lance again, but this time the burns on his chest look like letters. Capital Z, small d. Mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. You sure it’s a Z and not the number 2?”

“Could be a 2. Does 2d mean anything to you?”

“Two-dimensional, obviously, but I don’t see how that’s a clue. Alex did this as some kind of hint, right?”

“Probably.”

“I read her shrink report. She has a genius IQ.”

I sighed. Why did all the serial killers I chased have to be brilliant criminal masterminds? Where were all the psychos with average intelligence?

“I’m forwarding the photo and a text message to you. Pass it along. If the Milwaukee PD finds Lance, let us know. We’re going to keep searching until we hear news.”

Hopefully the news would be “he’s safe” instead of “he’s dead.”

“Happy hunting, Lieut.”

Mankowski hung up. I spent a few minutes fiddling with the cell phone, sending him the info.

“We’re also low on gas.”

I nodded, my mind attacking the Zd problem. What the hell was Alex trying to tell me? Zee dee. Two dee. Zee dee. Two dee…

“Wasn’t she one of the girls on The Facts of Life?” Phin said. “Tootie?”

“Did I say that out loud?”

“Six or ten times.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I’m pretty sure Alex isn’t pointing us to an old sitcom.”

“Apartment number?”

“Two dee. That works.”

“Something to do with the Marines? Squad 2d?”

“I’m drawing blanks.”

Alex’s phone rang. I steeled myself, answered.

“What do you want, Alex?”

“Not Alex. It’s Harry. I called on that phone because they’re tracing and tracking your other one. Stay off of it.”

Stupid. Now they knew Mankowski was helping me. How was I supposed to catch Alex when I was making rookie mistakes?

“Aren’t you in federal custody, McGlade?”

“Hell, no. I cut a deal.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of deal?”

“Jesus, Jack. Don’t be so paranoid. I’m not going to betray my own flesh and blood.”

“It’s Phin?” I asked. “I thought you two were friends.”

“It’s not like he’s an innocent bystander, Jackie. He robbed a bank. You do the crime, you do the time. Point is, now I’ve got some breathing room, and I’ve been looking at that photo of Lance.”

“His name is David Strang.” I gave Harry the blow-by-blow.

“Good. Send me the new pic and text. And don’t bother with residential. He’s in a hotel or motel, maybe a bed and breakfast.”

“How do you know?”

“In the upper right-hand corner of the picture, on the nightstand, under the pigstick. Looks like the edge a red piece of paper. I enhanced the detail.”

“What is it?”

“It’s when I use a computer program to tighten the pixel pattern by adjusting contrast and color.”

He did that on purpose. I kept my voice even.

“What did the enhancement show you, McGlade?”

“It’s part of a Do Not Disturb sign. So she’s holding him in a room somewhere.”

“How many hotels in Milwaukee?”

“Lemme check.” I heard fingers on a keyboard. “According to the Yellow Pages, only about six hundred. But that might include some overlaps.”

“Search for Zd and 2d.”

“Searching. A million hits on Zd. Wine. Digital cameras. Nothing pops out. For 2d, got two hundred million hits. Looks like a lot of computer tech stuff. Lemme try to cross-ref with Lance’s name, motels, Milwaukee, and so on. Maybe a combination of terms will give us something. I’ll call you back.”

Harry hung up. My stomach rumbled, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten anything. That made me remember the steaks I owed Herb. While waiting for Harry I put in a call to 1-800-MEATS4U and their twenty-four-hour customer ser vice representative suggested the Meat Lover’s Package, which included assorted steaks, burgers, chicken filets, and a Turduckinlux. I opted for the BBQ flavor over the savory garlic and rosemary.

Phin pulled into an oasis, up to the station. He parked, switched off the truck, and unbuckled his belt. But rather than get out and pump gas he sat there, staring straight ahead, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

“Harry going to turn me in?”

I nodded. “I’m surprised. I thought you guys had that macho code of honor thing. Death before betrayal and all that.”

“McGlade doesn’t owe me anything.”

“So you would betray him too?”

“If I had to.”

“Would you betray me?”

Phin stared at me, his blue eyes hard.

“No.”

Which made me feel even worse about almost shooting him. He opened his mouth to say something more, probably to explain himself, and I didn’t want to hear it so I put my finger over his lips to silence him. His mouth parted slightly, my fingertip brushing against the top of his teeth, and I pulled away and got out of the car before I gave in to all the dirty things I was thinking.

“Fill it up, I’ll pay inside.”

I walked into the mini-mart, and was assaulted by the cloying smell of hot dogs cooked way too long. It made my stomach rumble again. I’m proud to say that I’d never indulged in gas station cuisine, but I was almost hungry enough to start.

First things first, though. There was something weighing on my mind more than food. Something that had been troubling me for hours.

I wandered the short aisles, found the one with birth control. The store had the average assortment of jellies, foams, and condoms. I found what I needed and took it to the counter, breaking down and also getting a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa. I grabbed a twelve-pack of bottled water, a box of granola bars, and a handful of beef jerky as well.

“This and what ever is on pump five,” I told the attendant. He was young, scruffy, wearing a greasy baseball cap with an unnaturally curved rim that he must have spent some serious time shaping. He smirked at me when he saw my purchases, and then looked out the window at Phin and smirked again. I had an urge to slap him.

“Might want to check the expiration date,” he said. “Those things expire.”

He wasn’t referring to the chips. And embarrassing as it was, he had a point. I turned over the package, found the date on the side panel. Still good for another six months.

Phin was still pumping, so I asked Smirking Boy where the bathroom was, and took the box with me.

As expected, the bathroom looked like a swamp creature blew up in there while engaging in every possible bodily function. I triple-plied the toilet paper on the seat, dropped my sweatpants, and sat down, staring at the three letters on the box.

EPT.

Latham and I practiced safe sex. I was in my late forties, but still a fertile Myrtle, and we weren’t sure having a kid in college while we zeroed in on seventy was the way we wanted to spend our golden years.

But condoms were only 98 percent effective, and by my math, that meant condom use resulted in pregnancy one out of fifty times.

Latham and I had sex more than fifty times.

Still, it was virtually impossible. There hadn’t been any breaks. Hadn’t been any oops. My late period was the result of stress, not pregnancy.

It had to be.

I put a hand to my belly, overwhelmed by feelings. Fear, anxiety, depression, anger, worry, and something else. Something I wasn’t expecting.

Hope.

Jesus, part of me was hoping I was pregnant.

I read the box.

Opened the package.

Peed on the stick.

Waited.

Waited.

Waited.

Looked.

Read the box again.

Cried. Cried so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.

I must have been in there too long, because someone began to knock on the bathroom door.

“I’ll be right out,” I said, but through the sobs it sounded more like “Abeeiooud.”

“Jack?”

Phin.

I unrolled some toilet paper, swabbed my face.

“Jack? You okay?”

I wrapped the pregnancy test in paper, held it over the toilet, and stopped. I realized I didn’t want to throw it away. Instead I stuffed it into my purse.

“Jack? I’m coming in.”

“I’m fine,” I said, more in control now. “I’ll be right out.”

I washed my hands, avoided looking in the mirror because it wouldn’t have improved my mood, and unlocked the door to Phin standing there, all sympathetic and concerned.

This annoyed me. I wondered if the real reason he’d never betray me was because I had two X chromosomes, and the little woman needed to be protected by the big strong man, which was BS because I’ve beaten up bigger guys than him.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, pushing past him.

I threw some money at Smirking Boy, who hadn’t bothered bagging anything. I tucked beef jerky into my pockets, and shoved the granola bars under my armpit.

Phin grabbed the water.

“I got it,” I told him.

He spread out his hands and backed up. As he should have. I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone. I was perfectly capable of carry ing a few lousy items. I crammed the bag of chips under my other arm, grabbed the salsa in one hand, the water in the other, and gave Phin a look that said he better not try to hold open the goddamn door for me. He didn’t, giving me a wide berth, and I shuffled past and bumped the door with my hip, and the salsa slipped and broke on the floor like a gunshot, splattering red.

Phin didn’t say anything. Neither did Smirking Boy. I continued out the door, piled everything onto the hood of the Bronco, and began stuffing it into the backseat. Then I sat down and waited for Phin.

He climbed into the driver’s seat without comment and we got back on the expressway, and I tried to focus on the case instead of my personal life.

Big Z, small d. Big Z, small d. What the hell did that mean? Why did Alex burn that into David Strang’s chest?

No ideas came. And the harder I tried to think, the more my mind kept drifting back to the pregnancy test in my purse, which I clutched in both hands like a life preserver on a sinking ship.

CHAPTER 26

ALEX DREAMS.

She’s ten years old, in a cornfield in Indiana, in the center of a wide circle that she made with Charles. They stomped down all of the dry stalks around them and are sitting Indian style, face-to-face, knees touching. The corn is taller than they are, so no one can see them from the road or from the farm house. This is their private spot. Their special spot. No one can hurt them here. Not bullies. Not Father. Not anyone.

A wind blows through the corn, making a rustling sound. All around them, the corn ripples like a golden sea. Alex smells fresh earth and clean air. The sun is shining, bright overhead, and she turns up to feel it on her face.

But she doesn’t feel it. All she feels is cold.

She looks at Charles, wondering if he’s cold too. His eyes are closed.

“I love you,” she says.

He doesn’t answer. She reaches up, touches him. It’s like touching ice.

He’s dead. Charles is dead.

Then his jaw falls open.

“You’re ugly, Alex,” Charles says. “Scarred and ugly.”

It’s isn’t his voice. It’s Jack’s.

Charles becomes Jack, his features cracking and twisting, and then she’s standing over Alex with angry black eyes, pointing down at her like a vengeful god.

Alex reaches up, feels her own face, feels the scars.

And she’s afraid.

The pleasant field smell sours, becoming the acrid odor of sweat and fear. The gentle breeze goes rotten. The sun shines black.

Alex runs. Into the corn.

The corn grabs at her, tries to stop her. But Alex has a knife, and she cuts and slashes, and the corn cries out and bleeds, bright red arterial jets that sting like acid. Stalks morph into severed arms and legs, and Alex climbs up the bodies of the slaughtered, climbs up an ever-growing pile of people she has killed.

At the top of the mound is a face. Her face. Unscarred. It beckons her on.

Behind her, Jack grows to monstrous proportions, reaching out an enormous hand to pluck Alex away from her goal. Alex dodges, stabs at Jack’s huge thumb, then launches herself upward, hands outstretched and yearning.

Alex’s face is atop a pedestal, and she snatches it up and presses the perfect mask of flesh against her scars. It glows warm, then burning hot, shooting out rays that blind the Jack creature and cause her to tumble down the mountain.

And Alex smiles. Not a half smile. A full smile, all the muscles working, lips doing what they are supposed to, wide and bright and beautiful.

Then Alex begins to grow. Bigger than Jack. Bigger and stronger and almighty. She crushes the squealing lieutenant underfoot, her rib cage cracking like a bird’s nest.

For miles around Alex, the corn trembles and begs for mercy.

Alex’s blade stretches and curves, becoming a scythe.

As the world screams, Alex reaps.

CHAPTER 27

“I GOT NOTHING, SIS.”

I rubbed my eyes, which felt like I had sand under the lids. We were parked in an all-night diner lot, which was half-full even at five in the morning. I’d gone in earlier, not to eat but to borrow a phone book. Now I wished I’d eaten. The salsa-less tortilla chips and five sticks of jerky hadn’t done much to satisfy my hunger.

“Try searching for motel plus Zd plus Wisconsin,” I told Harry.

“I tried that. I’ve tried every possible Boolean search combination, and I don’t even know what Boolean means. Plus I’m exhausted. The only thing keeping me awake is this case of SuperMax Energy Drink I got at the discount store. What the hell is taurine anyway?”

“We’re all tired, McGlade. Try pinching yourself.”

“Does that work?”

“No. But it will amuse me.”

“Funny, Jackie. We’ve got half an hour left. Maybe the Milwaukee PD has found him already.”

“Milwaukee cops find him?” I asked Phin.

Phin shook his head. Naturally, Phin owned a police scanner. He was using an earpiece to listen in so the radio chatter didn’t interfere with my phone call. I was using Alex’s cell, because it was pretty much trace-proof. No doubt the Feebies were tracking my personal cell.

I yawned. “Did you try another search engine?”

“I’m using an aggregator that searches all the top search engines, including foreign ones. I’ve found some pretty horrible things, Jackie. Do you know what a brass clown is?”

“No. And have no desire to find out.”

“It’s this sex thing. But it isn’t really sexual, unless you’re some sort of sicko nutjob. You take a cup. Guess what you do with the cup?”

“I don’t want to know what you do with the cup, and if you try to tell me I’ll hang up on you.”

“I wish I could do a system restore on my brain and go back to a time before I saw it. There are certain foods I can no longer eat.”

For the fiftieth time I fought the temptation to drive to the nearest motel and start randomly searching rooms. With several hundred hotels within ten square miles, the odds weren’t with us. Much better to stay centrally located and be ready to move when we got some information.

The problem was, we had no information. And I held out little hope that Alex would call back with a last-minute hint. The next time she called, it would be to send pictures of David Strang with his head blown off.

“Think Alex fucked him?” Harry asked.

“Not sure if it matters, McGlade.”

“Maybe it does. What if there was some sixty-nine action going on?”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“A lot. If she was on top, she could have written the letters upside-down.”

I accessed the picture on the cell phone, then rotated it one hundred and eighty degrees.

How about that?

“I bow to your deviant mind, Harry. Try all the searches again using PZ.”

“Way ahead of you, Jackie. Got twenty-seven million hits. Some scientist named PZ. A punjabi site. An ID3 tag editor.”

“What’s that?”

“It helps you catalog your music collection if you appropriate MP3 files on the Internet.”

“Appropriate? You mean stealing.”

“File sharing isn’t stealing. If I stole your bike, you lost property. That’s theft. But if I copied your bike, you still have the bike.”

“Then I’ve lost my right to sell the bike. How can I sell the bike if everyone is copying it?”

I bet myself twenty bucks McGlade was rolling his eyes.

“What if I already have the music on vinyl? Can’t I download an MP3 of a song I already own?”

“Downloading music for free is illegal, Harry.”

“No it isn’t. Ask Phin.”

“I’m not asking Phin.”

“Ask Phin what?” Phin asked.

I sighed. “This really isn’t something we need to discuss right now. Or ever.”

I hit the button for speaker phone anyway and repeated Harry’s question.

“It’s illegal,” Phin said. “You’re taking money away from the artist. That’s what intellectual property laws are for.”

“So downloading an out-of-print album is bad, but it’s okay to rob a bank?”

“That’s illegal too,” Phin said.

“We need to stick to finding Lance,” I said.

“Phin, you ever see that brass clown video?”

“Yeah. It was horrible.”

“Lance,” I said, holding up the picture. “He’s going to die soon. Remember him?”

“Remember that cup scene?” Harry said.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t eat corn anymore because of that.”

“I had to give up Greek food for a while.”

“Why Greek? Oh…oh yeah. You know, the last Greek I ate was a sorority girl.”

I was going to tell them, more forcibly this time, to stay on task, but the word Greek stuck in my head and bounced around like a pinball. I looked at the PZ again.

“Harry, do a search for Greek alphabet.”

“She was a physical therapy major, Phin. Had an incredibly strong grip. I used to fake injuries.”

“Harry! The search!”

“Okay! Sure! Greek alphabet! Done! You happy?”

“What do P and Z stand for?”

“P is rho. Z is zeta. Rho zeta?”

“Row zayta. Row zeta. Rosetta?”

I flipped the Yellow Pages open to Motels and searched the Rs. No Rosetta Motel, or anything even close.

Harry chuckled softly. “Damn, Alex is smart.”

“You got something?”

“I did a search for Rosetta plus Milwaukee plus lodging. First hit is for the Rosetta Stone—that old rock with all the languages on it. But farther down the page is the Old Stone Inn. If PZ is Greek for Rosetta, the Rosetta Stone was certainly an old stone. And the Old Stone Inn is near the Milwaukee airport.”

I checked my watch. Lance had less than fifteen minutes to live. The clues fit, but that might have been because we were tired and hopeless and wanted them to fit.

“Where’s the address?” I asked Harry.

“It’s on Whitnall.”

Phin started the truck. “Ten minutes, if we push it.”

I didn’t see we had any choice.

“Push it,” I told him.

We peeled out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER 28

ALEX WAKES to the ringing of the hotel phone and the homey smell of copper pennies. She gives the receiver a quick up and down, stretches, and pads over to the bathroom. Apparently Cyn had more life left in her than Alex thought, because she managed to pull herself out of the bathtub to curl up and die under the sink. There’s a good amount of blood browning on the floor, and Alex watches where she steps—it’s not wise leaving bloody footprints up and down the hotel hallway.

After using the facilities, Alex puts on a pair of fresh pan ties from Cyn’s suitcase, and also liberates some sweatpants and a Hootie and the Blowfish tee. Cyn’s shoes are too small, and the cop’s black leather shoes look stupid with sweats, so Alex heads out the door in only socks.

Sunrise is still over an hour away, and outside it’s cool and crisp with a wind that threatens winter. Alex digs her laptop out of the Hyundai and takes it back to the lobby, where complimentary continental breakfast is being served. Even this early there are three people milling about, reading papers, drinking coffee, pouring milk into bowls of cereal. Alex keeps her head down, bangs covering her face, and snatches a bagel and a small container of cream cheese without being acknowledged.

Back in the room she sets up at the desk and accesses the hotel’s WiFi, charging it to Cyn’s account. Then she activates the cell phone program and enlarges the window to the size of the laptop screen, which shows a live view of Lance at the Old Stone Inn.

Poor Lance is sleeping. He’s made quite a mess of the bed—even in the close-up Alex can see the mattress is off-kilter and the sheets under him have twisted around. She zooms the camera out, and sees the duct tape is still holding him tight, but it has bunched up on itself so it looks like gnarled gray rope. The secret to binding someone with tape is to make it as tight as possible; it stretches, and sweat and blood work against the adhesive. Lance has more than a little blood around his wrists. He fought hard. Alex feels strangely proud of him.

She zooms out farther, and sees that the rest of Lance hasn’t held up so well.

“Ouch.”

The rubber band has transformed Lance’s once proud manhood into something resembling a rotten banana, all brown and droopy. If Jack arrives in time, it’s unlikely that part of him can be saved.

Alex smiles with half of her face, using her finger to apply cream cheese to half the bagel, imagining macho Lance living out the rest of his days as a chaste monk in some Tibetan monastery. Certainly his wife wouldn’t keep him around. Infidelity can be forgiven. Having no dick would put an unrealistic strain on even the healthiest of marriages.

She zooms in, getting a close-up of the Greek letters burned into Lance’s chest, and uses her screen capture to save a JPG. Then she checks the time. Twenty minutes after five. Lance has thirteen minutes to live.

Alex transfers the picture to her cell, then sends it to Jack Daniels. At this late stage in the game, it’s unlikely Jack knows where Lance is. But there’s one clue left to give, and Alex wants to make sure Jack has every possible opportunity to figure it out and save him, so she feels even worse when she fails. Alex texts:

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN.

Simple. Clever. Elegant. After entering the message she tucks her legs under her in the desk chair, licks cream cheese off her fingers, and waits for the big bang.

CHAPTER 29

“HOW’S OUR TIME?” Phin asked.

I checked my watch. The pigstick was set to go off at 5:33 a.m. It was 5:24.

“Not good. How close are we?”

“I’m not sure. A few miles.”

My eyes locked on the speedometer. We were already doing sixty mph in a thirty mph zone, and I stopped counting all the red lights we’d blown through.

“Go faster.”

Phin nodded. The veins on the backs of his hands bulged out from holding the wheel so hard, and I noticed my legs were braced and my fingers had death grips on the armrests. As if that would help if we crashed.

The cell phone rang, and I pried off a hand long enough to answer it. Another picture of Lance, apparently asleep. The burns on his chest had scabbed over, becoming almost black. A message accompanied the photo.

“Got another text. Stairway to heaven.” I wrinkled my nose. “What does that mean?”

“That Lance is about to die.”

The truck crept closer to seventy, which seemed a lot faster on the narrow street we were on. Each pothole we hit felt like a thunderclap.

“No…I mean—yes—that’s part of it. But I think it’s a clue. She’s telling us something about his location.”

“What does Led Zeppelin have to do with rho and zeta?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. An earlier call to the Old Stone Inn hadn’t given us much to work with. The front desk had confirmed the motel was full, all twenty-six rooms occupied. This was one of those single-floor, park next to your room motels. I asked about a woman with scars checking in, or anything out of the ordinary, but English wasn’t the clerk’s first language, or at least he pretended it wasn’t, and I couldn’t get anything out of him.

I had also dialed 911, explaining the situation and telling them a kidnapping and murder of one of their own was being committed there. I was sure they’d send a car, but had no idea of their response time or their procedure. Even if they got there before us, it’s unlikely they’d get any more help from the clerk than I did. And no cop I ever met would kick in twenty-six doors without a warrant. Exigent circumstances and probable cause were weighty terms, but not as weighty as lawsuit and disciplinary action.

“What were the band members’ names?” I asked Phin.

He took a corner so fast the tires cried out. “Robert Plant…John Paul Jones…Jimmy Page…”

“Which one died?”

“The drummer. John Bonham. Died in his sleep. Choked on vomit.”

My heart rate jumped up even higher. “Did he die in a motel room?”

“Page’s house. Drank too much.”

Phin tapped the brakes and just missed clipping a Volvo, who laid on the horn to show his disapproval. I tried to swallow, but had no spit left.

“How about something in the lyrics?” I forced myself to focus, not the easiest thing to do when I predicted a car accident in the immediate future. “Any mention of rooms or motels?”

“It’s about a woman who thinks she can get what ever she wants.”

Phin swerved and climbed the curb, causing my body to rise up against the seat belt. I readied myself for the passenger-side air bag, but it didn’t deploy.

“We’re on the sidewalk.” I tried to sound calm, but my voice came out squeaky.

“Motel,” Phin said, eyes glancing right. I followed his gaze, saw the large Old Stone Inn sign a block ahead. A light illuminated its $49.95 a Night rates, but the i in Night was missing.

We came upon the parking lot fast—too fast—and Phin hit the brakes and still slammed into the rear of a parked SUV. Still no airbag. I wondered if the truck even had them.

I checked my watch. Five thirty.

The motel was laid out in an L shape, ground-level rooms stretching off in two perpendicular directions. Thirteen on each arm. With three minutes left, not enough time to check them all.

Phin and I ran for the lobby, at the center of the L. There was a Milwaukee police cruiser parked in front, and through the window I saw two uniforms talking to the desk clerk, who was shrugging and shaking his head.

“Four!” Phin yelled at me.

I looked at him, wondering if he had a golf club.

“‘Stairway to Heaven’ is on the album Led Zeppelin IV!”

Was it that easy? Was Lance in room four? I didn’t question it, I acted, yanking the gun out of my bouncing purse, running down the arm past rooms ten…nine…eight…seven…

Phin outpaced me, getting there first, slamming his shoulder into the door. It popped inward, Phin stumbling into the room, me coming in right after him, dropping to a knee, gun out, eyes and ears open.

The room was bright, every light on, someone in bed.

Lance.

He was naked, eyes wide, terrified. He screamed at me through his duct tape gag.

The pigstick was set up on the nightstand next to him, the shotgun shell held in place by a metal arm. I followed the wire to a timing device, realized I had no expertise at all to disarm it, and chose instead to simply point the contraption away from Lance.

Two seconds after I grabbed it, the charge went off.

The explosion was deafening, and the shock—coupled with the powerful vibration of the shot—made me drop the pigstick. I cast fearful eyes at the bed, expecting to see blood and guts and carnage.

The mattress had an ugly, ragged hole in it. Lance did not.

Phin said something that sounded like “Jesus,” but my ears were ringing, so I couldn’t be sure. I spun around, gun sweeping the room, then did a quick search, tugging open the closet and bathroom doors. No Alex.

“Please…”

Phin had removed the duct tape from Lance’s mouth, and stared down at him, frowning. I glanced between Lance’s legs and had to look away.

“Freeze! Police! Drop your weapons!”

The two Milwaukee cops were at the door, their guns drawn, their faces bright with urgency. I moved slow, deliberate, not wanting to spook them.

“We’re putting down our guns,” I said. “I’m the cop who called earlier. Lieutenant Jack Daniels, Chicago PD. My ID is in my purse. This man on the bed is David Strang. One of yours.”

I crouched, setting my gun on the floor, putting my hands up. Phin did the same. The cops moved in, putting Phin against the wall, frisking him, taking his gun. As I watched, I noticed something taped to the motel wall. A cell phone.

Alex was watching.

“This man needs an ambulance,” I said.

Neither cop said anything, but the taller one took his handcuffs out of his case.

“There’s no need to restrain him. He’s with me.”

“There’s a federal warrant out for his arrest,” the tall one said. “There’s one on you as well, Miss Daniels.”

A sound from Phin, either a soft snort or a loud sigh. “We just saved your man’s life.”

“I’m sure you’ll get all of this straightened out. Orders are orders. You understand.”

Phin tried to spin around, got a rabbit punch in the kidney by the shorter one. He dropped to his knees. So did I, picking up my Beretta. Just as Shorty pulled back for a second punch I fired into the ceiling.

“Hit him again,” I said through my teeth. “See what I do to you.”

Shorty opened up his fist and backed away from Phin.

“Guns. Drop them.”

The cops looked at each other, then complied.

“Now get on the goddamn radio and call a goddamn ambulance for your man.”

The taller one used his lapel mike. Phin stuck their guns in his waistband, retrieved his own, and jammed it into the neck of the cop who socked him.

I almost warned Phin not to do anything stupid, then remembered that I trusted him.

“I got a question,” Phin said. “Is it just you, or do all short guys hit like sissies?”

Shorty didn’t answer, which was probably wise.

I kept them covered and made my way to the cell phone, feeling for it on the wall and tugging it off. Held it to my ear.

“Alex?”

No answer. I powered it off and stuck it in my purse, then motioned for Phin to come over to the door.

“Your guns will be in one of the Dumpsters outside,” I told the cops, “which is more professional courtesy than you’ve shown me.”

“You sure you want to do this, lady?” Shorty said.

I frowned. Then in one fluid motion I tugged their guns out of Phin’s belt, stuck my fingers in the trigger guards, and whipped them around butt-first while smoothly pressing both ejector buttons. The full clips sailed out the bottom ports and bounced off each cop’s chest as they flinched.

“It’s not miss, and it’s not lady,” I said. “It’s Lieutenant.”

“She outranks you guys because you suck,” Phin offered.

I really couldn’t blame them too much for trying to arrest us—the order probably came from the top—but I did pass up two relatively clean Dumpsters before finding one stinky enough to ditch their pieces, buried under a pile of rotten food.

Then I crashed. Big-time. The adrenaline that had been keeping me going had vacated the premises, leaving me an empty shell. Sleep had always been a problem for me, but I probably could have gotten forty winks right there, curled up on the garbage pile.

Phin didn’t look much better. Long damn night.

“You okay?” I asked when we got back to the Bronco.

He nodded, but I noticed he was favoring his left arm.

“Elbow?”

“Yeah. One of them twisted it. I’ll be okay.”

Phin tried to start the truck using his left hand. I should have offered to drive, but I was lapsing into zombie mode and didn’t trust myself. My phone rang. Mine, not the one Alex gave me.

“Hiya, sis.” Long yawn from Harry, who must have been really concerned about us. “You save the day?”

“Lance lived. The police tried to arrest us. We disarmed them. Now Phin can’t turn the ignition.”

“Good, that’s good.” I don’t think he heard a word I said. “I’m in Deer Park. I’m going to catch some Zs, then look for the last cell phone in the daisy chain. I’ve got a tracking device that pinpoints RF frequencies. But even better, these cells are Bluetooth enabled, and Alex never disabled it. I’ve got a computer program that can scan for Bluetooth devices. When it finds one, I can have it download SIM card info. So I don’t even have to find the physical phone. I just have to get close enough to it.”

Turnabout was fair play, because I didn’t pro cess a single thing Harry said either. I yawned, then reached over and helped Phin start the truck. His hand covered mine, held it. He continued to hold it as we pulled out of the parking lot. I was too tired to protest, and his grip was warm on my cold fingers. Warm, and strangely comfortable.

“Jackie? You still there?”

“I’ll call you later, Harry. We’re going to crash someplace too. Find a motel on the edge of town.”

“One bed or two? Not that it’s my business.”

“You’re right. It’s not your business.”

“I agree. So one bed or two?”

“Good night, Harry.”

I hung up, cutting off his reply.

We drove for twenty minutes, silent, exhausted, and I felt every second of every minute of every hour I’d been awake—over thirty hours total. Phin found a chain hotel, dropped me off to check in while he parked the Bronco someplace inconspicuous. When he pulled away, my hand felt empty.

The employee at the front desk looked pert and freshly scrubbed, greeting me with a smile so wide it bared gums.

“Good morning.” Her voice was full of annoying morning cheer.

“Two rooms,” I muttered.

“Sorry.” Smile. “We’re all booked up.” She leaned closer, conspiratorially. “Wisconsin Mom of the Year Awards.” Smile. “It’s our best turnout yet.”

I yawned again, so big it hurt my jaw. “That’s fine. We’ll sleep in your lobby, on the sofa. My friend likes sleeping naked. I talk in my sleep, and since I work for a phone sex hotline I tend to use the word cock a lot. If you hear me yelling about how much I love big cock, or how I love to watch you play with your big cock, just give me a nudge.”

Her smile drooped below the gum line.

“Let me double-check and see if there were any recent cancellations.”

She stuck her nose into her computer, tapped a few keys. I dug around in my purse for my wad of Latham’s cash.

“A single is recently available. King-sized bed.” Smile. “Will that be okay?”

“That will be fine,” I slurred, my eyes shutting briefly.

“Our rate is one hundred and thirty dollars a night.”

“Cash okay?”

“Cash is fine, but I need a credit card for incidentals.”

I always wondered why they called room ser vice and pay-per-view porno incidentals. Weren’t those the main reasons people stayed in hotels?

“Wallet was stolen,” I told her. “No credit cards.”

“That’s terrible.”

Perhaps, but she kept smiling.

“Cash deposit okay?”

She nodded; money, receipts, and key cards changed hands, and Phin came in. We managed to find our room, the key worked on the third try, and I stumbled to the bed and kicked off my shoes. Phin stood and stared.

“I can call down to the lobby, have them bring in a cot for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, yawning. “Just try to control yourself.”

He smiled, sheepish.

“What if I try really hard and fail?”

“I’ll be sleeping. Try not to wake me up.”

I tugged off my sweatpants, too tired to feel awkward or embarrassed. Then I noticed I was still wearing those lacy red pan ties, and I felt both awkward and embarrassed and not nearly as tired anymore. In fact, I was all of a sudden pretty awake.

Phin watched me, waiting to see what I did next. I looked down at my sweatshirt. Take it off, or keep it on? I had a sports bra on under it. Not sexy at all, flattening my boobs. But why should I care how I looked? We were just going to sleep. And seeing me in my underwear was the same thing as seeing me in a swimsuit.

Of course, it took me three hours to put on a swimsuit.

The hell with it. We were adults. I was tired and wanted to be comfortable.

The sweatshirt came off.

I met Phin’s eyes and didn’t feel comfortable at all. I felt awkward and vulnerable and ner vous and also a little excited, like a teenager right before her first time. Phin’s eyes had that purple hue again, and his expression was intense.

I levered myself between the sheets.

Go to sleep, I told myself.

But instead of closing my eyes, I watched Phin take his shirt off. His body was different than Latham’s. Latham’s body was decent. Lithe, strong, distinguished. But comfortable and familiar. Sort of like a Lincoln Town Car.

Phin had a Ferarri. Fast and sharp and sculpted. And dangerous.

Quit it. You just buried Latham. He hasn’t even been dead for three weeks.

When Phin began taking off his sweatpants I used all of my self-control to kill the bedside lamp so I couldn’t see anything else.

The bed bounced lightly when he climbed in, and then he turned off his light and we were both lying there in the dark and I was getting warm. Really warm.

Hot, actually.

If he tries something, I’ll roll with it, I decided.

I closed my eyes, waiting for him to touch me. Wanting him to touch me. I knew it was wrong, for a hundred different reasons. But I wanted sex. I wanted to feel something other than pain. With all the death and horror of the past weeks, I needed something life-affirming.

I no longer had love. Love died with my fiancé.

But I didn’t expect love from Phin.

However, an orgasm or two would be a good temporary placeholder.

The bed springs creaked, and I sensed him shifting. Moving closer to me.

Maybe my breath quickened a little bit. Maybe I shifted a little bit toward him as well.

I waited. Pictured his hands on my body. My breasts. Between my thighs. I remembered his kiss, how good it was, and imagined how his mouth would feel on other parts of me.

But nothing happened. He didn’t make a move.

I’d been rebuffing him all night, and he hadn’t been put off. Now, when I finally want him to try something, he decides to listen to me?

Didn’t guys understand women at all?

I sighed, loudly, hoping he’d take the hint.

Nothing.

I sighed again, this time putting a bit of slut into the tone. More of a moan than a sigh.

Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I realized I couldn’t back down at this point. I was turned on. All I had to do was reach for him, and I would make sure he was turned on as well.

My hand crept under the covers, toward Phin. I aimed low, for a part I was sure would get his attention. The king-sized bed seemed huge, the distance between us enormous, and I really did feel like a virginal school-girl, so much so that I almost giggled, and giggling is not something I’m known for.

And then I heard it. A sound. A horrible, libido-killing sound.

Phin was snoring.

My hand stopped, flattening out like someone had stomped on it. I shrunk back, turned and faced the other way, the luxurious heat of arousal transforming into the sting of rejection. Giggly and turned on to red-faced humiliation in less than three seconds. It had to be some kind of record.

I closed my eyes and swore that if he ever tried to touch me again I’d break off his fingers. Then I tried to sleep.

Exhausted as I was, sleep didn’t come.

CHAPTER 30

LUCKY BITCH.

It had a December 31 vibe, like counting down the seconds until the new year, and Alex had been looking forward to seeing the monochromatic fireworks of poor Lance’s head blowing up. But lucky Jack stormed in at the last possible second and saved his miserable life.

How anticlimactic.

Things became interesting again when the two cops arrived, but Jack killed the live feed in the middle of that little drama. Cue commercial. Switch channels.

Alex considers her next move. It’s still too early to pay Jack’s ex a visit, so she spends some time on the Internet, reading up on defibrillators, replying to an e-mail in her anonymous account, learning about bulletproofing a vehicle. Boring stuff, but necessary. Then she logs on to the homepage of her pay-as-you-go cell phone ser vice provider. The phones are impossible to trace, but they do keep track of minutes and numbers called. Because Alex is spoofing caller ID, most of the numbers listed are 555-5555.

But there are a few real numbers. The numbers Jack has called from the phone Alex gave her.

One of them is interesting. An 800 number. Alex makes a mental note to call it later.

At a little after seven a.m. she dresses in the police uniform and goes for a ride, finding a twenty-four-hour con ve nience store and picking up two rolls of duct tape and some quick energy foods: chips, beef jerky, candy bars. She also gets a six-pack of bottled water.

It’s going to be a thirsty day.

Back at the hotel she checks her appearance and then knocks on Alan’s door.

“Yeah?” he answers.

Alex steps away from the peephole, letting him see her good profile and her cop clothes.

“Mr. Daniels? It’s about your ex-wife.”

She resists a smile when she hears the lock turn, the Cheetah stun gun palmed in her right hand.

Two seconds after the door opens, Alan is on his knees. Two seconds after that, he’s facedown on the carpeting.

Alex checks the hallway for witnesses, and seeing none, drags Jack’s husband to bed.

CHAPTER 31

I FELT LATHAM’S ARM slip around my waist and I sighed, happy it had all been some horrible dream.

But it didn’t feel like Latham’s arm—it felt like a stranger’s—and everything came back at once and I jolted, then went rigid.

“You okay?” Phin, his voice sleepy.

“Yeah. Just forgot where I was.”

Phin’s hand was still on my hip, burning there like an iron. I nudged it off.

“I wasn’t trying anything.”

“I know.” My tone had more regret in it than I might have liked.

Sunlight peeked in through a crack in the drapes. I looked at the clock radio. A little past ten a.m. I’d managed about four hours of sleep. Not too bad. I’ve been able to function on less.

I rubbed my eyes, felt some crud in the corners, and immediately wondered how my hair looked. My breath was probably awful as well. I wanted to get up, dress in the bathroom, but didn’t want Phin to see me in my underwear. Earlier it seemed daring. Now it was just plain embarrassing.

“I’m not used to waking up next to cops,” Phin said. “Especially pretty ones.”

I felt his finger trail up my spine. I flinched away.

“Jesus, Jack. We’re both adults.”

I faced him, hugging the sheet to my chest.

“You’re a good-looking guy, Phin. I’m sure you’ll rebound quickly.”

He smiled and locked his hands behind his head, triceps bulging.

“Do you like being miserable? Is that your thing?”

His pillow talk needed some work.

“No, Phin. Like most other people in the world, I actually try to be happy. And sometimes I actually achieve it for brief periods of time. But to me, being an adult means having responsibilities.”

I was lecturing, but Phin appeared more amused than chastised.

“I used to be like that. Feeling like the only thing holding the world together was my self-discipline.”

“There’s a difference between taking care of business and being a control freak.”

“I know that. Do you?”

And to think I almost slept with this guy.

“I try to do my best. Sometimes it doesn’t work out, but I keep trying. It’s all I can do.”

Phin adopted a pensive look as if he was considering what to say next. I waited, feeling dorkier and dorkier in my sports bra and red pan ties.

Finally, he spoke.

“Let me tell you a story, Jack. Young man. Had a decent paying job in an office. Was in love with a girl who loved him back. They even had the wedding date set.”

“This is you, I’m guessing.”

“It was me. Living the American dream, on my way to two-point-five kids and a thirty-year fixed mortgage.”

“So what happened? One day you just decided a life of crime was sexier?”

His eyes went somewhere else. “I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Told I had eight months to live. Maria—Maria Kilborn, my bride to be—she and I were…right. Like we were supposed to be together. You know? When someone is just perfect for you?”

I nodded, a lump forming in my throat. “I know.”

Phin focused, smiled sadly. “But she wasn’t strong, Jack. She was strong in some ways. But not emotionally. She cared about people. A lot. Maybe too much. I remember driving home from the doctor’s office, thinking about how I was going to tell her, seeing it in my head. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hurt her like that. Not only the telling her, but thinking about her watching me die…”

Phin cleared his throat, then scratched the back of his neck.

“So I didn’t go home. I rented a hotel room, called an escort ser vice, and fucked my brains out while Maria was going crazy wondering where I was. She tracked down our credit card usage, came to my room, saw me with the whore. There was screaming, crying. She told me she never wanted to see me again. And she kept the promise.”

I made a face. “Do you think that was noble, what you did? Breaking up with her instead of being honest?”

His gaze was intense. “You tell me, Jack. Is it easier to hate someone, or to miss them after they die?”

I thought about Alan, who left me, and Latham, who left me in a different way.

Phin was right. Losing Latham hurt more.

So was he a coward, or was he being strong?

When I met Phin, on the Job, I’d immediately liked him. He’d been involved in a gang fight, three against one. They were armed. Phin wasn’t. All three wound up in the hospital.

During the arrest Phin was compliant, polite, even jovial. Like he didn’t have a care in the world. I bumped into him accidentally sometime later, at a local pool hall, and we began playing eight ball on a somewhat regular basis. He was attractive, sure, but I think the thing that drew me to him was his attitude. He seemed free. Even bald from the chemo, taking breaks between games to go throw up, he seemed more at ease with himself than anyone I’d ever met.

I wondered what it would be like to live in the moment like that. To not worry about anything other than the now. Was it liberating? Or empty? Brave or weak?

“This was a few years ago.” Phin turned on his side, propping his head up on his hand. “I had surgery. Had treatments. Still kept getting worse. Nine to five didn’t really seem that important anymore, so I quit. Eventually I ran out of money, lost my insurance. Lived on the street, day by day, getting by. But something funny happened. I didn’t die.”

“Remission.”

He shook his head. “Not really. Cancer’s still there. Pain is still there. I’m going to die from it. But it isn’t killing me as fast as the doctors have hoped. I thought I’d rob a few gangbangers, hustle a little pool, spend a few weeks partying like a rock star and then die in a gutter somewhere. But here I am. Still alive. Here. With you.”

He touched my back again, and this time I didn’t flinch. But since I’m cursed with the burden of overanalyzing everything, I ruined what could have been a romantic moment by asking, “Why are you here, Phin? Why are you helping me? This isn’t your fight. Am I a diversion? Any port in the storm? A way to kill some time so you don’t have to think about your life?”

Damn my big mouth. If he walked out the door right then, I couldn’t have blamed him.

But he didn’t walk out. He just stared at me. Not angry. But patient. Understanding. And I filled in the blanks. He wasn’t with me because he wanted a little action, or because I helped him take his mind off his death sentence. He actually cared about me. I saw it in his face. Here was a guy who divorced himself from life, packing his feelings away like winter clothes in the summertime. He worked to keep people out.

And he let me in.

And the least I could do in return was live in the now.

In one quick motion I billowed up the sheets and cast them off the bed, exposing Phin in his red boxer briefs. His body was long and lean and cut, and I wasn’t sure where I wanted to touch him first. I chose his abs, running my hand along his six-pack while sliding alongside him and hooking my leg up over his thigh.

The kiss could have been morning breath bad, but all I tasted was heat. Heat and passion and possibilities that I promised myself would be explored.

His arms encircled me, fingers of one hand running through my hair and tingling my scalp, the other wandering over the back of my sports bra.

I smiled while his tongue probed mine, then pulled slightly away.

“Sports bra,” I said, “no clasps.”

I dug under the elastic, stretched it up over my arms, and he helped me pull the bra over my head and arms. I paused, letting him look at me, drinking in how much he seemed to like the view. Then I grabbed his wrists and put his hands on my breasts.

He rubbed the flat of his palm over my nipples, rolled one between his fingers, tugging on it gently, making it stiffen. Then his arm was around the small of my back and he tugged me next to him, urgent, his mouth on mine.

His lips trailed down past my jaw to my neck, and I locked my legs around the side of his thigh and ground against it, feeling my first jolt of full-on arousal, building inside me like a wave.

Right then I was ready to go at it. I wanted him in me. Wanted to wrap my legs around his hips and ride him until I made him moan.

Phin had other ideas.

He kissed his way along my neck, sliding his body down next to mine, breaking my leg-lock on him. His arms encircled my hips, hands grasping my ass, and his mouth found my nipples. He caught one in his teeth, held it between them while bathing it with his tongue. I tried to open my legs but he held them together, which drove me a little crazy as he switched from one breast to the other. He was too low for me to touch anything other than his head and back, so I locked my fingers in his blond hair and held on.

His head moved lower, licking my rib cage, my navel, and then slowly, maddeningly, to the top of my red pan ties. He rested his mouth there, letting me feel his hot breath through the fabric, and then began to kiss.

I moved my arms down, trying to help him tug my pan ties off, but he held my wrists and wouldn’t let me, continuing to move his mouth and jaw over my pubic mound, up and down and in small circles until it felt ready to catch fire.

I tried to fight him, wanted to end the foreplay and flip him over and straddle his face and let him devour me. I pressed up against his mouth, but he moved his face away each time I did.

Even though the pan ties stayed on, even though he deliberately avoided hitting the right spots, I felt the orgasm welling up. And then I understood what he was doing, other than teasing me.

It was okay to not be in control.

I moaned, turned my head to the side, took a corner of the pillow in my mouth, and let him have his way.

His way was torture. He licked my thighs, all around my panty line, his tongue slow and lazy, his hands cupping my bottom and raising me up to meet his mouth. Then, like it was tissue paper, he tore my underwear off, his warm wet lips directly on me.

Again I tried to open my legs. Again he held them together.

“Please,” I said.

But there was only more teasing, to the point where I couldn’t endure it anymore, and I was going to come even without any direct stimulation. My hips began to pump, moving without my control, and my hands clutched the mattress and a scream welled up in my throat and then…oh my God…then he finally opened my legs and his tongue found me and the tiny orgasm became a monster, plea sure so intense it almost hurt, building up and multiplying until I was nothing but pure sensation. I grabbed his head and ground against him as my whole body shook, captured and helpless in his beautiful mouth.

But it didn’t end with one. After the first, his fingers came into play, and he coaxed another orgasm out of me, and by that time I was pleading with him to enter me, promising him nonsensical things, begging to the point where I was near hysterical, and then he did.

Holy Mary mother of God.

Half an hour later, arms and legs tangled up, sweaty and glowing and wonderfully sore, I realized I could get really used to living in the now. For a guy dying of cancer, Phin’s refractory period was impressive. We’d done it twice, and might have gone for thirds when my cell phone rang.

Harry.

“I should get this,” I told Phin, pulling away.

His hand stayed on my ass, his finger making lazy circles. I slapped it away. I didn’t want to talk to Harry McGlade while in any stage of arousal.

“Morning, Jackie. I found the first phone. Guess where it was? Go on. Guess.”

“I have no idea, Harry. A supermarket.” Postcoital glow left me a little scattershot.

“A supermarket? Why would she hide the phone in a supermarket?”

“You said guess, I guessed.”

“You sound funny. Did you just get laid?”

“Where was the goddamn phone, McGlade?”

“It was a supermarket. She plugged it into one of the outlets behind the fresh produce. According to the SIM, the second phone is in Gurnee. I’m on my way now.”

“We should meet you,” I said. “We still need the rifles.”

While fleeing from the Feebies, we’d left our long guns in the RV.

“I should be there in about an hour. And I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

There was a screech in the background.

“What was that?”

“That’s who I’m talking about. I’ve recruited some extra help on the case.”

Another screech. It sounded like a parrot.

“Did you buy a parrot? You had that Baretta fetish when we were partners.”

“That was Columbo, not Baretta. I liked him for his trenchcoat. And Slappy is not a parrot.”

“Slappy?”

“You’ll meet him soon. I’ll call when I’m close. And make sure Phin wears a rubber.”

He hung up. I turned to Phin, wondering if I could make him beg like he had made me, but he was unfortunately putting on his jeans.

“Starving. I’ll pick up some food. You want coffee and donuts?”

“I’m a cop. Of course I want coffee and donuts. There’s money in my purse.”

I trusted him, I reminded myself. As he fished out a wad of bills, I reminded myself of it again.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.” I grinned.

He left, and my grin became a crushing feeling of despair. What was up with that?

I didn’t regret the sex. The sex was great. I needed it. Phin was a fun partner, and lived up to the fantasies about him I’d never admitted to myself I had.

Latham? Of course I still missed Latham. Of course I still blamed myself for his death. But I wasn’t being disloyal, wasn’t cheating.

Alex wasn’t on my mind at that exact moment—we couldn’t do anything until she contacted us again anyway—so she wasn’t the cause of my emotional pain.

It was the pregnancy test. That’s why I wanted to weep.

I touched my belly, letting the tears come, feeling so interminably alone.

CHAPTER 32

ALAN ISN’T A BAD-LOOKING GUY. Not as muscular as Lance, but wiry and well proportioned, and easier to lift onto the bed. He’s dirty blond, and has a few days’ growth of beard that is salted with gray. Alex let him keep his underwear on for the time being; she has some questions to ask before they get to the fun stuff.

“Stay still and keep quiet, or I’ll juice you again,” she warns. “Just one more leg to secure.”

Alan stays still. He seems more dazed than scared. A combination of stun gun zaps and slaps to the side of the head make for a pretty disorienting cocktail. She tapes his ankle to the last foot of the bed, then gives the bottom of his foot a little tickle.

In the bathroom, she pours half a glass of water. On the marble sink top she crushes one of the egg-shaped tadalafil tablets she took from the coffee shop Lothario under her thumb, then scoops the powder into the water and stirs with her finger until it mostly dissolves. She brings the water back to Alan and holds up his head while he drinks.

“Do you know who I am?”

Alan swallows. He has a large Adam’s apple, which Alex finds sexy.

“You’re Alexandra Kork. You’re a serial killer. You escaped from a maximum security prison.”

“So Jack has mentioned me.”

Alan shakes his head. “Heard about you on CNN. Jack and I don’t talk.”

Alex runs her hand across his chest, squeezing his pecs.

“You must talk sometimes. Because here you are, hiding out in a hotel. Hiding from me.”

Alan’s face creases, what Alex takes to be his serious look.

“Jack and I are over. We’re divorced. We’re not even friends. Hurting me won’t hurt her.”

Half a smile forms on her face. “Oh, I think it will. But we have time for that later. First I want to show you something.”

Alex collects the AED from the floor. She brought it in from the Hyundai. It’s the size of a laptop computer, in a rugged plastic clamshell case, bright yellow with a red and white medical cross on it. Alex places the device on the bed, opens it up.

“Originally, I was going to do something creative to you with plastic explosives. But I’m going to use this instead. It’s an automatic external defibrillator. Just like on all those TV doctor shows. I put the pads on your chest like this—”

Alex places one high up to the right of his sternum, and one low down on his left side.

“—and press this big red button, and it delivers a nice thousand-volt shock across your heart, resetting its normal electrical rhythm. But if I stick the pads here—”

She removes the protective backings, exposing the adhesive, and places both pads on the left side of his heart.

“—then it will induce a fatal arrhythmia, or stop the heart altogether, or fry your organs. Or it might just hurt like hell. I’ve never done this before, so it’s all theory.”

Alex fingers the button, stroking it sensually while Alan’s eyes get wide.

“What do you want?” Alan finally asks.

“Tell me about your first time. With Jack.”

“You want to know about the first time we had sex?”

Alex nods.

“That’s sick.”

“I’m a psychopath, remember? If you don’t want to talk about it, we can play press the button instead.”

She gives the AED a soft caress. Alan’s mouth becomes a tight, thin line.

“It was in a bar. In the men’s bathroom.”

“How many dates?”

“Second date.”

“Second date? Jack moves pretty fast. So what made her drag you into the bathroom? Were you kissing first? Having some chicken wings, feeling each other up under the table?”

“We were standing at the bar, drinking beer, and she dared me to go into the bathroom with her.”

Alex unbuttons her uniform shirt. The bra underneath is black, lacy, tight. True to male form, Alan stares at her tits.

“What did she do to you in the bathroom, Alan?”

“We kissed, then she put my hands up her shirt.”

“Like this?”

Alex brings her hand up her stomach, fingers going up under the underwire of the bra. Alan still looks ner vous, but the initial repulsion on his face is replaced by fascination, perhaps even interest. Her other hand unbuttons her pants and unzips the fly, letting the pants fall around her ankles.

“Keep going, Alan. What happened next?”

“We got into a stall. She…she put her hand on me.”

Alex steps out of the slacks and sits on the bed next to him. She traces a lazy finger down Alan’s chest, slipping it under the waistband of his underwear. It’s too early for the tadalafil to be working, but it doesn’t look like Alan needed it after all.

“Jack sounds aggressive. You like aggressive women, don’t you Alan?”

“What are you doing?”

Alex pumps her hand up and down.

“What happened next, Alan?”

“We had…we had sex.”

Alan closes his eyes, and Alex feels his hips rise. She leans toward his ear and whispers, “Would you like to have sex with me, Alan?”

He shakes his head.

“You can keep your eyes closed, pretend I’m Jack.”

Alan softly answers, “No. You’re a killer.”

She grips him hard, digging her nails in. Alan yelps, his face contorting with pain and fear.

“Good,” Alex breathes. “Sex is so much more fun when it isn’t consensual.”

She slaps him across the face, then grabs the duct tape to make a gag.

Things are about to get loud.

CHAPTER 33

HOW LONG DOES IT TAKE to get donuts?

My watch read a quarter to twelve. Phin had been gone for over an hour. I’m naturally paranoid, something my chosen profession compounds, so I was conjuring up scenarios to explain why he was so late, like being grabbed by Alex, or hit by a bus, or caught by the Feds, or killed by Milwaukee cops, or the most frightening of all: ditching me because he thought the sex was a mistake.

I tried the walkie-talkie, but he either wasn’t answering or he had it turned off. I counted and recounted the cash left in my purse, and calculated he either took twenty dollars or a thousand and twenty dollars—I couldn’t remember how much I’d taken from the bank, and couldn’t find the withdrawal slip.

While waiting I spent a good half an hour wondering about Alex, and how we were going to find her. I wound up coming to the obvious conclusion: We couldn’t. Not unless she let us, or she made a mistake, and she hadn’t done either yet.

So I spent the next half an hour wondering if I should put on makeup or not. Just because I’d gone to bed with Phin didn’t mean our relationship had really changed, and the last few times I’d seen him I hadn’t worried if I was wearing makeup. Putting on makeup now would mean I cared about how I looked, which meant his opinion of me mattered, which meant our relationship actually had changed. I didn’t know if I wanted to acknowledge that, or if he wanted to acknowledge that, or how he would act if I acknowledged it and he didn’t, and vice versa.

Basically, I just shouldn’t have sex. But it was too late for that, so I was stuck dwelling on it.

“If he wasn’t here, would I wear makeup?” I asked myself honestly.

Maybe. Maybe today would be a makeup day.

Which was a dishonest answer.

So I didn’t put on makeup, and stopped obsessing over it, and went back to obsessing over where the hell he was.

My ringing cell phone dragged me back into reality.

“Hello? Jacqueline?”

My mother. Mom had met Phin, and I think she liked him. But that didn’t mean I needed to blab to her that I slept with him.

“I slept with Phin,” I told her.

“I’m so happy for you,” she said in a way that sounded like she was so happy for me, “but I’ve got a real big problem right now.”

I remembered Mom’s Alaskan cruise.

“Flight delayed? Or is it TSA? Mom, you didn’t try to bring your brass knuckles on the flight, did you? I told you not to buy those.”

“I didn’t bring the brass knuckles. I’m already on the ship. And I just saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“Your father.”

I remembered Dad’s Alaskan cruise, and the astronomically high improbability that they’d both be on the same boat.

Fate’s a funny bitch.

“Are you sure it’s him?” I asked, knowing it was. “It’s been forty years.”

“I’ll remember that deceitful face until a thousand years after I die. He’s still got that smarmy, cocksure look, and that dishonest little smile. But he’s lost the little Hitler mustache. I distinctly remember the little Hitler mustache.”

“He never had a Hitler mustache. You’re projecting.”

“You were too young to remember it, and how he used to goose-step around the house, planning to invade France.”

I sighed. “Look, Mom, you’re both adults. This will give you a chance to work things out.”

“Work things out? Never! He left us, for no good reason.”

“He had a good reason,” I said, “but you made me promise never to mention him again.”

“And I insist you keep that promise. I don’t want to hear about the lies he told you. The fact that you even want to have a relationship with that horrible man makes me think I should have named you Ilsa.”

“He’s actually a nice guy, Mom. You’d like him.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“Mom!”

“I’ll wait until he’s near one of the railings and I’ll push him overboard. Hopefully the sharks will get him before he drowns.”

“Mom,” I couldn’t believe I had to say it, “please don’t kill Dad.”

“Maybe I won’t have to. There was a welcome brunch, and the food was horrible. Maybe salmonella or E. coli will do the job for me.”

I looked at the front door. It didn’t open, and Phin didn’t walk in. I checked my watch again.

“You need to have a few drinks, relax, and stop plotting murders.”

“It’s too early to drink.”

“It’s never too early to drink. Have a whiskey sour. Or a bloody Mary.”

“Don’t want one.”

“Then a rusty nail. You used to drink those.”

“That’s too strong. I’ll be passed out by dinner.”

“Get a foo-foo drink then. Try a fuzzy navel.”

“What’s in it?”

“Orange juice and peach schnapps.”

“That’s too foo-foo. I’d have to drink ten of them to feel anything. Maybe I’ll have a dirty martini.”

“Good,” I said. “I was running out of drink names.”

“I’m telling you, Jacqueline, I don’t think I can handle ten days of being trapped on a boat with that man.”

“I’m sure it’s a big boat. You probably won’t even see him again.”

“If I do, I’m going to grab a lifeboat oar and knock his teeth down his throat, I swear to God.”

My call waiting beeped.

“I got someone on the other line, Mom. Have a nice cruise. Call me if you get arrested.”

I switched over just as Mom was yelling at some ship employee for vodka.

“Jacqueline? It’s Wilbur. I’m on the ship and I think I saw your mother.”

I sighed again. “You did. It’s her. Imagine the odds.”

“The expression on her face…well, let’s say she didn’t seem pleased.”

“You’re both adults,” I said. “This will give you a chance to work things out.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible. I mean, I’m willing to try, but Mary looked like she was going to come after me with a wooden stake and a mallet.”

Or a lifeboat oar, I thought. I glanced at the door again. Still no Phin.

“You don’t think she’d actually try to hurt me, do you?”

“Stay away from railings,” I suggested.

“This is horrible. I’ll have to spend the whole cruise in my cabin, with a chair wedged against the door. There was a thousand-dollar cash prize for bingo to night too. I hate to miss that.”

“I’m sure it’s a big ship,” I said, wishing I’d taped my earlier conversation so I didn’t have to have it twice. “Maybe you won’t even see her again.”

“Does your mother like bingo?”

What was it with older people and bingo? Maybe it was something in the genes, and once you turned sixty some kind of internal switch was flipped.

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe I’ll go. I could wear a disguise.”

“As long as it’s not a tiny mustache.”

“Think she’d accept a peace offering? Flowers, maybe? There’s a florist on board. She used to love roses.”

I pictured Dad dead in his bingo chair, two dozen roses crammed down his throat.

“Hiding is probably smarter.”

“I need a drink,” Wilbur said.

“I gotta go, Dad.” I didn’t want to play bartender again. “Call me if she kills you.”

I considered calling Mom back, warning her not to play bingo, but stopped myself. I shouldn’t be using my cell—the Feds could trace it. Besides, they’d thank me for it later, after they worked things out. What child didn’t want to see their parents back together again? Of course, they wouldn’t actually be together. But maybe they could resolve their differencs and pick up guys together.

Or maybe Mom would be serving twenty to life.

I decided to call her back, but the motel door opened mid-dial.

“Sorry I took so long. Had to run an errand first.”

Phin had a bag of donuts and a cardboard container holding two coffees. I had an urge to press the issue, and another urge to do him right there in the doorway. I fought both urges and kept cool, waiting to see how he played it.

“I didn’t know if you took cream or sugar.” He shrugged. “I guess there’s a lot I don’t know about you.”

He handed me a cup. I took it. There was some awkward staring. What was he thinking? Was he thinking what I was thinking? What was I thinking?

I was thinking I should have put on makeup.

“Black,” I said, breaking the silence. “I take it black.”

“Me too. Why dilute the caffeine with all of that other crap?”

I took a sip. Lukewarm. He’d bought this a while ago. Where had he been all this time?

“Didn’t know what donuts you liked either. Got assorted.”

He sat down on the bed, dug into the bag, his foot tapping. Was he avoiding talking about us, or didn’t feel the need to?

Well, dammit, I felt the need to. We couldn’t work together until we figured out where we stood with each other. One of us needed to act like a grown-up.

I sat next to him, hip to hip. He didn’t look at me. Not a good sign. I reached up a hand to touch his face, and he flinched. An even worse sign.

“You’ve got some powdered sugar on your lip,” I said, rubbing it off with my thumb, automatically putting the thumb in my mouth to taste the sweetness.

It was bitter, and made my tongue tingle.

That wasn’t powdered sugar.

I recalled our earlier conversation, in the bar, when Phin told me he needed to stop back at his apartment to pick up some things.

Drugs? Had he wanted to pick up some coke?

And if that was cocaine on his lip, had he bought it with my money?

Phin seemed oblivious to my reaction, tugging out a cruller, eating a third of it with one bite. His foot kept tapping, and there were sweat beads on his forehead.

Years ago, I worked Vice. I knew narcotics. Phin was high.

I didn’t want to get involved with a drug addict. I didn’t want to get involved with a bank robber either. But I was more than involved—besides sleeping with him, I’d enlisted him to help me find Alex. To back me up. I was entrusting him with my life.

And he was offering to help me. Willing to risk his own life, and asking for nothing in return.

Except, possibly, free sex and money for coke.

I wondered why I couldn’t fall for a normal guy, then remembered I had, and just went to his funeral yesterday.

Jesus, what a mess.

“You like chocolate?” Phin asked.

I managed a nod. He handed me a chocolate frosted. I took a token bite, but my appetite was gone. The right thing to do was tell him I appreciated everything, but I didn’t need him anymore. I wasn’t even sure if that was the truth.

“Phin—”

The phone cut me off. Alex’s phone. But it wasn’t her—no 555 number. It was Harry again.

“Hiya, sis. I’m in Gurnee. When can you meet me?”

I stared at Phin. Was this the time and the place to make a big scene? Phin had the car. Would he drop me off in Gurnee after I told him to take a hike? Should I ask Harry to pick me up here? Could Harry and I handle Alex on our own? And was I willing to lose one of my closest friends just because he had some issues? A close friend who was great in the sack?

“An hour,” I told Harry.

“Call me when you’re close.”

I hung up. Phin was working on his second donut.

“We’re meeting Harry in Gurnee,” I said.

He nodded, stood up, grabbed the backpack, and stopped at the door. The moment stretched.

“You okay?”

A ridiculous thing to ask, considering everything.

“Look, Jack, you’ve probably figured out I’m not good with this intimacy thing. I’m out of practice. Hell, when I was in practice, I wasn’t very good at it.”

He paused. I waited.

“I want to tell you…I don’t think this morning was a mistake. And I’d like to know if you feel the same way.”

He’s giving you an out, Jack. Tell him it was a mistake.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” I heard myself say.

“I’m glad to hear that. And there’s something on my mind. If it’s okay we’re talking.”

“It’s fine,” I said to his back. “Say what you need to say.”

“When I took the money from your purse…”

Here we go. He was going to open up about the drugs. About stealing from me. How should I react? Ask him to rob another bank to pay me back? Offer to pay him to help me with Alex? Lecture him about the dangers of drug abuse?

“I know it’s none of my business,” he said, “but I saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“The pregnancy test.” He turned around, his face serious. “You want to tell me what’s up?”

CHAPTER 34

ALEX CLIMBS OFF THE BED. Naked. Satisfied. Bloody.

The blood isn’t hers.

Jack’s husband held up pretty well. The erection pills probably helped, but twice in an hour was more than Lance ever managed.

“Not bad, loverboy. If you enjoyed yourself, don’t say anything.”

Alan stays quiet. The duct tape gag has a lot to do with it, but it makes Alex feel good just the same.

In the shower, she lathers up and plans her next few moves. Alex is good at planning. Thinking things through. Anticipating problems. It’s one of the reasons she’s been such a successful killer, caught just one time in a career lasting well over two de cades. Being careful doesn’t just happen. It requires deliberation. One must consider every possible contingency, and then predict probable outcomes.

Though genetically she’s a predator—something she got from Father—she can also thank him for her plotting capabilities. Growing up in a house hold ruled by fear and abuse can turn the most innocent child into a cold, calculating machine. Alex never learned how to play chess, but guesses she’d be good at it.

She playfully swishes a toe through the blood-streaked suds swirling down the drain, and decides to find some time in her busy schedule today to paint her toenails. She likes how the red looks.

The hair dryer is even worse than the one at the Old Stone Inn—Alex bets her hair is growing faster than it’s drying. She gives up after a few minutes, putting it into a ponytail while still damp. Makeup is a chore. She’s going out in public, so that means caking on the thick scar cover. The product comes with a tiny spatula, and it goes on like flesh-colored Spackle. Alex fusses with her bangs, letting them hang down over the bad half of her face, and then chooses to walk away before she starts to get angry again.

Back into the bedroom, naked. No real room for any serious exercise. But then, she probably got enough exercise in the last hour. She dresses in the cop uniform again, pleased that Alan is watching her. He’s gone from looking scared to looking devastated. Like a kicked dog.

“I’ll be back soon, dear. Don’t wait up for me.”

He doesn’t answer. She spends ten minutes online, giving Alan’s credit card a little workout. She remembers his e-mail address from his Web site, but she does have to give him a few gentle slaps to get him to spill his preferred Internet password. It gives her tremendous plea sure to hear his password is Jacqueline. What a sap.

When she’s finished with the computer, she sits on the bed and opens up the defibrillator, pretending to press a few buttons.

“I’ve activated the automatic motion sensor. So if you struggle, or try to scream, it will give you a nasty jolt. Plus, it will make me really angry. Trust me, I’m much easier to get along with when you’re on my good side.”

She runs a finger along his forehead, wipes the blood off on a pillowcase, and leaves the hotel room, making sure to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

It’s a bright day, bright and painfully sunny, a sharp contrast to the cool wind chilling her scalp. Alex stands in the parking lot, pretending to search her pockets for her keys but actually getting the lay of the land. No one loitering. No parked cars with tinted windows or with the engines running. She knows that the authorities have by now found the Hyundai’s own er, dead in the ditch, and are looking for his car and his murderer.

She heads on to the car, climbs in, and drives twice around the parking lot. No tails.

Using the onboard GPS, she searches department stores in the area, and heads for the closest. She finds the superglue, the floss, the half-inch screw eyes, the inkjet printer and specialty paper, the socket set, the road flares, and the five-gallon gas canister easily enough, but has to walk up and down several aisles before finding the outlet timer. In the cosmetics department, she chooses a fire engine red nail polish. Standing in the checkout line, Alex notes that people are avoiding looking in her direction. She’s used to that—people tend to be repulsed by deformities, and after one glance they turn away. But in this case, people aren’t even giving her that first look.

It’s the uniform. People naturally distrust cops. In a weird way, it’s almost like being invisible. Alex watches a mother in line ahead of her, repeating over and over that she isn’t going to buy her son the toy he’s clutching and whining about. It reminds Alex of Samantha, the stripper with the little girl from yesterday, and Alex digs out her cell.

“Sammy? It’s Gracie.”

“Gracie?” Samantha sounds groggy. It’s lunchtime, but dancers work late hours.

“We met yesterday at the bookstore. You offered to take me clothes shopping.”

“Oh, hi! Glad you called.”

Alex’s eyes flick to a woman, Caucasian, mid-fifties, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that she probably bought at this store. Short hair, brown with blond streaks. Gym shoes. Strangely, no purse. She’s beelining in this direction, face frantic, arms pumping.

“I’m free to night,” Alex says. “What’s your schedule look like?”

“I have off. I can call my neighbor, have her watch Melinda.”

The woman is a few steps away now, so close Alex can see the trickle of blood leaking from her nose.

“Officer!” the woman calls.

“That would be so cool,” Alex says into the phone. “You’ve got my number, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you. Awesome!”

“See you later.”

She hangs up just as the woman is tugging on her arm.

“He hit me and took my purse!” The woman’s voice is high-pitched, tinged with hysteria. Her cheeks glisten with tears.

“I’m off duty, ma’am.” Alex points at her cart with her chin. “You should call 911.”

“You have to help me! Please! There he is!”

Alex follows the woman’s finger in the direction of a teenager sporting gang colors, heading for the exit. He’s about forty yards away, young, moving fast. He’ll be out the door in a matter of seconds. A challenging target.

The holster on Alex’s hip has an unfamiliar snap holding the gun in place, and she loses half a second fumbling with it. But the draw is smooth, her aim is sure, and the kid flops to the ground minus his right knee.

There’s a moment of shocked silence, then pandemonium, people diving and ducking and screaming and shouting. Alex drinks in the reaction.

“I can’t see from here, but it doesn’t look like he has your purse.” Alex talks louder than normal; her ears are ringing, and so are everyone else’s. “But he probably has your cash and credit cards on him. I’m guessing he ditched your purse someplace in the store.”

The woman’s jaw is hanging open. Alex tips her cap, holsters her gun, and pushes her cart toward the exit.

The gangbanger is on the floor, clutching his knee, face wrenched with pain. Early teens, peach fuzz on his chin. His running days are over. And from the amount of blood on the floor, his walking days might be over as well. He sees Alex approach and fumbles for something in his loose-fitting jeans. Alex draws again, pointing the barrel at his groin.

“I blew off your kneecap from over a hundred feet away,” she says. “You want to see what kind of damage I can do this close to you?”

He shakes his head, his whole body twitching, and slowly raises his empty hands. Alex digs into his pocket, takes out a battered .22. She tucks it into her belt.

“Do yourself a favor, kid, and quit crime. You suck at it.”

She walks out of the store with a cop swagger and a cart full of merchandise she didn’t pay for.

CHAPTER 35

PHIN AND I STARED AT EACH OTHER for a little bit. I put on my cop face to keep my emotions hidden. But instead of Phin wearing his tough-guy face, he looked like the last kid picked for kickball.

“I’m not going to be around for long,” he said.

I folded my arms. “I’m not forcing you to help me, Phin. You can leave whenever you want to.”

“I meant being alive. I’m dying of cancer, Jack. I might not make it through winter.”

“Oh.” I was trying to be strong, not be an asshole. “Sorry.”

“It’s just—women carry pregnancy tests for two reasons. Because they think they’re pregnant…”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“…or because they want to get pregnant.”

“I don’t want to get pregnant. And you had no right to search my purse.”

“I wasn’t searching your purse. You told me to take money for donuts.”

“And you saw something wrapped in toilet paper and decided to take a look?”

“It wasn’t wrapped in toilet paper. It was sitting on top of your wallet.”

I wasn’t buying. I reached into my purse, pulled out the wad of toilet paper I’d used to wrap up the EPT, and waved it like a surrender flag.

“Are you saying this isn’t toilet paper?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, that’s toilet paper. But it wasn’t wrapped around anything.”

“Why else would I have toilet paper in my purse?”

Phin shrugged. “Emergencies? Afraid of being caught without it? How should I know? I’m not a chick, I don’t own a purse. I don’t know why you women keep half that stuff in there.”

“I only keep essentials in my purse.”

“You’ve got a wind-up plastic nun in there.”

“That’s Nunzilla. She shoots sparks out of her mouth.”

“That’s essential?”

“It was…a gift.”

Latham gave it to me, on our first-year anniversary.

“Look, I know you’re hurting. I know you miss him a lot. But if you’re trying to get pregnant to fill a void in your life, you should find a father who will be around for a while.”

I wasn’t sure what rankled more, Phin thinking I slept with him to get pregnant, or Phin thinking I needed a child to fill some void in my life.

“It’s not any of your business, but since you brought it up, I missed my last period and thought I might be pregnant, so I bought a pregnancy test when we were at the gas station last night. If you’d bothered to look closer, you’d see there was only one blue line, not two. I’m not pregnant, so this conversation is over.”

Phin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then cupped his elbow and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I believe you,” he said.

“Good. Because I’m telling the truth.”

“But if it’s negative, why did you save it?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out. What was I supposed to tell him? That part of me wanted to be pregnant, so I could always have part of Latham with me? That maybe I did have a void that needed to be filled? That keeping a negative pregnancy test was one more way I could punish myself, as a reminder of what never would be?

I wasn’t ready to tell him that. Especially when he was high on coke.

“If you think I slept with you because I wanted a sperm donor—”

He raised his palms. “I’m just trying to understand you a little better.”

“Why? Why the hell do you need to understand me?”

“Because…”

He gave me that look again and I knew that he was going to say the L word, and I did not need to deal with that right now.

“Never mind,” I interrupted. “We need to get to Gurnee and meet Harry. You want to drive, or rifle through my purse some more?”

He went from lovey-dovey to wounded, which I preferred.

“I’ll drive.”

I followed Phin out to the Bronco. The day was gray, overcast, and matched my mood. We got in the truck and didn’t say anything to each other for the first half hour of the drive. I finally got hungry and picked out one of the donuts he bought.

“Sprinkles,” I said, after swallowing a bite.

“Excuse me?”

“I like donuts with sprinkles.”

“Oh. Good to know. Anything you want to know about me?”

He sniffled, rubbed his nose. I resisted the temptation to ask which coke he preferred, Colombian or Panamanian. I also resisted asking him about criminal acts he’d committed in his past. I was curious how bad this bad boy really was, but I was also a cop and might feel compelled to act on the information. Sometimes ignorance makes things easier.

“Does it hurt?” I asked instead.

“The cancer?”

I nodded.

“Only some of the time.”

“When doesn’t it hurt?”

“When I’m asleep.”

“The pain is bad?”

He nodded, took one hand off the wheel to rub his elbow again. I reached out, touched his injury.

“Jesus, Phin! It feels like you have a beanbag in your elbow.”

“It’s pieces of cartilage. I’m supposed to keep it immobile.”

“You should have it in a sling. You don’t want permanent damage.”

“It won’t be permanent,” he said.

He didn’t say it with regret, or self-pity. He said it matter-of-factly, like he was talking about the weather.

I’d met some tough guys. Cops. Military. Bikers. Mobsters. Killers. With one sentence, Phin took the tough-guy crown. Which made me want to kiss him.

Jesus, this was messed up.

The phone rang. I cringed, thinking it was Alex, but it was Harry again.

“Where you at, sis?”

“We’re taking the Gurnee exit now.”

“I’m on the north side of the mall. Knock three times.”

“What about that deal you made?” I asked, referring to him selling out Phin to the Feds. I didn’t want to walk into a Feebie party.

“Not until we catch Alex. Trust me.”

Gurnee Mills was one of the largest malls in America, but the Crimebago was easy to find, even in the packed parking lot. Phin pulled up behind it, and I knocked three times like Harry instructed.

“Door’s open!” he called from inside.

Upon opening the door, I was greeted by a nasty smell. Not the normal nasty smell I associated with Harry. Something far worse.

“Jesus, Harry, it stinks in here.”

“I’m working on that.”

Harry was in a rumpled suit, stained with wet spots of various colors. He was holding a handful of those cardboard pine-scented car fresheners shaped like Christmas trees. But I wasn’t smelling pine. I was smelling zoo on a hot day.

There was a scream to our left, and I dropped to one knee and struggled to dig my gun out of my purse. When I got it in my hand Harry grabbed my wrist.

“Sis, don’t shoot Slappy!”

Another screech. I followed the sound to a large wire cage. Inside the cage was a monkey. It was light brown, perhaps eight or nine pounds, with large brown eyes and the cutest little monkey face.

I put my gun away.

“This is the extra help you recruited?” I asked.

He nodded, grinning. “He’s a pig-tailed macaque.” Harry said it mack-a-cue.

“I think it’s pronounced ma-kak,” Phin said.

Harry scratched his stubble. “That’s not what Al told me.”

“Al?”

“Al at Al’s Exotic Pets, in Deer Park. He sold him to me this morning.”

“He’s adorable,” I said, meaning it. “Why’d you name him Slappy?”

On cue, the monkey slapped himself on the side of the head. He did this over and over, increasing in speed and force. The sound wasn’t unlike applause.

Harry frowned. “There wasn’t much of a selection down at Al’s. It was either him or another primate I would have named Gassy. He also had some sort of gibbon, missing an arm and both legs.”

“Stumpy?” Phin said.

“More like Sitty. I’ve seen turtles that moved faster. I wonder if he was dead.”

“I think you chose perfectly,” I said.

Slappy screeched again, baring sharp yellow teeth.

“You sure he’s tame?”

“Most of the time. But don’t put your fingers near the cage.”

I knelt down on the carpet to get a closer look. Monkeys always fascinated me, ever since I was a little girl. Blame Curious George.

“Hello, Slappy. I’m Jack.”

Something wet hit me in the cheek. Something wet and brown and horribly stinky.

“Your monkey threw poop at me.”

“He does that. There are baby wipes next to his cage.”

I reached for one, and Slappy managed to pitch another slider, which hit me in the nose.

“I think he’s aiming for my mouth,” I said, mopping my face with baby wipes.

“Are you wearing makeup? He was rescued from a research lab. They tested cosmetics on him. Don’t let him see your lipstick—he gets a little agitated.”

“I’m not wearing—” I dodged left, a monkey turd zinging by my face. He was definitely aiming for my mouth.

“I like him,” Phin said. “He’s spunky.”

Slappy aimed and Phin ducked, dung splattering on the wall.

“Remind me again why you bought this thing,” I said to McGlade.

“I wanted to train him to get me beer and watch sports. But all he does is throw feces, hit himself in the face, and scream. He’s kind of a downer.”

Slappy screamed in agreement. Then he pressed his pelvis against the side of the cage and urinated on the floor. The smell was pee times a hundred, and made me cover my nose.

“He does that too,” McGlade said. “A lot. Al said he knows how to use the toilet.”

The stream arced through the air, landing on Harry’s sofa. Harry picked up a coffee mug that said Don’t Worry Be Happy and tried to catch the stream. I stepped away.

“I think maybe Al lied to you.”

Slappy screeched, then began banging his little monkey head into the side of his cage.

“You should buy him a helmet,” Phin said.

“He came with one. I took it off because I thought it was cruel. Now I’m afraid to get close enough to put it back on.”

I crouched down again, wary of another salvo but determined to make friends.

“I think you just need to learn some manners, and then you’ll be fine,” I told Slappy, keeping my voice soft. “You’re probably just scared. I would be too, living with Harry. But I bet with a few days of training, you’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Slappy stopped banging his head and made an adorable cooing sound. Then he grabbed his little monkey ding-dong and began to beat off with frightening intensity, keeping his eyes on me the whole time.

Never saw Curious George do that.

I got out of range and busied myself looking for the rifles. They were in the bedroom closet. I checked to make sure they were loaded, safeties on.

“What does he eat?” Phin asked.

“It’s called monkey chow. It’s not that bad. Sort of tastes like meat-flavored charcoal briquettes.”

“You tried it?”

“Yeah. Want some?”

“I’m gonna pass on that one.”

“Slappy hates them. See?”

I carried the rifles back to the main room just as McGlade was bending down, handing Slappy a tan square object the size of a mini candy bar. Slappy took it, screeched, and bounced the food off Harry’s forehead.

“Well, it’s been fun,” I told Harry. “But we’ve got to get going.”

Harry frowned. “But I want to tell you how I found the second phone. It was in the mall, hidden behind a flat-screen TV at Sears. I used my Bluetooth receiver and…”

I kept one eye on Slappy as Harry droned on. The macaque seemed to be temporarily out of bodily fluids, but I didn’t know what his refractory period was.

“That’s brilliant,” I interrupted, “but we really have to hit the road.”

“How about lunch? We can grab some lunch together. Sis?”

“Not hungry,” I said. “Might never be hungry again.”

“Phin?”

“No thanks.”

“Please don’t leave me alone with Slappy,” Harry said.

“Maybe a beer will calm him down.”

“You think?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“How about whiskey? Think a shot of whiskey is too strong?”

“I’d give him a different kind of shot,” Phin said. “One in the head, then a quick funeral wrapped in newspaper.”

Harry stared at Slappy, as if considering it.

“Harry, you can’t kill your monkey.”

That was how my day was going, cautioning people against murder.

“Maybe Al will trade him for the amputee one,” Phin suggested.

“How can a no-legged monkey fetch me beer? Roll it to me?”

“You can tie a little cord to his neck, and he can tug it behind him.” Phin mimed a one-armed primate dragging itself across the floor.

McGlade winced. “That’s not fun. That’s depressing. I wanted a fun pet.”

“You’re right. A pet that throws shit at you is a lot more fun.”

“Maybe a glass cage? Then he couldn’t throw anything.”

“He still could,” Phin said. “It would just cling to the inside walls. You’d have a big brown box.”

“How about some sort of restraining device. Do they make little macaque-size handcuffs?”

Monkey bondage was our cue to leave.

“We gotta go, Harry. I’ll call you later.”

I herded Phin past the monkey cage, giving Slappy a wide berth. He was sitting down, looking vaguely superior, like a king on a throne.

We got out of there before the king threw anything else at us.

“Where to?” Phin asked after we climbed into the truck.

“The woods. Someplace secluded.”

“Got something in mind?” He grinned at me.

“In fact I do. But it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“Want to clue me in?”

I closed my eyes, thought it through, then said, “Just drive to a place where no one will be bothered by gunfire.”

CHAPTER 36

THE COP UNIFORM has gone from asset to liability. Showing off at the department store was a mistake, though an amusing one. Alex needs to ditch the Hyundai and the uniform, and find suitable replacements for both. She was planning to do it today anyway, but shooting a teenager in front of a dozen witnesses made it a little more pressing.

Clothing is the easier of the two. She finds a local mall, hits Neiman Marcus, and buys a Joan Vass striped tunic with matching beige boot-cut pants. The Ferragamo loafers are overpriced but cute, and that purchase leaves her with thirty dollars in cash. Not enough to even pay the taxes on a handbag, and they have a Marc Jacobs satchel that would go perfectly with the outfit.

Alex changes clothes in the mall restroom. The gun, holster, and accessory belt gets put into one of the Neiman Marcus bags. The pants from the police uniform get stuffed into the garbage. The shirt gets a nice long soak in the sink and then placed into the other Neiman bag—it’s plastic, so it won’t drip.

Then it’s time to do a different kind of shopping.

Alex leaves the mall and hangs out next to the exit doors, scanning the parking lot as if waiting for a ride. What she’s really waiting for is a single woman to come out. A single woman with some fashion sense.

It’s a nice neighborhood, with a nice mall, and it doesn’t take long for a chunky yuppie type with a four-hundred-dollar haircut and a Prada bag to stroll outside, one hand clutching some merchandise from Saks, the other fussing with the touch screen of her iPhone. Alex falls into step behind her.

Following her requires zero stealth—the woman is oblivious to everything but her electronic gadget. The parking lot is full. She stops twice to get her bearings, then eventually finds her car a row over from where she thought it was. Alex had been hoping for something sporty, maybe a BMW or a Lexus. Instead, the woman drives a white Prius.

Alex checks the parking lot, but there’s no one nearby, and she reaches inside her shopping bag for the wet shirt. She wraps it around the gun, covering her entire hand. The chubby woman keeps playing with her iPhone up until the moment Alex jams the barrel into the back of her neck and fires.

The gun is loud, but the shirt muffles it somewhat. Alex doesn’t stop to check if anyone is watching. She kneels down next to the body and opens up her new Prada bag.

Except it isn’t Prada. It’s a knockoff.

“Hell,” Alex says.

All that work for a Prius and fake Prada.

She finds the car keys, hits the unlock button on the remote, and horses the dead body into the cramped backseat, keeping low and out of sight of the cars circling the lot looking for spaces. On a whim, she checks the Saks bags. Vera Wang pajamas. They’re nice, but Alex doesn’t wear pajamas, and she certainly doesn’t wear a size fourteen. She arranges the pajamas and assorted bags over the body to cover it up, and locks the doors.

Another 360 check for witnesses. No one is paying attention to her.

Then Alex marches back into Neiman Marcus and buys the Marc Jacobs satchel. The cashier, a young blonde who probably went to a local community college and majored in giggles, asks Alex for an ID to match the dead woman’s credit card.

Alex leans in close.

“It burned in the crash, along with half my face. I haven’t gotten a new one yet, because I’m afraid to drive again. Would you like me to speak to your manager?”

Blondie declines. The fifteen-hundred-dollar charge goes through, and Alex heads back to the Prius. Once in the driver’s seat she transfers the contents of the fake purse to the real purse, and tosses the fake one onto the corpse.

“You died too young. Should have treated yourself and bought the real thing.”

Happily, there’s more than two hundred bucks in the woman’s wallet, along with half a pack of gum and a canister of pepper spray, which the woman should have been holding instead of her iPhone. Alex pops a stick of spearmint into her mouth and pulls out of the parking space. She heads back to the Hyundai, loads her previous purchases into the Prius, and drives until she finds a gas station.

She fills the five-gallon plastic canister she bought at the department store and retraces her steps.

Her previous stolen car blew up, and it’s unlikely they’ll link it to her. Plastic explosives do wonders for removing fingerprints.

Multiple witnesses saw her shoot the gangbanger, including the gangbanger, but it could take a few days before her name gets pulled into it. If ever. She left no evidence; the brass belonged to the cop and Alex wiped off the cart handle. There were security cameras, but Alex always keeps her head down in public places, a habit from before the disfigurement.

The Feds are no doubt looking for her. As is Jack, and all of Jack’s department. But they have no reason yet to think she’s in Iowa.

Unless they get lucky. Alex can’t discount that. Luck is how she got caught. Luck is how Jack got away last time. Which means it’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.

If the authorities haven’t gotten lucky yet, there’s no reason to make it any easier for them.

Alex drives back to the Hyundai and double-parks behind it. All five gallons of gas get splashed around the interior. She considers tossing the body in there as well, but a homicide will get more attention than a vandalized car, so she lets her be for the moment.

The license plates are attached with nuts and bolts, and Alex removes them with the socket set she bought. She tosses the plates onto the body—something else to dispose of later—and lights up the car with a road flare. Then she climbs into the Prius and heads back to the Holiday Inn.

No squad cars in front. No men suspiciously lingering outside. Alex parks. The police band radio is attached to the cop’s utility belt, in one of the bags. Alex switches it on, finds the local dispatch frequency, listens to chatter. It’s all in code, which Alex doesn’t know, but she does hear some talk about the car bombing at the mall.

She turns it off and lugs everything back into the hotel. It’s with much amusement, and some disappointment, that she sees Alan is still tied to the bed. Unlike Lance, who butchered his wrists trying to get free, the duct tape securing Jack’s husband still looks freshly applied. The poor dear must have actually believed that BS about the motion sensor. Maybe that’s Jack’s secret to finding men: She picks the really gullible ones.

“Did you miss me?” Alex asks.

He mumbles something around the gag that sounds like bathroom. Alex shakes her head.

“You don’t want to go in there. Trust me. Single women can be sloppy.” She holds up her new satchel, posing with it. “Do you like my new bag? Marc Jacobs. It was a steal.”

His eyes are pained, tired. Alex sits next to him, gives him a gentle pat on the cheek. Then she examines the defibrillator. It has a battery pack and an AC cord. The back opens up, and Alex pulls out the battery. Since it isn’t plugged in, the unit goes dead. She flips one of the switches to manual override, then presses the big green button with a hotel pen and squeezes on enough superglue for it to stay in the on position. Theoretically, once she plugs it into the wall, it will shock Alan. And will probably keep shocking him, over and over.

The outlet timer has settings that are pretty self-explanatory. It’s made to turn on lights, or a coffee machine, or anything plugged into it, at a preset hour. Alex programs in the current time.

“How long should we give Jack to save you? Let’s make this one exciting. She’s probably in Wisconsin, but she’ll assume you’re still in Iowa, which gives her an advantage. It took me three hours to get here, but I was stopped by the police. Let’s give her two.”

Alex sets the gadget, allowing for extra time to run some necessary errands. When she calls Jack, the lieutenant will have 120 minutes before Alan gets a jump start.

She tapes an extra cell phone to the wall, switches on the camera, and checks her laptop to make sure the live feed is working. Then she uses her main cell phone to snap a picture of Alan. He looks suitably pathetic.

She gathers up her things, then plugs in the outlet timer and defibrillator.

“Thanks for the sex,” she tells Alan. “For what it’s worth, I won’t mind too much if Jack saves your life. And if you do live, I wouldn’t worry about the scars. I think they’ll heal up nicely.”

Before she leaves, Alex takes thirty seconds to jerry-rig the door latch. It’s a standard privacy lock; on the door, at eye level, is a brass knob on a plate. It fits into a U-shaped bar, which is attached to the jamb. When the bar is swung over the knob, the knob slides into the groove, preventing the door from being opened more than an inch or two.

Alex twists a screw eye into the door just behind the brass plate. She feeds the floss through the eyelet and ties it to the U-bar. She plays out a few feet of floss—enough to open the door—and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. The floss is still in her hand, caught between the door and the jamb. Alex pulls the floss, taking up the slack until she hears a soft clink: the sound of the U-bar swinging over the knob.

She uses the key card, tries to open the door. The latch prevents it. Alex tugs on the floss, snapping it off at the knot, and then closes the door.

The lock isn’t really an effective deterrent, and won’t stop a determined criminal, or in this case a determined cop. But it will stop a maid.

Alex takes the Do Not Disturb sign off the knob, places it on a room across the hall, and heads down to her new Prius to do some hotel hopping.

CHAPTER 37

“SQUEEZE IT,” I told Phin. “But be soft and gentle.”

He looked up and grinned at me. “You’re turning me on talking like that.”

“Focus on the target, not me. And squeeze the trigger until you feel it break.”

“It’s going to break?”

“That’s what it’s called when the trigger gives. The .377 is going to kick, hard, and sound like you stuck your head in a thundercloud. But don’t hesitate with the second shot. Relax and fire another round as fast as you can.”

Phin was in a sniping position, on his belly, legs splayed out behind him, the big H-S Precision rifle resting on a tree stump. We were in a fallow field, a few miles west of I-94. Phin had taken a dirt road to get here, and there wasn’t another soul as far as the eye could see.

We’d spent twenty minutes attaching our scopes, configuring the crosshairs. Now we needed to zero them out, a task that had to be individually configured for each shooter. I’d already zeroed out my scope to about two hundred yards, and put four rounds into a target the size of a grape.

Phin had no experience with long arms. I set up his target—a Realtor’s For Sale sign we’d liberated from the front of an old farmhouse—thirty yards away, its iron legs stuck in the dirt.

“Aim for the letter O.” I’d shot through the E. “Line it up and squeeze. And do it after you exhale.”

“Who taught you how to shoot?”

“My mother.”

“My mom taught me how to make fried chicken.”

“Focus. Soft and gentle.”

“Soft and gentle.” Phin blew out a breath, pulled the trigger.

The rifle crack was loud enough to scare crows two counties over. The target twitched back, then righted itself.

“Again!” I yelled over the ringing in my ears.

He pulled back the bolt, ejected the brass, and pushed another round into the chamber. Then he fired again, but Phin did what every newbie did when anticipating the sound and recoil: He flinched and jerked the trigger, missing the target completely.

Without prompting he loaded the final round from the internal magazine, aimed, and fired more carefully, getting another hit. I waited for him to eject the round, told him to leave the breach open, and went to check his target.

The two bullets that struck were an inch lower than the E, and slightly to the right. I’d given Phin a penny and instructed him to turn the scope’s vertical and horizontal screws in the proper directions to adjust the crosshairs. He loaded three more rounds, rested the gun on the stump, and fired again.

This time the bullets all hit the E. I marched the sign back another fifty yards, wet dirt clinging to my new shoes, then got clear and yelled at him to try again. Phin put another three into the sign, faster this time. Only one hit the sign. He’d probably turned one of the screws too far.

My phone rang before I had a chance to tell him. I fished it out of my pocket, my mind blanking when I saw who the call was from.

555-5555.

Alex.

The text message came first.

THIS IS ALAN. HE’S YOUR HUSBAND.

Oh God. Oh no. She was lying. She had to be.

Please, be lying.

Then the picture. Alan, tied to a bed. His bare stomach sliced up, the blood dry, but the cuts on it forming unmistakable words:

TILL DEATH DO US PART

My legs stopped supporting me and I fell onto my ass. I kept staring at Alan—poor Alan—and thinking about that last awful argument I’d had with him. It was my fault he’d been grabbed by the monster. My fault he was in this mess. The very thing he’d been preaching at me all these years had come true.

Another text came. I opened it, trembling hands barely able to hold on to the phone.

HE DIES IN TWO HOURS.

Two? That wasn’t right. That had to be a mistake. Alan lived in Iowa. A three-hour drive from here. Alex wasn’t playing fair.

“That’s not fair,” I said, but it didn’t sound like me. “Two hours isn’t enough time. It’s not fair.”

“Jack?” Phin was standing over me, breathing hard, his hand on my head.

“Not fair.”

“What’s not fair?” He took the phone from me.

“I can’t save him in two hours. It’s not enough time.”

Phin looked at the text, pressed a few buttons. I stared beyond him, past the For Sale sign, past the field, to the horizon—that faint line where the brown earth met the gray sky, the great divider between heaven and earth. Except that there was no heaven. No hell either. But there didn’t need to be.

We were already in hell.

I had no spirituality. The little I was born with vacated the first time I saw a dead child, my second week on the Job. But I always had my morality. Always had my altruism. I was destined to be a Girl Scout, forever helping people cross the street, gaining what ever satisfaction I could from the meager act.

But my efforts weren’t meager. They were worthless. Completely fucking worthless.

Life had no meaning. It had no point. I’d chosen a career to do good. To prevent cruelty, and death, and suffering. To right wrongs. To fight for something important.

But nothing I did mattered. I didn’t change anything. And I’d brought upon myself the very things I’d tried to prevent.

There are no heroes. There are only losers.

“We have to go.” Phin grabbed me under my armpit, pulled me to my feet. “Where does he live?”

“We can’t make it.”

“We can try.”

What was Phin’s problem? Didn’t he know it was useless? Alex will just keep on doing this, over and over. And if not Alex, someone else will. You can’t fight darkness. Darkness comes. You can turn on some lights, lie to yourself that it will all be okay. But it never is.

“Goddamn it, Jack. You can have your breakdown when we’re in the car. Move your ass.”

“I’ve been lying to myself,” I whispered.

“No shit. You’ve been lying to yourself for your entire career. But this is a piss-poor moment to stop lying.”

His words settled in, gave me something to latch on to. Because he was right. Being hopeless had never stopped me before.

Maybe I couldn’t prevent tragedy. Maybe I couldn’t make a difference. Horrible things would keep happening, that was a guarantee, and maybe I’d never be able to stop them.

But I still had to try.

“Okay,” I said, forcing my voice to be strong. “Let’s save him.”

I sprinted for the truck, the moist earth sucking at my shoes. Tripped. Slid on my knees, banging into a rock. Scrambled on all fours until I was up and running again.

I beat Phin to the Bronco, wondering where he was, and then he was in the driver’s seat and starting the engine.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“Iowa. I’ve got a GPS thing on my phone.”

All four tires kicked up mud, and we headed west.

CHAPTER 38

ALEX HEADS EAST, wondering if she’ll pass Jack on the road somewhere. It’s an amusing thought. Two mortal enemies, their cars zipping by at high speed, perhaps even going too fast to recognize each other. Alex considers pulling over, waiting on the side of the road, shooting out her adversary’s tires so they can have their final showdown.

No, it’s best to wait. Now isn’t the right time. Let Jack lose a few more people she cares about first.

Alex doesn’t believe in destiny. Fate is a future you didn’t try hard enough to change. If you want things to go your way, being smart and being strong are helpful, but you still have to work your ass off. Ways and means plus determination.

Jack is smart and strong and determined. She’s also lucky. But she keeps making a key mistake. The same mistake that loses ball games, and fights, and wars. Jack is reacting rather than acting. And as long as she keeps doing that, she’s not going to change fate.

Alex pulls off the highway to grab something to eat, and after a greasy fast-food meal that will probably go straight to her hips if she doesn’t schedule a workout later, she wanders into a chain store and picks up a few supplies. Focusing on the next victim. Staying one step ahead of Jack. Calling the shots.

Back in the car, the Midwestern great plains blurring by on both sides mundanely, hypnotically, Alex lapses into a very old habit.

She daydreams.

“Daydreams aren’t practical,” Charles used to tell her. “Escaping reality is bullshit. Confront reality. Kick its ass. Make it what you want it to be.”

Easier said than done, growing up with Father. A fantasy world offered a brief vacation from the horrors.

Alex never imagined she was a princess, or owned a unicorn, or any magical shit like that. Her imagination was closely tied to reality. The only difference was that in her daydreams, Alex had absolute control.

Daydreaming now, the endless miles of brown fields morphed into the farm where she grew up. She and Charles are children, and have placed a bushel basket on the hood of Father’s truck, playing a makeshift game of basketball. Father comes out of the house. Normally he’d scream at them, preaching some biblical nonsense mixed with his own par tic u lar brand of paranoia, self-hatred, and psychosis. That might lead to Alex being punished, or almost as bad, Alex being forced to punish Father, wielding some of the awful implements he employed for the task.

But in the daydream, Alex is all-powerful. She prevents him from acting crazy. He stands there and watches, hands on his hips, his face neutral. Then, incredibly, he smiles, and asks to join the game.

A painfully obvious, incredibly pathetic scene. Alex knows this, but it pleases her anyway. In this insipid little fantasy, Alex has everything that was taken from her. Charles. Her face. Her childhood. In having total control, she can give up total control, and the feeling brings a real-life smile to her face.

Well, half a smile.

Which forces reality to return.

Alex then lapses into another childhood habit. When in pain, the best way to take your mind off it is to cause pain. She locates her cell phone on the passenger seat of the Prius and calls Jack.

“I hope you’re close,” she says. “By my watch, you’ve got less than a half an hour.”

“Fuck you, Alex.”

“That’s probably what your husband is thinking about you right now. About how you fucked him by marrying him. I guess it doesn’t pay to get close to you. If we were friends, I’d fear for my life.”

Jack doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t hang up either. Maybe she’s hoping Alex will give her something. Alex plans on it, but there’s no rush.

“He still loves you, Jack. Did you know that? He even called out your name while we were making love. He likes it on the rough side. Ever try cutting him before? He screamed, but I think he enjoyed it.”

“Is that Alex?” Phin, in the background. “Tell her to drop dead for me.”

“I always liked Phin. What is it about bad boys, Jack? Not that you’d know. You like falling for wimps. Does it make you feel stronger, being with men that you can manipulate? Or does their neediness fill some maternal urge?”

“Are you going to get to the point, Alex?”

“No time for girl talk? I understand. You’re on a tight schedule. Another man you love is going to die. Tough to concentrate on idle chitchat.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No you’re not. You’ll listen for as long as I want you to, hoping for a precious clue. Well, here it is, Lieutenant. I’m sure you’re heading to Iowa now, but you probably don’t know where I’ve got your husband stashed. There are a few dozen hotels in Dubuque, and trust me, I’ve made it hard for you. So if you need a little hint, ask Jim Hardy. And here’s some good advice, woman to woman. If you find Alan, and he’s all lit up like a Christmas tree, keep your hands to yourself.”

Alex hangs up, pleased. The hint is obscure—a lot harder than the “Stairway to Heaven” clue. But it’s just cute enough that when Jack figures it out, she’ll kick herself.

Having enemies is so much fun.

Alex pulls off the main highway, into the nearest town, looking for a coffee shop, bookstore, or Internet café. Something with WiFi access.

The next show is about to start.

CHAPTER 39

AS SOON AS I GOT off the phone with Alex I called Harry.

“How are you doing with Alan’s credit cards?”

Phin, talking about his past while we were in the motel, reminded me that the easiest way to find someone is to track their latest credit card purchases. If Alan listened to my warning and checked into a hotel, he probably made the reservation using a card. Harry, given the nature of his business, had sources with all the big banks.

“It’s not good, sis. Ah, Christ!”

“What? What is it?”

“Slappy just puked beer all over the place. He can puke farther than he can piss. This is even messier than a brass clown. Good fucking suggestion, Phin.”

“Focus, McGlade! Can you get his usage history?”

“I’ve got his complete history. But Alex must have known we’d do this. I’ve got hotel charges for eight hotels in Dubuque, Iowa, all made within the last twenty-four hours. She must have made the reservations using his card.”

Shit.

“Can’t you tell which one came first? Or which is the most active? Maybe he had room ser vice, or watched a movie.”

“Negativo. All I’ve got are pings, not actual charges. Billing doesn’t happen until hours, sometimes days, after a card gets authorized. That’s why it doesn’t appear on your statement right away.”

“Give them to me.”

Harry read the list. I wrote the names and addresses down on the back of the donut bag.

“How far are we?” I asked Phin.

He had the accelerator pinned, and we were flying so fast that even seat belts and air bags wouldn’t save our lives if he made a mistake.

“Ten minutes from Dubuque. What’s the destination?”

Alan had eight minutes left. “We don’t know yet.”

“We’re going to hit traffic when we reach the city. There will only be time to try one hotel.”

“How about Jim Hardy?” I asked Harry. “Anything?”

“The main Google hits are for a pro golfer, an old-time newspaper comic, an NFL quarterback from the fifties. But the golfer gets the most.”

“Those eight hotels. Do any of them have a golf course nearby?”

“I can check. Aw, Jesus!” Harry made a gagging noise. “Right in the mouth! Do I gotta buy a goddamn hockey mask to protect myself from flying monkey dung?”

My call waiting beeped. Tom Mankowski. “Call me back,” I said, and clicked over to Tom. “Please give me some good news.”

“The Dubuque cops are calling all the hotels, searching for an Alan Daniels, and so far they’ve found six reservations.”

“Any check-ins?”

“All six. They’re sending out teams, but they’re not a big department. The town only has sixty thousand people in it, and there was some big shoot-out at a department store, so they can’t spare many men.”

“How about Jim Hardy?”

“I’ve been poring through Alex’s files. So far, nothing. Lieut…there’s something else you need to know.”

“Spill it, Detective.”

“The Feds have a warrant. Dubuque PD was ordered to arrest you on sight. They believe you’re harboring a fugitive. Are you?”

“He’s a bank robber. You want to talk to him?”

“Tell him I said hi,” Phin said.

“Be careful, Lieutenant. I’ll call when I hear something.”

I hung up. Phin tapped the brakes, causing me to lurch forward in my seat.

“Exit, Jack. We have to make a decision.”

I stared at the list of hotels. We had a one in six chance of picking the right one. And even if we did pick correctly, we might not make it in time. I hated these odds, almost as much as I hated my job, my life, myself. And Alex. God, did I hate Alex. For what she did to Latham, and now to Alan. Harry figured out from the picture that she’d hooked him up to a defibrillator. Which explained her “light him up like a Christmas tree” comment.

Or did it?

Alan wouldn’t actually light up. He’d be electrocuted. She could have easily made a snide comment about him being shocked, or fried, or something to do with his heart. Why’d she mention Christmas?

I redialed Harry.

“Google Jim Hardy plus Christmas.”

“Hold on, I’m brushing my teeth.”

“Now, McGlade!”

“Fine! Aw, God. There are chunks of monkey chow on my keyboard. It smells awful. I’m starting to think this pet thing wasn’t a good idea.”

“Harry!”

“Okay! Jeez! First hit is…Holiday Inn. How about that? Jim Hardy is the character Bing Crosby played, sang ‘White Christmas’ in it. Slappy, no! One beer is enough!”

“Holiday Inn,” I told Phin, squinting at the directions on my GPS-enabled cell phone.

Phin gave me a quick sideways glance.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to use your cell. Feds could track it.”

“No choice. Turn on Fourth Street, right on Main.”

I called 911, told them there was a murder being committed at the hotel, just as we pulled into the parking lot, squealing tires.

“The cops know about you,” I said to Phin. “You should stay in the car.”

“Like hell.”

We both got out and ran for the lobby.

“Alan Daniels,” I yelled at the front desk, flashing my badge. “What room number?”

Wrong approach. The girl was flustered, scared, and kept screwing up her typing. Finally, after an eternity, she said, “Room 212.”

We stormed up the stairs, less than two minutes to spare, and found Alan’s room, a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the lock. Phin unleashed a vicious kick. The door was strong, and held firm. But it couldn’t hold up against three shots from a forty-caliber Beretta.

“Alan!” I cried, barreling into the room, eyes and gun swinging over to the bed.

Empty. The room was empty. The bed was empty. Sitting on top of the sheets was one of those tiny bottles of liquor from the hotel minibar.

A bottle of Jack Daniels.

I thought of Alan, of our wedding day, our vows to love, honor, and protect.

“Alex was here,” I said. “Alan is still at the hotel. He has to be close. Check all the doors on this floor with Do Not Disturb signs on them. She wouldn’t want the maid coming in.”

In the hall Phin went left, I went right. I found a door with the sign, banged on it, got an annoyed response from inside. Not Alan. Moved farther down the hall, but there were no other signs.

Gunshots. Phin, bursting through a door.

I ran to him, praying to a God I didn’t believe in.

Another empty room.

Think, Jack, think. Alex brought him somewhere. It had to be close, had to be on this floor, because she took him with force, dragging him or pointing a gun at him, not wanting to be seen, not wanting the maid to find him…

The maid.

I picked up the room phone, punched the button for House keeping.

“’Allo?”

A woman, foreign.

“Listen very carefully,” I said. “I’m a police officer. I want to know what rooms on the second floor haven’t been cleaned yet.”

“I dunno. I ask Maria. She do second floor.”

And she put me on hold. I felt like screaming. According to my watch, we were already a minute late.

“This is Maria.”

“What rooms weren’t cleaned on the second floor?”

“Lemme see. Room 212, I think. Room 203. And room 208. I knocked, no answer, but they had lock on.”

“Two oh eight,” I said to Phin, and we were flying out the door.

Found the room.

I shot the lock.

He put his shoulder to it, and then we were inside.

Alan was taped to the bed, jerking and twitching, eyes rolled up in his head, a terrifying buzzing noise filling the room. I launched myself at him, reaching for the pads on his chest, and as soon as I touched him my arms locked up and pain flared through my body, like being dropped in scalding oil, so hot I felt it in my muscles and bones. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t move. I would have screamed, but my throat slammed shut.

Then I was on the floor, Phin’s arm around my waist. I gasped for air, managed to get some in, while Phin tugged at an electrical cord plugged into the wall. I crawled back up to Alan, pulled those horrible pads from his chest, pulled up burned skin from where they were attached.

Touched the raw flesh, feeling his heart.

Nothing. No beat.

Hands shaking, I tore at his tape gag, trying not to look at his eyes, his dead eyes, wide open in agony and showing only the whites.

Put my ear to his mouth.

No breath. He wasn’t breathing.

CPR. He needed CPR. I put my lips to his—when was the last time I kissed him?—then pulled away in horror.

He tasted…cooked.

I did it again, not hesitating, pinching his nose, blowing life into his lungs.

There was a wet, rumbling sound, and then brown blood frothed out of his mouth.

I straddled him, put my hands on his chest, began doing compressions.

Blood foamed out of his nose. Out of the corners of his eyes.

“Jack…”

Phin, touching my shoulder.

“The defibrillator,” I said. “We can shock him again. Get his heart started.”

Phin gave me a gentle tug. I shoved his hands away, went back to heart compressions.

“Jack, he’s lost too much blood.”

“Give me the goddamn defibrillator!”

Phin wrapped his arms around me, pulled me off Alan. I brought my heel down on his instep and he released me, then I spun around and punched him in the jaw, staggering him back. I scanned the floor for the defibrillator, found it, saw the button was glued down. No matter. I could put the pads on, plug it back in, it should work.

It had to work.

I picked up the pads, shakily placed them on Alan’s chest, and then noticed that the mattress was soaked in blood.

Too much blood. Much too much.

I gasped, brought a hand to my mouth. Then I placed my palm on his chest, pressed down. More blood sluiced out from under him, between his legs.

“No. Oh no no no no…”

Phin put his arms around me again. I heard sirens in the distance.

“We should go, Jack.”

I reached for Alan’s face, touched his cheek. Then I used two fingers to close his tortured eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

The sirens got louder. Phin half pulled/half carried me away from the bed, past the bathroom, where I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A person, hiding under the sink.

Alex.

I shoved Phin back, reaching for the gun in my belt. Except I didn’t have a gun in my belt. It had somehow gotten in Phin’s belt. I yanked it free, aimed, and fired three times as fast as I could pull the trigger.

Alex didn’t move.

Phin wrestled the gun away from me. I let him, reaching for the bathroom light.

Blood, everywhere. From the woman on the ground. A woman who had a knife stuck in her chest, and who definitely wasn’t Alex.

I crumpled to the floor. Again Phin supported me, holding me around my back with his hand under my armpit, maneuvering me down the hallway, to the stairwell, down the stairs, through the lobby, into the parking lot, while tears streaked down my face.

By the time I was in the truck I was wailing louder than the police cars that were surrounding us.

CHAPTER 40

NOW THAT WAS GREAT. The only thing missing was sound. It would have been wonderful to hear Jack’s cries of anguish, Alan’s muffled screams, the zap of electricity. But then, the other patrons in the coffee shop might have complained.

Alex closes her laptop, then closes her eyes, reliving the scene in her head. Her favorite part had to be when Jack began CPR, not knowing that each time she pressed Alan’s chest, blood squirted out his ass. When she socked Phin—that was priceless too. The girl can hit hard. Jack was too self-absorbed to see Phin probe the inside of his mouth, pull out a tooth.

Yes, it worked much better than Alex could have hoped.

Now to concentrate on the next victim, the next phase of the plan.

Alex finishes her coffee, then gets back on the road. An hour later, she’s standing on the street corner in Chicago, hood up, sunglasses on, hands jammed into her pockets.

Winter will be here soon. Alex won’t miss it. Growing up in the Midwest, she has long outlived her fondness for snow and ice.

It will be so nice to go someplace where the only ice comes in drinks.

She stands there for twenty minutes before hearing a rumbling, up the street. Alex checks her watch as the truck passes by. Right on time. The first time she saw it, two weeks ago, was pure luck. Seeing it twice, same place, same time, isn’t luck. It’s a pattern.

It motors past, turning where it did before, and Alex jams her hands back into her pockets and heads for her car, parked in an alley a block away. She climbs in and heads north.

Ninety minutes later she’s back in her hotel room in Milwaukee, using the Internet to instruct her in the finer points of using cell phones as radio transmitters. Then she calls Samantha to plan their date.

“Is your neighbor going to babysit?”

“She said sure. Do you have a car?”

Alex considers the Prius, the dead yuppie still in the backseat.

“No. Do you?”

“Sure. Want me to pick you up at your place?”

Alex isn’t keen on letting Sam know where she’s staying.

“I’m already downtown. Why don’t we meet at a mall? Isn’t there one called Bayshore?”

“Yeah. I’ll meet you at J. Jill. Great store. You’ll love it. When?”

“An hour?”

“Excellent!”

“Quick question. Have you ever done a bachelor party?”

“You mean like go to the guy’s house, give them lap dances, pick up twenties out of the groom’s mouth with my hoo-ha?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Once. Didn’t pay too well, and the guys were assholes.”

“Did you do it outlaw, no agency?”

“No, I went through a local place, called Laugh-O-Grams. They also send birthday party clowns and stuff. You thinking of trying that?”

“Just keeping my options open. Looking forward to seeing you.”

And Alex is. Men are fine, but women have their own par tic u lar flavor, and in many ways are more fun. Alex can’t wait to get into Samantha’s pants. It will be the perfect end to a perfect day.

CHAPTER 41

“JACK! PUT ON YOUR DAMN SEAT BELT!”

The Bronco jumped a curb, clipped a mailbox, and then fishtailed back onto the street. We had three or four squad cars behind us, sirens blaring, hot pursuit. I had a bump on my forehead from whacking it against the dashboard. Not what I’d been hoping for. I wanted to get thrown through the front windshield and splattered on the pavement. Let it end already.

Phin reached over, his hand seeking my seat belt. Not the easiest thing to do while cruising fifty miles an hour down a heavily populated side street. I shoved his arm away. We were in a residential area, single-family homes with carefully manicured front lawns. A place where you’d get married and settle down.

Something I’d fucked up twice.

He stopped trying to save my life and instead fiddled with his police band. I caught the word Staties.

“They’re calling in the state cops. We’re screwed.”

I didn’t care. Getting arrested was the least of my worries.

“Come on, Jack. Give me a suggestion here.”

“Ditch the car.”

He made an aggressive lane change, my shoulder bouncing off the passenger door.

“And try to make it on foot? We have to lose them first.”

“You can’t lose them. Air support is next. They’ll plot your route, take out your tires, follow you until you run out of gas. It’s over.”

“I say when it’s over.”

Typical macho bullshit. I wasn’t surprised. But then Phin did do something that surprised me. He tapped the brakes, jerked the wheel, and cut across someone’s driveway, the four-wheel drive digging trenches in the sod.

I flinched when we hit the backyard fence, popping onto someone else’s property. We bounced across their front lawn, back onto the street, and then Phin did the same thing all over again.

“You’re going to kill someone.” I was clinging to the armrest.

We narrowly missed a swing set, Phin overcompensated, and we spun out, crunching through a dog house that I sincerely hoped was empty. Phin hit the gas, the Bronco lurched forward, and we tore through another backyard, down an embankment, and into a cornfield. This was feed corn, beige and dry and standing over ten feet tall. Rows, acres, miles, an endless ocean.

Driving through it was agonizing, because we couldn’t see any farther than the hood. At any moment it could have ended and we’d be in the middle of the street. Or in a school playground during recess.

Phin didn’t let up. He pushed the accelerator, ears and husks banging against the windshield with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. First came some stress fissures. Then bigger cracks. Then the glass became one giant spiderweb, impossible to see through.

Phin kept the engine gunned.

“Okay. That’s enough.”

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

“Phin—” I warned.

He ignored me, his fate determined, his jaw set.

“Goddamn it, Phin!”

He swerved hard, knocking me into him, the truck doing a 180, 360, 720, before stalling to a stop.

“Finally start caring again?” he asked.

I pushed myself off him.

“Asshole.”

Phin shifted in his seat, frowning at me. “I’m the asshole? You’re the one who wanted to give up.”

I turned on him, teeth bared, filling with rage.

“You’ve already given up. You aren’t living. You’re just existing. You don’t care about anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Jack. That I’m here with you because I don’t care about anything.”

Sure, he was here for me. And I just threw my career away to protect him. I didn’t see him kissing my ass for that.

“You’ve got it easy,” I said, low and mean. “Some of us have to deal with the consequences of our actions. Maybe I should just drop out of society. Start robbing banks. What’s the current street price of coke, Phin? We can get stoned out of our minds and go knock over a liquor store. The hell with tomorrow, right?”

Phin went very cold. “I hurt,” he said evenly.

“Welcome to the club.”

“I physically hurt, Jack. It’s like someone is stabbing me in the side. All day. Every day. The cocaine helps.”

“I bet it does.”

“You want to compare losing some loved ones to dying of cancer?”

“How would you know? You don’t love anyone.”

“You’re wrong. I love—”

“Don’t fucking say it,” I warned. “Don’t you dare fucking say it.”

He stared at me, hard, then slowly nodded. “I get it.”

I wanted to hit him. “You don’t get shit. You think I’m afraid to get close to you because I’m afraid I’ll lose you? Get over yourself. I don’t want to get involved with a drug-sniffing loser.”

“Then maybe you should stop calling me when you need help.”

I was done with this conversation. I grabbed my stuff and got out of the damn truck. I was ten yards into the corn before remembering I left my rifle behind. Screw it. Let Phin keep the damn rifles. He could rob an old folks’ home, or sell them for cocaine.

Noise, from behind. I increased my pace.

Then a tug on my arm.

I whipped around, jammed my palm into his chest. Phin staggered backward.

“The lady doesn’t want to be touched,” I said, teeth clenched.

“The lady is acting like an asshole. You’re the only one in the world that hurts, is that it, Jack? And feeling sorry for yourself is the only way you can cope?”

“You don’t seem to be coping too well either.”

“I take it day by day. That’s all anyone can do.”

Day by day? What total crap.

“You’re one sorry SOB, you know that, Phin? You told me the sex wasn’t a mistake. You were wrong. It was a mistake. The latest in a long line of mistakes I’ve made. I’m through.”

“What about Alex? She wins?”

“You’re the big macho stud. You can handle her. I think you guys would make a really cute couple.”

I turned, and appropriate for my environment, stalked away. Phin made the mistake of grabbing my arm again.

I spun, whipping around my right leg, aiming to knock his sanctimonious head off. But he anticipated the move, already had his arm up over his head, and caught my foot in his armpit.

And then he made the biggest mistake of his life. He dropped my leg, took a quick step forward, and slapped me in the face.

Slapped me. Open-handed.

I felt my face go red, and not just the cheek he smacked. The hitting I didn’t mind. Hitting me meant he thought of me as an equal, that he could defend himself appropriately. But the fact that he actually pulled his punch—took it easy on me because I was a woman—that was infuriating. He didn’t think we were fighting. He thought he was handling some hysterical little girl.

That showed no respect for me at all. And I slept with this guy?

“Not smart,” I said. I dropped my gear.

“I’m sorry.” He put his hands up and backpedaled. “Did I hurt you?”

Apparently, he wanted to make it even worse. A breeze blew through the corn, making a peaceful, rustling sound. The sense of tranquility was shattered when I clenched my fists so tight we both heard my knuckles pop.

“If you want to hit me back, that’s fair.”

Jesus, he was just digging his own grave. Phin was lean, muscular, and had a few inches and maybe forty pounds on me. He could fight. I’d seen it. But I was a black belt, and I was beating up kids bigger than me while he was still in diapers.

I moved in with two quick steps, feinted left, then hit him with a left-right combo to the body. Phin brought up his fists, taking the shots on his shoulders. I jerked forward, head butting him between his arms, connecting with his jaw.

Phin kept his footing, but he was unsteady. I got a leg behind his and pushed, flipping him over my hip. He went down, hard, and I dropped a knee on his chest, fist poised to slam into his naked throat. A killing blow.

Instead, I opened my hand and slapped him across the mouth.

“You’re not worth a punch either,” I said.

He stared at me, stunned. I got up, grabbed my stuff, and stormed off.

“You’re mad because I slapped you and didn’t punch you?” he called after me. “You’re out of your goddamn mind!”

I didn’t dignify that with an answer. The more corn I got between us, the better off I was.

“Dammit, Jack! I didn’t punch you because I love you!”

I thought about yelling something back, but decided against it. I wanted the last words I ever said to Phineas Troutt to be the ones I’d already spoken. That’s all he deserved.

But even though he was out of my life, permanently, I had to begrudgingly thank him. Because of Phin, I was back to being angry.

Alex was going to suffer for what she did. I would make sure of it.

CHAPTER 42

“OH MY GOD!” Samantha squeals. “Those boots are to die for!”

They’re bright shiny red, just like Superman wears, except these have stiletto heels and red fringe around the top. Might as well write I’m a stripper across the tops.

“And they’re only eighty bucks! I’m soooo buying these!”

“I think I’ll get a pair too,” Alex says, battling her reluctance and picking one up. She checks the insole. Fabrique by Enrique Perez. A nobody, with zero fashion sense.

“You’ll look totally hot in those, Gracie.”

Was Sammy just being friendly? Or flirting? “Thanks. So will you.”

“I know I’m in shape, but I don’t have definition like you do. You can see your leg muscles through your pants.”

Sammy runs a finger along Alex’s thigh. This is definitely flirting.

“I work out a lot.”

“I knew you did. Pilates?”

Alex pictures her martial arts kata, kicking and striking to break imaginary boards and bones.

“Something like that,” she answers.

“I’ve tried them all. Jazz-Kwon-Do. Swimmerobics. Tramp-O-Chi—that’s tai chi on a trampoline, not with tramps, which would be gross. The local gym has a Spankercize class, but I don’t think I want my personal trainer whacking my ass.”

“Might be fun.”

“Depends on the spanker,” Sam says, winking.

The clerk comes by, and they request two pairs of Enrique’s finest, in the same size. This naturally provokes a squeal of delight from Sam. How nice it must be to get excited over such trivial things. Half an hour ago, she practically died of plea sure because the mall sound system played a Muzak version of Nirvana.

“So where to next? We hit all boutiques in the mall. There’s a Boston Store. I think they have a sale going on.”

“I’m starving,” Alex says. “How about food?”

“I know this groovy little Thai place. They’ve got this green curry to die for. I love spicy foods. They make me hot.”

Alex smiles her half smile. “Then we have to try it. Can you drive?”

“Sure!”

Sam takes Alex’s arm, and they walk out of the mall, Sam yapping and giggling, Alex genuinely amused by this woman’s spirit and enthusiasm. The enthusiasm is dampened somewhat when they get to Sam’s car.

A Prius.

“It gets sixty miles per gallon. It’s so green. I’m all about the planet. People are destroying the earth. We all need to conserve, or there won’t be enough left for everyone.”

“Or we could just kill a lot of people.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at Alex, then begins to laugh.

“God, you’re so funny! I thought you were serious!”

Alex lets out a few chuckles, hoping they don’t sound as forced as they feel. When they’re in the car, Alex touches Sam’s arm.

“Samantha, I’m having a good time, and I don’t want to be reading you wrong. But you do like girls, right?”

“You mean sexually?”

Alex nods.

“Sure! I’m totally bi. I mean, guys are great, but most of them are really impatient, you know what I mean? Women know how to take their time. Don’t you think?”

Alex nods, but the truth is, she’s feeling pretty impatient right now too.

After dinner, she tells herself.

They hold hands as Sam pulls out of the parking lot.

CHAPTER 43

AFTER THREE HOURS of sitting next to a cornfield, hiding every time a police car cruised by, I was almost grateful when the Crimebago pulled up.

Almost.

Harry parked alongside the street, and I entered cautiously, wincing at the noxious odor when I stepped inside. It smelled like Mighty Joe Young had run a marathon and then taken a bath in his own feces.

McGlade was standing next to the sofa, arms folded, frowning. I noticed Slappy’s cage was empty.

“Did you get rid of the macaque?” I asked, hopeful.

“No. He kept screaming and hitting himself in the face, so I let him out until he calmed down. Not my brightest idea.”

“Where is he?” I asked, casting ner vous rapid-fire glances around the RV.

“In the corner there. He learned a new trick.”

Slappy was propped against the wall, upside-down with his legs over his head. He was urinating, again, but this time he managed to catch most of it in his open mouth.

“That is one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen.”

“It gets worse,” McGlade said. “When he’s all done, he tries to spit it on you.”

Slappy began to make a gargling sound. For the first time ever, my cat Mr. Friskers didn’t seem so bad.

“Did you call Al’s Exotic Pets?”

“Al said all sales are final. Can’t really blame him.”

“Would he trade for anything else? Like maybe some feeder minnows? Or a chew toy?”

“No. But he offered to euthanize Slappy for fifty bucks.” Slappy puffed out his cheeks and spit a stream of urine toward us. We jumped away. “I’m thinking about it.”

“Don’t you dare, Harry. You just need to take some time and train him.”

“I tried. I don’t think he likes me.”

“What’s not to like?” I did my best to say it without sounding sarcastic.

“He might be mad because of the stick. When he was in his cage, I kept showing him a picture of Alex, and then poking him with a stick. You know, so if he ever saw her, he’d attack. But he seems to be holding a grudge. See?”

Harry took a step toward his monkey. Slappy opened his mouth, baring yellow fangs, snarling like a pit bull.

“Maybe you should stop poking him with the stick,” I said.

“No shit.”

Keeping one eye on the primate, I walked to the sofa and sat down. I stood up again immediately, my butt damp.

“There’s something wet on your couch.”

Harry nodded. “Do yourself a favor and don’t try to smell it. It’s better to lie to yourself and pretend it’s ginger ale.”

“Did you spill ginger ale?”

“No. That’s piss, shit, or monkey spooge.”

I made a face.

“Might also be some combination of the three,” Harry added. “Or vomit. Could be vomit.”

I let out a slow breath and wondered how I’d get the ginger ale stain out.

Slappy made a screeching sound that eerily resembled laughter. He was still upside-down, but was no longer going to the bathroom. Instead, he was abusing himself with his little monkey fist, eyes locked on mine. The expression on his face was one of smug satisfaction.

“Al told me that macaques can live for thirty years,” Harry said.

I actually felt a little sorry for him. I moved cautiously over to the computer, checked the chair for unpleasant surprises, then sat down.

“Did you find the latest cell phone?”

McGlade nodded. “It’s in Milwaukee. Where’s Phin?”

I felt myself go cold. “Phin won’t be helping us anymore.”

“How’d you scare him off? Did he see you naked?”

“I didn’t scare him off. And fuck you.”

“We need him.”

“We don’t need him. He’s unreliable.”

“Hasn’t he saved your life a bunch of times?”

“He’s a drug addict.”

“You just figured that out now? Of course he’s a drug addict. He’s dying of cancer. If I had the big C I’d be snorting so much cocaine I’d need two crack whores to help me hold the heroin needle steady.”

“There are prescription drugs.”

“We’re chasing a killer. You want him stoned on opiates? At least with coke he’ll be alert.”

“We’ll be fine without him.”

“Sure. Slappy can watch our backs. Right Slappy?”

We looked at Slappy, but he wasn’t in the corner anymore. He was gone.

“Uh-oh,” McGlade said. He grabbed something off the kitchen sink and tossed it to me. A Ping-Pong paddle. He also brandished one in his good hand.

“I’m not going to spank your monkey, McGlade.”

“I hope not, sis. That’s gross.”

“You know what I mean.”

“This is purely defensive, if he tries to—”

Something flew across my line of sight, and McGlade brought the paddle up to his face. A clump of monkey dung splattered onto it.

I quickly stood up and looked around the room, raising the paddle up over my mouth. About the only thing that could make my life worse was a faceful of Slappy crap, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Where is he?” I said, justifiably paranoid. “I don’t see him.”

“We should get back to back,” Harry said. “Then he can’t sneak up on us.”

I nodded, backing into Harry, my eyes scanning the RV for any movement.

“Let’s go up to the cab. We can close the door so he can’t get us.”

“Good call.”

We walked cautiously over to the front of the Crimebago, my senses hyper-alert, like I was in a gunfight. I felt things squish underfoot but was afraid to look down and see what they were.

We were only two feet away from the cab when the monkey jumped off the refrigerator and leaped at me, howling, fangs bared and eyes wild. He caught my paddle, and his teeth latched on to my knuckle. I shook him free and then ran, with Harry, into the front of the RV and slammed the door behind me.

“Your monkey bit me!”

“Yeah, he does that.”

Harry settled into the driver’s seat. I stared at the blood running down my finger.

“Jesus, McGlade! Should I get this looked at?”

He shrugged. “I would. I can’t even remember all the disgusting things he put in his mouth today. Plus, he probably has all sorts of monkey diseases.” He started the engine. “Maybe you should just cut the finger off, before the germs get into your bloodstream.”

I used my sweatshirt to swab away some of the blood.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“It’s in the back.”

We both stared at the closed door. Scary monkey sounds came from behind it.

“Want to use my gun?” Harry asked.

I declined, instead using some tissues from the glove compartment and half a bottle of water that was in the cup holder.

“I know what will make you feel better,” Harry said.

He pressed a button on the dashboard, and the RV filled with Pink Floyd.

Amazingly, the screeching and pounding stopped.

“I guess Slappy is a fan of seventies psychedelic rock,” I said.

“That or he found my Vicodin. He got into my medicine cabinet earlier. Are those little bottles monkey-proof?”

“Probably.” I had no idea.

“You want to go check?”

“Hell no.”

“Well, then. We’ll assume it’s the Floyd. Wisconsin, ho.”

Harry put the RV into gear, and we headed east.

CHAPTER 44

ALEX HAS THE WINDOW CRANKED DOWN—a temporary solution for the smell coming from the body in the backseat. She’ll deal with it soon. But she has other business first.

The wind is cold, harsh, and slaps at her cheeks. She only feels its sting on her right side. Alex brings up a hand, touches the rubbery scar tissue, feels a bit of stubble. One of the skin grafts was taken from her leg, and the hairs are sharp and pointy. She thinks about shaving again—an act that humiliates her almost as much as it angers her—and decides not to.

Samantha didn’t seem to mind it.

Alex smiles privately. What a wonderful eve ning it turned out to be. Shopping was fun, even though the boots are hideous. A terrific dinner. Then back to Sam’s apartment for a drink and what ever.

They never got around to the drink.

Alex closes her eyes for a moment, and can practically feel Sam’s body lying next to hers. It’s so pleasant, so right, that it makes her anger fade away.

The future is looking brighter and brighter.

This is the home stretch. Soon after Chicago, Alex will leave the country. She’ll be gone for a while. A year at least. Sun and fun, rest and recuperation. And then, who knows? Once everything is taken care of, the whole world will be open to Alex. It will be like starting a whole new life.

“I think I can fall in love with you, Samantha,” Alex says, half of her face grinning.

She reaches Chicago an hour later, never having to stop for gas. Maybe there’s something to this Prius hype after all.

The neighborhood is dark, quiet. She got the address, and the idea, from an earlier phone call. Rather than park anywhere near the house, she finds a space next to a fire hydrant, one block over.

If Alex wanted to do this quick, she could burst into the house, guns blazing, and kill her intended victim. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so quick. He’s armed, has a burglar alarm, and has most assuredly been on heightened alert since Alex has gotten out. She could set the building on fire, wait to shoot him when he came running out. Or use some of Lance’s ordnance to send the house into the stratosphere. But those aren’t nearly as fun as what she has planned.

Giving Jack a sporting chance to prevent this murder, and watching her fail, is simpler, and more satisfying. Plus the authorities, and the media, will be focused on events here while Alex is off doing other, more important things.

She grabs her duct tape and a fresh cell phone. With some difficulty—both with the climbing and the securing—the phone gets set up in a tree across the street from the house, some dead leaves packed around it to keep it hidden. Then she brushes off the bits of tree from her outfit and heads back to the car.

After all the text messages she’s sent lately, Alex is becoming pretty adept at what is an awkward skill. Maybe she’s not as fast as the average schoolkid, but the six words appear on the screen quickly and easily.

THIS IS HERB. HE’S YOUR PARTNER.

CHAPTER 45

NO PHOTO THIS TIME. But the first text message was followed up by:

HE DIES TOMORROW.

I was on the phone with Herb ten seconds later.

“Herb! It’s Jack. I—”

“Jack, I’m absolutely starving,” he interrupted, talking louder than normal. “Why don’t we meet to night at that sushi restaurant you liked? Remember how you went crazy for the maki roll?”

“Enough with the food, Herb. Alex just called me. You’re her next target.”

“Let’s discuss it over raw fish.”

“Did you hear me? I said Alex is coming after you.”

“I’ll be fine. Trust me. And I insist we grab a bite together. If not sushi, how about that seafood place on Halsted?”

“Herb—”

I stopped myself. Herb never met a food he didn’t like, but I’d met several, sushi being one of the biggies. He took me to a place a few years back and the maki roll made me so ill I still can’t eat fish. He knew that.

“Would dinner be just us?” I asked carefully. “Or would we have some friends along?”

“I’m pretty sure the Nicholas Brothers would be there too.”

Cute. The Nicholas Brothers were tap dancers. Herb also could have mentioned drinking draft beer, which was another reference to tap.

The Feds. They were listening in.

“Sounds nice, but I can’t make it. You need—”

“We can have a few draft beers afterward,” Herb said.

“I got it already, Herb. Now listen closely. The message from Alex said that you’ll die tomorrow. I need you to go away for a while. No credit cards, no relatives, don’t tell anyone.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe here. I have angels watching me.”

Herb isn’t good at subtle.

“Don’t put your faith in angels, buddy. She’s smarter than they are.”

“If we have a chance to catch her by making me bait—”

“No!” I yelled it loud enough that Harry jumped in his seat.

“It’s not your call, Jack. You’d do the same thing.”

“Dammit, Herb—”

“I’ll come out of this okay. I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

“Catching Alex isn’t going to protect me, Herb. You need to protect yourself and your wife. Alex…she killed Alan.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. I shut my eyes, saw Alan’s face, opened them again.

“I’m sorry, Jack. But that’s all the more reason I need to do this.”

“Herb, please—”

“Looking forward to that Turduckinlux. We’ll deep fry that baby when this is all over.”

He hung up on me. I stared at the phone.

“We could kidnap him,” Harry said. “Toss him in back with Slappy.”

“Bad idea.”

“Why? You think he’d eat my monkey?”

“The Feds.” I rubbed my temples. “His phone is being tapped by the Feds. And now that they know Alex is after him, they’ll camp on his front lawn. I won’t be able to get within a mile of him.”

“That’s a good thing. If you can’t get to him, neither can Alex.”

“She has to know that. She told me Herb was the target, which means she has a way to get through them.”

Harry gave me a sideways glance, then narrowed his eyes.

“You didn’t call Fatso on your phone, did you?”

I still had my cell in my hand. Harry made a face.

“Christ, Jackie. I told you the Feds can trace that. Have you been using that a lot?”

“No.” Then I remembered the long conversations with Mom and Dad earlier. “Not much.”

Harry rubbed his eyes, then extended the motion downward, massaging his jaw.

“You need to keep your head in the game, sis. The bond between siblings may be one of the strongest in nature, but those Feebie pricks pretty much guaranteed I’d do time if I help you or Phin.”

I folded my arms, anger creeping up my back and perching on my shoulders.

“So don’t help me, McGlade. Let me out here.”

He sighed. “Sis—”

“And stop calling me sis. There isn’t any proof we’re actually related.”

Harry shook his head. “You don’t know that. What about the DNA test thingy?”

“The lab hasn’t called. But I don’t need a lab to know that I share more DNA with Slappy than I do with you. Hell, McGlade, take a good look at yourself. You actually think we could have the same genes?”

“Mom says I look like my father.”

“Mom has trouble remembering to take her arthritis medication every day. You think she can remember a one-night stand from fifty years ago?”

“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”

“Likes you? No one can stand you, Harry. You’re an obnoxious, irritating, offensive, petty little man.”

“You forgot ugly,” Harry said.

“I’ll also add dirty to the list. Lathering yourself with aftershave is not, nor has it ever been, a substitute for a shower.”

“Wow. I really suck. You must have hated all of that time we were partners.”

I nodded. “I did.”

“And you must really resent that I still keep popping up in your life.”

More nodding. “I do.”

“And you must think I’m a total idiot that I never knew any of this before.”

Really enthusiastic nodding. “You got it in one.”

“Except I’ve known it all along.”

“I—” I squinted at him. “Huh?”

“Remember the Grant Park case?”

Of course I remembered the Grant Park case. An unsolved rape/murder, gone cold. I worked it in my free time, gathering evidence for over a year, building a case, sharing my findings with Harry. He made the collar without me and got all the credit.

“I’ll never forget it, McGlade. You got the promotion, when you didn’t do a damn thing.”

He smiled, the bastard.

“You still think it’s funny that you screwed me?”

“After all these years, you still think I screwed you? No one wanted to work with you, Jackie. You weren’t a team player. All you cared about was proving to the world that you were a good cop. Guess what? Everyone thought you were a single-minded, self-righteous, ball-busting bitch. They respected you. But no one liked you. You think I got a higher rank because of one lousy arrest? I got it because I passed the damn tests, had been there longer than you, and I bowled with the captain on my days off. Maybe you should have been doing the same thing, then you would have gotten promoted sooner. Hell, you might even still be married.”

I made a fist, wondering where I was going to hit him first.

“You stole the credit for that bust,” I said through my teeth.

“Yes. Yes I did. And it was wrong. But maybe if you’d been the least bit cool, and not constantly acting like I was something you wanted to scrape off the bottom of your shoe, maybe I wouldn’t have. But here we are, two de cades later, and you still treat me like shit. You know something, Jackie? I’ve changed. But you haven’t. You’re still the same holier-than-thou supercop, chasing bad guys instead of having a life. Say what ever you want about me. I like myself. Do you like yourself?”

“Stop the car.”

“It’s not a car. It’s a Crim—”

“Stop the fucking car, McGlade!”

He put on his turn signal, then coasted onto the shoulder of the highway.

“Jackie, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

I needed my backpack, but it was in the motor home section, with Slappy the Psychotic Macaque. I opened the door anyway, ready for a fight.

The monkey was sitting on the sofa, chewing on a remote control. He eyed me when I entered.

“Don’t fuck with me,” I warned him.

He stayed where he was, watching as I grabbed my stuff and opened the side door.

“Jackie, you have to stop pushing away the people trying to help you.”

“Go to hell, McGlade.”

I stepped onto the side of the road.

“Come on. This is stupid.” McGlade, poking his head out. “Come back.”

I spotted a road sign, stating the next exit was two miles ahead. I started to hike.

“It’s cold and dark, Jackie, and there are probably wild animals. I think Wisconsin has wolves and mountain lions. And mad cow disease. At least let me drive you someplace.”

I picked up my pace.

“You can’t take on the whole world by yourself, Jackie!” Harry called after me. “The world always wins!”

Not this time, I swore to myself. This time, I’m going to win one.

But my threat, and my conviction, got lost in the darkness as McGlade pulled away.

CHAPTER 46

ANOTHER DRIVE, BUT SHORTER THIS TIME.

Staying in Chicago isn’t a smart idea. By now the authorities know she’s here. Killing across state lines is a federal crime, so the FBI is going to be involved. Plus, the CPD won’t take threatening one of their own lightly. Everyone will be looking for her, and hers isn’t a face that’s easily forgotten.

But just because Alex has to be in Chicago for one final crime doesn’t mean she has to stay there. So instead she gets a room in nearby Rosemont, at a second-tier hotel near the airport. She dons the black veil and pretends to be a grieving widow as she checks in, the fake sniffles and sobs giving her an excuse to keep her hand on her face, over her scars.

When Alex gets to her room she collapses onto the bed, exhausted. She thinks about her upcoming sabbatical, and how nice it will be to take a break from killing for a while. After she kills the doctor, of course.

There’s still Jack to deal with. And that asshole Harry. And Phin. But the need for revenge, pressing on Alex’s every thought like a full bladder, isn’t quite as pressing. Jack’s not dead, but she’s certainly suffering.

And it’s going to get a lot worse, Alex thinks. After Herb dies, she’s going after Jack next.

It’s kind of sad, really. Alex has been fixated on Jack for so long that having her gone will leave kind of a gap. Perhaps it’s best to savor the little time they have left.

Alex kicks off her shoes, wiggles her toes, and locates the nail polish she bought earlier. She dials, then begins painting the first little piggie.

The phone is answered on the third ring, but Jack doesn’t say anything.

“What, no hello?” Alex asks. “Rude. Are you still mad at me for Alan? That was hours ago.”

“I’m going to find you.”

Jack sounds weak.

“I know. And I’m going to make it easy for you. Tomorrow, after your partner dies, I’m going to call you and we’ll set up a meeting. Just me and you, Jack. That’s what you want, right? Revenge?”

No answer.

“Are you still there? If you want, I can call up Harry instead.”

“I’m here.”

“And you want revenge, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Quiet and squeaky, like a mouse.

“I’m an expert in revenge, and let me tell you something. It doesn’t bring back the dead. Sure, it’s fun. I’m having a great time slaughtering everyone important to you. But Charles is still dead. And even if, by some miracle, you happen to kill me, Latham will still be dead. Herb will still be dead. Alan will still be dead.”

“You’re the next one to die, Alex.”

Alex listens to the background sounds. Wind. A car passing at a high speed. She discerns Jack is on a highway.

“What happened to Phin? Were you too much of a downer so he took off?”

“Get to the point.”

“I wanted to tell you that I watched you try to save your husband. Exciting stuff. You know, you were only about thirty seconds late. If you’d been just a little faster, he’d still be with us.”

Another sound joins the wind and car noises. Alex is overjoyed to hear it.

“Lieutenant Daniels, are you crying?”

The sound becomes muted. Jack has put her hand over the mouthpiece. Not only is she devastated, she’s also embarrassed.

How delicious.

“He’s in a better place, Jack. If he lived, he’d just be pining for you. Did you know his Internet password was Jacqueline? I’m not making that up. And he still had a picture of you in his wallet. Poor sap. I bet he was the type who sent you poems. Did he write you a poem, after your first time? Something about how lovely you were, fucking him in that restaurant bathroom? What rhymes with toilet?”

“I’m…I’m going to—”

“Jack, woman to woman, threats don’t really work when you’re crying like a baby. It’s pathetic. Now, fun as this little chat has been, I’m painting my toenails and it isn’t easy holding the phone at the same time. So here’s the deal. When I call tomorrow, with the clue to save your partner, you’ll have to react fast. You won’t have twelve hours, or two hours. You’ll have less than a minute. Use it wisely.”

Alex hangs up, pleased with how the call went, but not pleased with the job she’s done on her first few toes.

Now isn’t the time to be sloppy. Alex pads over to the bathroom, dumps some acetone on a hotel towel, and wipes off the nail polish to start again.

CHAPTER 47

BY THE TIME I found a room for the night I was a mess. Mentally, physically, emotionally. I’d walked several miles, freezing my tail off, before finding a small mom-and-pop motel with carpeting older than I was. I ate out of the lobby vending machine, not tasting a damn thing, and drew a bath in a cracked tub with water tinted orange.

I crawled in and let the guilt overtake me, crying until my throat hurt. Mixed with the guilt was shame, for not being there for Herb when he needed me most, and anger, at Phin and Harry and Alex, but most of all at myself for allowing all of this to happen.

And hate. I felt hate so dark it scared me. I didn’t just want to kill Alex. I wanted to burn her alive and watch her scream. I’ve lived—hell, I’ve dedicated my life to upholding the law, but I would trade every arrest I’d ever made, ever perp I ever put behind bars, for twenty minutes alone with Alex in a small cell, her handcuffed to a chair, me with a baseball bat.

What had I become?

A drip, from the lime-coated showerhead above me, dimpling the surface of the water between my feet. I stared up at it, and then the shower curtain, old and stained but on an aluminum rod that looked strong, sturdy. It would probably support my weight. I didn’t have any rope, but there was a gas station on the corner.

Stupid. Cops don’t hang themselves. They eat their guns.

I thought about the Beretta in my backpack. One bullet, and I’d stop feeling this awful. I’d let so many people down, myself included. One bullet would make it all go away.

You’re being weak, Jack.

So? Can’t I be weak for once?

Killing yourself is the coward’s way out.

Okay, I’m a coward. One more reason to hate myself.

I stood up, walked naked into the bedroom. Stared at my backpack.

You’re seriously considering this?

A sob caught in my throat. I blinked away some tears.

Yes. It’s the best idea I’ve had all week.

I reached my hand inside, wrapped my hand around the butt of my gun. It felt solid. Reassuring.

Just do it.

I closed my eyes, tried to think of a reason to stop myself. Faces popped into my head.

Mom, begging me not to.

Sorry, not good enough.

Dad, tacking an article about my suicide onto the wall in his spare bedroom, to add to the dozens of other articles and pictures of me.

Take it all down, Wilbur. I’m not worthy of a shrine.

Harry, telling me I hated myself.

You nailed that one, bro.

Phin, saying he loved me.

Looks like you’ll outlive me after all.

Alex, laughing at all the pain she’s caused.

Not my problem anymore.

Latham, his kind, sad, beautiful face, telling me I had to be strong.

Why? Why do I have to be strong all the goddamn time? Where has it gotten me?

Alan, his eyes rolled up in his head…

Enough. I’m done.

I want out.

I opened my mouth, brought up the gun, my hand shaking so much I had problems getting the barrel between my lips.

Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels vs. the world.

The world wins.

It always does.

I flicked off the safety, put my thumb on the trigger, and opened my eyes so I could watch myself do it in the bureau mirror. I wanted the last thing I ever saw to be how pathetic I looked.

Movement, peripherally, to my right.

My gun pointed reflexively, and I pulled the trigger on instinct.

Rat. Big one in the corner.

Deader than hell now, without a head.

I laughed, once, but it sounded more like a strangled cough.

In a way, that’s all I was good for. Killing rats.

But I was good. I was very good.

And there was still one rat left to kill. The biggest one of all.

I put the gun back in the pack, got dressed, and called a cab to take me to a better motel, all thoughts of suicide momentarily replaced by thoughts of murder.

CHAPTER 48

THE MORNING AND EARLY AFTERNOON are going to be uneventful. Alex orders room ser vice and spends some time familiarizing herself with a M18A1 she’s taken from Lance’s boss, the bomb squad lieut. It’s a serious piece of hardware, appropriate for the job, and comes with det wire and a spring trigger. On the green plastic cover are three words.

FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.

Alex runs her fingers over the embossed letters and smiles her half smile. God love the military.

Next she shapes a good-sized hunk of PENO into a cone and sets up the blasting cap, sun cord, and sparker.

Then it’s a pay-per-view action film, charged to the room. A cop thriller, with a hard-nosed veteran chasing a wily serial killer. Alex liked it up until the end, when the cop predictably shot the villain down. Why can’t there be a movie where the killer beats the cop and gets away? Wouldn’t that be cool?

Alex blames the writers. None of them have the balls to let the bad guy win.

But the bad guys do win sometimes. People have to learn to accept that.

Lunch is room ser vice, again, and the food is so bland and mediocre, and the room so run-down, that Alex wonders how this place can even stay open, especially since it isn’t really cheap. Maybe they have a lot of conventions here.

The hotel has a tiny workout room with a dearth of decent equipment. Alex makes use of the StairMaster for an hour, a towel wrapped around her neck and hiding her face should anyone else come in. No one does. Then it’s back to her room for a shower and another movie—this one a romantic comedy starring Sarah Jessica Parker, who is cute and dresses great but can’t make up for a lackluster script.

Finally, the clock zeroes in on three p.m. She grabs her gear, fights awful traffic, and makes it to downtown Chicago and the corner she’d staked out yesterday. Alex parks in a pay lot, sets up her laptop, finds a free WiFi connection—Chicago abounds with hot spots—and accesses the phone taped to Herb’s tree. She watches the live feed.

The house looks normal, no unusual activity, but Alex can guess that there are a bunch of cops inside, as well as throughout the neighborhood. All waiting for her.

Won’t they be surprised when she doesn’t show up?

Alex keeps her cell phone handy—when things happen, they’ll happen fast. Then she settles in to watch the show.

CHAPTER 49

IT WAS ALL I COULD DO not to tear out my hair in frustration.

Two calls to Detective Tom Mankowski confirmed that Herb was being closely guarded. He was still home—something he insisted upon because he wanted to be bait—but he had three cops and two Feebies in there with him. In neighboring houses were ten more cops and just as many Feds. There were three SRT snipers on nearby rooftops. Air support was standing by. As Mankowski said, a squirrel couldn’t fart within a block of the area without having six guns drawn on it.

But the waiting was still torture. Herb was my partner. I should be there. Instead, I was pacing in a Wisconsin hotel room, my fingernails chewed down to blood, waiting for something to happen. Hopefully, the something would be of the good variety, involving Alex getting gunned down. But I had a feeling that Herb wasn’t as safe as everyone wanted to believe.

What were they missing? What was I missing? How do you get to a guy who is heavily protected?

A long-range weapon? That had been anticipated. A mail bomb? The mail for Herb’s route had been checked out and cleared back at the post office, and FedEx, UPS, and DHL had nothing for Herb or for his address. Hidden explosives? Earlier in the day, two bomb-sniffing dogs had covered every inch of Herb’s property.

He was safer than the Pope. But we had to be forgetting something.

Unless Alex was lying. Unless Herb wasn’t the target at all.

She couldn’t get to my parents. Phin was unreachable. Harry?

I called him, using the hotel room phone.

“Hi, sis. I forgive you for acting like a jerk yesterday. I found the Milwaukee cell phone. Motel lobby, at the Old Stone Inn, behind the ice machine. Weren’t you just there?”

“Where are you now?”

“On my way to Chicago. That’s where the next one is. You wouldn’t believe how much gas I’ve gone through the last few days. I think I’m getting about three hundred yards per gallon.”

“Harry, Alex might have been lying about Herb. You might be the next target.”

“Let her try for me. Slappy will take care of her.”

“I’m being serious.”

“I am too. After you left, I gave the monkey some pills, to calm him down.”

I shook my head, amazed. “You gave the monkey Vicodin?”

“I thought it was. But the wrong pills were in the bottle. I actually gave him Viagra. He’s been a little, uh, aggressive since then.”

“I bet.”

“I got him back in his cage by throwing in a cashmere sweater he’s taken a serious liking to. He and the sweater have been going at it non-stop for about eight hours. But if I open the cage, he’ll pounce on Alex like a starving man after a donut.”

“Be careful, McGlade.”

“I’ll be okay. If he jumps on me, I’ll be wearing earplugs and nose-plugs and keep my mouth closed tight.”

“I meant with Alex.”

“Slappy and I are ready. Does Mom like cashmere?”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Not this sweater. A new sweater. I was going to give this one to Herb.”

“Stay in touch,” I told him.

“Does this mean we’re partners again?”

“Just stay in touch.”

I hung up, did some more pacing, tried to eat a room ser vice turkey club, failed, did more pacing, tried to watch a movie, failed, called Tom again for an update when none was needed, did push-ups until my arms wouldn’t work anymore, paced, and finally around four p.m. Alex’s phone rang.

I picked up, expecting to see a text message. But instead I saw a photo, of Herb’s house, a red car parked in the driveway.

No, it wasn’t a photo. This picture moved, the car door opening.

This was a live feed.

I got on the phone, my phone, and hit the speed dial for Herb.

One ring.

A man was getting out of the car. Big, muscular, wearing a tight shirt.

Two rings.

The shirt had a logo on the back, large enough for me to read even on the small LCD phone screen.

1-800-MEATS4U.

Three rings.

But this couldn’t be the meat I ordered for Herb. That was being sent UPS, and not for another few days.

Alex. Somehow Alex knew about it.

The man reached into the passenger seat, removed a large white foam box.

Why weren’t the cops taking him down?

“Hello?”

“Bernice! It’s Jack!”

The big guy walked up to the front door. Two figures with FBI on their jackets rushed at him from both sides.

“Jack, the Turduckinlux is here.”

“I didn’t send the—”

Herb’s front door opened, and then an explosion shook the camera. I heard a shocking BOOM through the tiny speaker of my cell, so startling I dropped my phone.

My other hand clenched Alex’s phone, the screen fuzzy and gray. I watched, horrified, as the smoke cleared.

Herb’s front porch, and a large chunk of his house, were gone.

I picked up my cell, whispered into it, “Bernice.”

She didn’t answer. But in the background, I heard screaming.

CHAPTER 50

PERFECT. ABSOLUTELY PERFECT. The male stripper Laugh-O-Gram showed up with the package right at the scheduled time, and wore the meat shop T-shirt Alex had made for him, using the inkjet printer and an iron-on silk-screen design. She hopes the guy spent the five hundred bucks she paid him yesterday to make the trip from Milwaukee, because he certainly wouldn’t be spending it now.

Quite a lot of damage a few pounds of plastic explosive can cause. The house is trashed, and Alex can see several dead bodies inside. It would be fun to sit and watch the ambulances come, the corpses removed, but Alex has business to take care of.

Big business. The original plan. The real reason she’s in Chicago.

She tucks away her cell phone, checks her watch, then grabs her gear, which is resting on the dead body in the backseat. A few police cars whiz by, sirens blazing. Perfect. The authorities, and the media, will be going crazy over the bombing. Which means they’ll pay less attention to what she’s going to do in about sixty seconds.

Alex pulls up her hood, dons her movie star sunglasses, gets out of the car, and removes the M18A1. She holds it and the cord in one hand, the plastic trigger in the other, and waits for the truck to arrive.

It’s a minute late. Understandable, given all of the police traffic. There are other cars on the road, but Alex doesn’t give them any unneeded attention. She’s got tunnel vision, focusing on one thing and one thing only: the armored money truck, heading her way.

When it’s within twenty yards, Alex steps out in front of it, raising her hand up. The truck slows. Alex walks forward, waits for it to stop, then drops the M18A1 down onto the street and kicks it under the truck’s front end, directly beneath the engine.

She backpedals, playing out line, and then hits the detonator while the truck is shifting into reverse.

The M18A1 Claymore mine does what it was made to do: fire seven hundred steel balls in a sixty-degree outward pattern at 1,200 meters per second.

Not enough to seriously damage the truck, or hurt its occupants. Not even enough to crack the engine block or sever the drive train. But enough to shred the armored vehicle’s electronics under the hood.

It won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Moving quickly without rushing, Alex heads to the rear of the truck, sticking her cone of PENO onto the back door lock. She unwinds some cord, stands clear, and hits the sparker.

The armor is thick, tough. But so is a Sherman tank’s, and the plastic explosive makes easy work of the door, blowing it open so it hangs outward on its hinges. Alex waits alongside the truck, out of the line of sight, for the hopper to come out. A trained professional, one with enough experience to follow this training while in combat situations, would take cover and wait inside for Alex to enter. But an average guy with average training would want to get the hell out of there.

This guy is average. He fires twice, then comes jumping out of the cargo hold and racing down the street. Alex shoots him in the back. She approaches the truck low, on an angle, and makes sure there are no other guards. The driver wisely stays in the front cab. He’s protected as long as he doesn’t come out.

Alex isn’t concerned about him for the time being. If he wants to try to be a hero, she’ll deal with it. What has her attention are the canvas money bags on the floor of the cargo area. She has extra PENO and detonators with her, in case she had to deal with safes, and also an extra Claymore in case this truck turned out to be a bust and she needed to find another.

Alex uses her folder knife to cut open the first bag, and one look confirms that a second robbery won’t be necessary. The bag is loaded with banded stacks of twenties. Maybe ten thousand dollars’ worth.

And Alex counts twelve bags in the back of the truck.

She opens up the army duffel, begins stuffing in bags. She fits five, and can sling five more over her shoulders. The last two she has to leave behind—she doesn’t have time to make two trips. The driver has already called it in, and even with all the commotion the bombing has caused, the cops will be here soon.

Alex heads for the alley, following it through to the parking garage, waddling up a flight of concrete steps, and loading everything into the Prius. Almost home.

As she pulls down the circular driveway, heading for the exit, she hears police sirens. She stops at the exit gate, lowers her window, and sticks the parking stub into the slot. The automatic machine flashes twelve dollars—a ridiculous amount to have to pay for parking less than an hour. Alex reaches for her purse, but it isn’t on the passenger seat. She looks around the Prius, on the floor, in the back, and her purse is nowhere to be found.

The hotel. She left it back at the hotel.

“Is there a problem?”

The voice is coming through a speaker, attached to the gate machine. A parking lot attendant.

“No,” Alex says. “Just looking for my cash.”

Alex unclips her folder knife, cuts open the nearest bag of money. Something catches her eye, and she checks the rearview and sees the guard is coming up behind her, holding a walkie-talkie.

Alex considers killing the guard, but there’s the possibility he has a partner, and has already called in her license plate number. That could get linked to the armored car robbery, less than a block over, and Alex will be pulled over by the first cop who sees her.

She fishes out a wad of fifties, breaks the seal. The guard is getting closer. If he looks in the car, he’ll see the bags of money. If he looks really close, he’ll see the body still in the backseat.

Alex shoves a crisp fifty into the slot. It sucks up the cash, then spits it out. Alex tries again, with similar results. Then she notices the sign on the machine.

Only accepts $1, $5, $10, and $20 bills.

The guard is almost at her back bumper. Alex practically laughs at the absurdity of it. She’s got maybe a hundred grand in the car, but can’t find twelve lousy bucks.

She slits open another bag, and fate smiles on her—it exposed a sheaf of twenties. Alex peels one off, sticks it into the machine, and the gate rises.

Alex waits for the road spikes to go down, then hits the gas, pulling out of the parking lot, swerving to avoid an oncoming police car, and tearing down the street, driving as fast as the Prius can handle.

CHAPTER 51

THE FEEBIES ARRESTED ME AT THE HOSPITAL.

“I’m sorry,” I told Special Agent Dailey as he put on the cuffs. In front of me, not behind. Professional courtesy. “Coursey was a good man.”

Dailey looked positively haggard, the neutral expression he constantly wore replaced by a drawn-out, faraway look.

“He’s the one who answered the door. He told Sergeant Benedict to stay back.”

“Where is Herb?”

“Intensive Care. He just got out of surgery.”

“Can I see him?”

“I have orders to bring you in.”

“Please,” I said.

“I can’t. The SAC wants you in custody.”

“He’s my partner. You know how important that is.”

Dailey stared at me, then nodded. He took my elbow and escorted me down the hospital hallway. His grip was heavy, but I felt it had less to do with me running away, and more about giving him something to cling to.

There were guards in front of Herb’s room. One of them was Tom Mankowski. He was in a rumpled, filthy suit, standing almost a head taller than me. His blue eyes appraised me kindly.

“I was at the neighbors’. When the car pulled up, we were ready to move in. But Sergeant Benedict told us to hold off. He thought it was some steaks you were sending him. Actually, that saved a lot of lives. We lost three, but it would have been four or five more if he didn’t order us to stand down. Me included.”

I nodded at him, turned my attention to the door.

“Ten minutes,” Dailey told me.

I went inside.

Herb was under an oxygen tent, the clear plastic windows looking futuristic and strangely cheap. Ban dages were swathed around his chest. Two tubes were taped to his face, one going up his nose and the other jammed down his throat. Another tube—I guessed it to be a drain—snaked out through his ban dages, taped to the bed rail along with his IV. His eyes were closed, puffy. The steady beep beep beep of his vitals drilled into me, accusing, blaming.

Bernice was slumped in a chair next to him, some gauze on her forehead, her hand under the tent and clutching her husband’s. When she saw me she stood up and threw her arms around my waist.

I couldn’t hug her back because of the handcuffs, but I put my head on her shoulder.

“How’s he doing?” I managed.

“Critical. His chest is all messed up. The bomb—it was packed with roofing nails.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“They wouldn’t give me a clear answer. I had to scream at the head surgeon. He told me…” Bernice sobbed, her body shuddering. “Jack, his chances are fifty-fifty.”

Fifty-fifty. The toss of a coin.

“I’ll find her,” I said.

I expected her to tell me that’s what she wanted. That I’d better.

I was wrong.

“No,” she said. “You should let this go.”

Bernice drew away from me, teary eyes staring back at her husband.

“We were talking about you earlier, Jack. The Job is killing you. It has been for years. Herb’s seen it. He’s watched you die, a little each day.” She paused. “You need to quit.”

“I have to finish this, Bernice.”

She looked at me sadly. “Oh, Jack, there’s always one more thing you have to finish. One more crime to solve. One more perp to catch. Someone hits, you hit back. You’re always hitting back. Sometimes, the best thing—the sane thing—is to just walk away. That’s what Herb wanted you to do.”

“He wanted me to quit?”

“He wanted you to be happy. And you’ll never be happy if you keep heading down this path. Happiness isn’t having complete control, Jack. Happiness is realizing you don’t have any control at all.”

I stared at my partner, a lump in my throat, and everything everyone had told me over the last few days suddenly made perfect sense.

And I knew what I had to do.

I had to let it all go.

“I have to go, Bernice. But I understand. When he wakes up, tell him…tell him I…just…just give him this.”

It wasn’t easy fishing it out of my purse with my hands cuffed, but I managed, pressing it into Bernice’s hands. She held it up.

“Your badge.”

“Last night…” I took a big breath. “Bernice, last night, I almost…I thought it was the only way, you know, to stop the pain. But I don’t need to die. Only part of me does. The cop part.”

“You’re resigning?”

“I’m done. It’s over. Tell Herb I love him, and I quit, and I’ll be over next week for Turduckinlux.”

Bernice smiled sadly. “He’d be so proud of you right now, Jack.”

“Take care of our boy, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

I heard yelling from the hallway. I gave Bernice another hug using just my head and neck, and then walked outside.

McGlade, pointing his prosthesis up at Mankowski.

“I told you she’s my sister, and if you don’t let me—Hey, Jackie, tell this very tall piece of shit who I am.”

“It’s okay,” I said to Tom. He nodded, backed off.

“Sis, the last cell phone—it’s moving.”

“I don’t care anymore, Harry.” I turned to Dailey. “I’m ready.”

“Can I have a private brother/sister moment, Special Agent?”

Dailey nodded. Harry whispered to me.

“You don’t get it. If it’s moving, that means Alex has it on her. It’s the last phone. We can track it right to her.”

“It’s not my problem anymore. I just quit the force.”

“You…what?”

I reached into my pocket, took out the cell phone Alex had given me. The leash she’d been using to lead me around.

“Here. Take it. I don’t care what you do with it.”

The act was so liberating I actually felt about fifty pounds lighter.

Special Agent Dailey led me down the hall, away from a bewildered Harry McGlade, and into the parking lot. I got into his car and we drove to the federal lockup for booking. The arrest papers were drawn up, I was printed, mug shots taken, and I was placed in a holding cell, all the while unable to get the serene smile off my face.

I should have given up years ago.

CHAPTER 52

ALEX YAWNS, STRETCHES, AND OPENS HER EYES. The hotel room is dark, but sunlight is peeking in through a crack in the drapes, illuminating the stacks of money laid out on the floor in thousand-dollar piles.

There are eighty-seven of them.

Alex smiles her half smile at the sight of it. She’d been hoping for at least forty thousand. That’s the number quoted in the e-mail exchanges. The number she needs to start her new life.

Truth told, Alex had no idea how much money armored trucks carried around. Long gone are the days of cash payrolls, and bank transfers are made electronically with the press of a button. But she assumed with the constant stocking of ATMs and currency exchanges, and the cash flow generated by the shopping on Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, money was probably being hauled every day.

She assumed right.

Alex rolls out of bed, uses the washroom, then flips on CNN. The Chicago bombing is still the main story. Alex’s scarred mug shot is shown, her hair shorter and black. They also mention the armored car robbery, but her name isn’t brought up in connection with that, just that the robber is tall, muscular, with dark red hair. The driver’s description. He managed to ID her hair color beneath a hood, but for some reason didn’t realize she was a woman. Fear does funny things to memory.

Alex changed her hair last night, stopping at a drugstore and buying some bleach. She’s now a perky blonde.

Eighty-seven grand can make even a stone-cold killer downright perky.

Now it’s time to get out of town, disappear. Yesterday, things had been too hot. Alex narrowly missed a roadblock before getting back to the hotel. It should be safer to move today. But first, one last thing to deal with.

Jack.

Alex dials, ready to offer the lieutenant her condolences. The victims’ names haven’t been released yet, but her fat partner is surely one of them. The roofing nails were a special touch, a nod to one of Jack’s high-profile cases Alex read about while in Heathrow. Icing on the irony cake.

But Jack doesn’t answer. A man does. A man Alex can’t stand.

“Hiya, freak show. How’s the psycho business?”

“Where’s Jack, Harry?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, because you’re crazy and your face looks like a slice of country-style ham. If your nose was a side of hash browns you’d have a line of fat people chasing you with forks.”

Alex frowns, uncomfortably aware that only half of the muscles are working. “Put Jack on.”

“That’s a negative, ham-face. She’s done playing with you. But I’m not. I’m coming for your loony ass. In fact, I’m knocking on your door right…about…now.”

Against all common sense, Alex focuses on her hotel door.

“Gotcha, sucker.”

Alex grits her teeth. “If you don’t put Jack on—”

“Blow me. I’m walking up to your door right now. You ready? Here I come. Almost there. And heeeeeere’s Harry!”

Again, Alex stares at her door, annoyed that she’s buying into this stupid game.

“Gotcha again! Die paranoid, you bitch.”

Harry hangs up. Alex fights the urge to open the door and check the hallway. It’s ludicrous. Harry has no way to find her. She’s in the hotel under a false name. There’s no way to trace the cell phone daisy chain.

Right?

But Harry—goddamn Harry—sounded so sure of himself. When Alex first met him, she thought he was dumber than a crate of melons. And while she never really amended that initial impression, she doesn’t want to underestimate the irritating little bastard. Her plan was to lure Jack to a secluded location and grab her. But now Alex just feels the need to get the hell out of Chicago. The sooner, the better.

She starts stuffing everything into her duffel bag, including the empty canvas money satchels. It’s heavy, unwieldy, the zipper threatening to burst. Alex slings it onto her shoulder, heads for the door, remembers that her face is exposed, and creates a makeshift babushka out of a white pillowcase. It looks ridiculous, but better to be remembered as eccentric than scarred.

The hallway is clear, the stairwell is clear, the lobby is clear, and the parking lot is clear, except for some idiot in a Winnebago blocking the exit. Alex chucks the duffel bag in back, starts the Prius, and drives up over the curb to get past the RV moron, and wonders where to head next.

Wisconsin is out of the question. She’s almost as pop u lar with cops there as she is in Chicago. She also left a trail in Iowa, and going back now would be unwise. Michigan is a possibility. Plenty of privacy in the woods. A secluded farm would work too.

A farm.

Actually, for a final showdown, Alex’s old homestead would be a perfect place. Private, out of the way, easy to set up. And she’d get a thrill out of seeing their farm one last time.

Alex heads for I-90, and Gary, Indiana.

Soon, this will all be over. Alex isn’t sure what she wants to do next. The possibilities are limitless. Hell, she could even get a regular job, become a respectable citizen. Perhaps even join a police force somewhere. Wearing that cop uniform was a lot of fun.

It’s cold enough outside for Alex to switch on the heat, but that makes the smell from the backseat more pronounced. She opens the windows to compensate, and wonders if she should stop for deodorizer. Or at least something to cover the corpse, other than the blanket currently performing the task. Alex reaches around, tugs down a corner, and catches a quick glimpse out of her back window.

That damn Winnebago is following her.

Adrenaline jolts her. Maybe it isn’t the same one. There have to be dozens of them on the road, and they probably all look similar.

She glances at her rearview, trying to see the driver. He’s too far back, and his windows have a light tint to them, making it hard to see inside.

That clinches it. The RV back at the hotel had tinted windows too.

Could it be the Feds? They’re known for doing stakeouts in vans and trucks. But a Winnebago seems too conspicuous, too elaborate, even for the FBI. This thing is the size of a bus. No one would be stupid enough to use a recreational vehicle for surveillance, except maybe…

Harry McGlade.

“Is that you, Harry, you pain in the ass? Let’s find out.”

Alex turns at the next light, taking Touhy Avenue around the airport, then turning onto South Mount Prospect Road. This is noman’s-land, acres and acres of undesirable property, too close to O’Hare to be habitable. Many have tried, as evidenced by the crumbling and torn-down buildings in these empty lots, but the sound must have been too much for even the factories to endure.

Alex hangs a sharp, fast right onto Old Higgins Road, the Prius cornering bravely, and then a quick left into an abandoned lot, weeds poking up through the cracked asphalt. She jams the car into park, hops out palming her Cheetah stun gun, and sprints back to the ditch near the entrance to crouch in the tall grass.

The Winnebago slows down as it nears, crawling by the lot, the driver obviously spotting the Prius. Alex runs up behind the vehicle, grabbing onto the rear ladder, pulling herself up as it rolls past. The rungs are round, sturdy, easy to hold. The RV comes to a stop, and Alex climbs up the back side and onto the roof. As expected, there’s a hatch. She slides over to it on her hands and knees, the slight noise she makes lost in the overhead roar of jet engines. Happily, the hatch is open a few inches, probably for air circulation. Alex lifts it up and slithers forward on her belly.

The smell is awful, a cross between a zoo and a truck stop toilet. Definitely Harry. Alex swings inside and drops onto the sofa. A scream, to her left, and she spins around, Cheetah poised and ready to strike.

It’s a monkey, in a cage. And the scream isn’t directed at her. It’s directed at what appears to be a damp sweater, which he’s earnestly humping.

Yes, this has to be Harry’s RV.

She creeps forward, to the cab. The door is closed. She can imagine McGlade sitting there, staring at her car, wondering what to do next. But she isn’t sure he’s alone in there. Jack might be with him. Better to know for sure before attacking.

Alex looks around, finds a Ping-Pong paddle covered in mud. She picks it up.

Yuck. That isn’t mud.

She wipes her hand on the carpet, but that’s damp with something even worse. Now seriously grossed out, she frantically searches for a towel. The only thing nearby is that sweater in the monkey cage, and Alex decides she’d rather light herself on fire than touch that splotchy thing. She crinkles her nose, decides to just deal with it for the time being, and then throws the Ping-Pong paddle at the cab door.

“Dammit, Slappy, how did you get out of your cage?”

The door opens. McGlade appears. Alex jams the stun gun into his belly, dropping him to his knees, then whacks him alongside the head with her elbow, getting all of her weight and muscle behind it.

He crumples to the floor, landing on something squishy. Serves the asshole right.

Alex checks the cab for other passengers. It’s empty. The monkey screeches again. He’s still raping the cardigan, but his eyes are now locked on her, the filthy little pervert. Alex considers giving him a little zap with the Cheetah, but she has more pressing things to do, like restrain Harry.

But first things first. Alex hurries to the bathroom to wash her hands.

She really hopes McGlade has soap.

CHAPTER 53

I STEPPED ONTO VAN BUREN, walking out of the Metropolitan Correctional Center having just been given back my personal belongings. The night in lockup had flown by—I’d actually slept pretty well—and the morning was taken up by the bond hearing at the Northern District court house. My professional record, ties to the community, and the fact that obstruction of justice isn’t really that big a charge meant I walked with only a ten-thousand-dollar bond.

The day was cool, almost cold. I walked around the block, checking for tails of the Feebie variety—I got the impression Special Agent Dailey thought I knew more about Phin’s and Alex’s whereabouts than I actually did.

No Feds were following me. But I did notice a Ford Bronco without a front windshield. I walked up to him. Time to bury this par tic u lar hatchet.

“Need a ride?” Phin asked.

“You know that large oppressive building behind me is a federal prison, right?”

“Yeah. Harry told me you were doing time. Is it like those old Roger Corman movies?”

“Exactly the same. I took a shower in slow motion, then fought off the advances of a big-breasted lesbian warden.”

“Sounds hot.”

“Can you take me home?”

He nodded, and I climbed in. Phin and I had some unresolved issues, and now that Alex was off my mind I actually had a clear head. We were wrong for each other, for a million different reasons. I was mentally preparing the “let’s still be friends” speech when he launched into a speech of his own.

“I never said thanks that you covered for me. You could have turned me in. I’m a thief, and an addict, and I don’t deserve your friendship. Especially since I want more than just friendship. So it’s probably best we don’t see each other anymore.”

I wasn’t sure how to reply to that. While I didn’t want Phin as a boyfriend, I didn’t want him out of my life.

He pulled into traffic, and I found it hard to talk with the wind blowing straight into my face. I had to wait until we reached a stoplight, ready to argue with him, to make a case for friendship. But my mouth said something else.

“You’ve always been there for me, Phin. I call, you come. Thank you. It means a lot. And if you think we should go our separate ways, that hurts, but I’ll respect that.”

Phin nodded. I felt my chest get tight, my eyes well up. But this was for the best. I didn’t love this man. I couldn’t ever love this man.

Then why did this feel like the totally wrong thing to do?

My phone rang. I dug it out of my purse, answered.

No response. I looked at the screen, saw I had a text message.

THIS IS HARRY. HE’S YOUR BROTHER.

Oh shit.

“Phin, when was the last time you talked to Harry?”

“This morning. Why?”

“Alex has him.”

A picture came next, McGlade duct-taped to a chair, his face bleeding, his eyes desperate. Then the phone rang again. I answered.

“Hello, Jack. Harry just told me some nonsense about you quitting. Did I give you permission to quit?”

The wind howled in my face. I put my finger in my ear to drown out the noise.

“Where is he, Alex?”

“He’s with me. We’re reliving old times. Right, Harry?”

A crackling sound, followed by a howl. Every muscle in my body tensed up.

“What do you want, Alex?”

“A showdown, Jack. Just you and me. No cops. No Feds. No special forces yahoos swooping in on helicopters. I’ve got enough explosives to level a city block, and if I even suspect that you’re not alone, I press a little button and you get to bury what’s left of your brother in a matchbox.”

“Don’t come, Jackie!” Harry yelled in the background. “I got this bitch right where I want her!”

Another crackle, and another howl. I guessed Alex was using a stun gun on him.

“I’m just west of O’Hare,” Alex said. “Be here in twenty minutes. For every minute you’re late, Harry loses a finger.”

“I got a finger for you right here!” Harry yelled. The yell became a scream when she juiced him again.

“Twenty minutes, Jack.”

“I don’t have a car. You remember what happened to my car.”

“Where’s your buddy Phin?”

“He’s out of the picture.”

“That’s your problem. Twenty minutes.”

I turned to Phin. “Remember what I just said about going our separate ways?”

“Where is he?”

“O’Hare. We have twenty minutes.”

Phin jammed on the gas. I buckled up. Calling for reinforcements seemed like the right thing to do. If I did, Harry was dead, but he was probably dead anyway. So were Phin and me. The only way to win this was to call in the troops and nuke her.

I dialed 9 and 1 and then stopped.

“Do you still have the rifles?” I yelled at Phin over the wind.

“In back!”

“The radio?”

“Yeah!”

He hit the horn, blowing through a red light, causing a car to swerve and smash into a bus. Alex didn’t know Phin was with me. Maybe Harry had a chance to make it through this after all. A slight chance, but better than none at all. Much as I didn’t like the guy, and much as I hated the thought that there was a remotely small possibility we were related, I had to try to save him. He’d do the same for me.

It’s what any brother and sister would do.

Phin found the expressway, riding the shoulder and passing cars while squinting against the wind. I figured our best shot was setting up Phin someplace elevated, far enough away that she wouldn’t see him. We’d never finished zeroing out his scope, but hopefully he’d learned enough in our brief tutorial that he’d be able to compensate.

If not, Harry and I were dead.

And, surprisingly, I realized I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live a long, happy, fruitful life, as something other than a cop. I wasn’t sure what yet. While lying in my holding cell, I actually toyed with the idea of opening up a bar, maybe with some pool tables. With a name like Jack Daniels, how could it lose?

But now I could lose. I could lose a future I never even dreamed I could have. And I was scared.

I tucked my head down and turned away from the wind screaming in at us, blowing my hair into Medusa snakes. If there was the possibility I might be killed, I needed to make a call first. I hit speed dial. She picked up on the third ring.

“Mom?”

“Jacqueline! You’ve got to come on a cruise with us! We’re having a fabulous time!”

Mom sounded loaded. Happy, but loaded.

“Mom, I want to tell you something. Something important.”

“Is it about your father? We bumped into each other at bingo. He told me he was gay. Can you believe it? I married a homo!” Mom laughed. “He never told me all of these years because he didn’t want to hurt me. What a sweet man. We’ve been having such a wonderful time together. Did you know he was at your wedding?”

“Yes, Mom. Glad you two made up.”

“There’s a senior social to night. We’re going to cruise men together. I’m letting him do my hair. He used to do that back when we were married. How could I have not guessed he was gay?”

“Is Dad there?”

“He just went to the bathroom. I wonder which one. You think it was the men’s or the women’s? We’re having such fun! They make a drink called a cherry bomb. We’ve been drinking them all morning. I wish you were here with us. The whole family together again. We simply must go on a cruise when I get back, if my liver is still working.”

More giggles. I closed my eyes. Last goodbyes were really goddamn hard.

“Mom, I need you to tell Dad that I love him. It’s important that he hears that. Okay?”

“I will, Jacqueline, but don’t you think you should tell him yourself? He told me you hadn’t said that yet.”

“I need you to tell him, Mom. And I love you too. And I…I want to thank you.”

“Thank me? What in heavens for?”

I choked up a little bit, then got it under control. “For raising me. For loving me. For being my hero. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met, and it’s been such an honor being your daughter.”

“You’re such a sweetheart. Have you been drinking too?”

“Just know that I love you, okay?”

“Okay, honey. My phone is dying, so I’ll call you later to night. If I don’t call, it means I’m getting lucky. Bye-bye.”

“Mom?”

The phone went dead.

I closed my eyes, letting the wind blow away the tears on my cheeks.

Then I reached into the backseat to check the rifles.

CHAPTER 54

“HEY! NORMA BATES! You’re the one who needs to cover up her face, not me.”

Alex sets down the blasting cap, walks to Harry—taped to his computer chair with a red velour pillowcase over his head—and punches where she thinks his nose is. His head snaps back and he makes a satisfying grunt.

“I thought we were clear, Harry. Every time you talk, I hit you.”

“If I answer, are you going to hit me again?”

Alex sighs. She has a good reason for keeping McGlade in the dark, but realizes she should have gagged him first.

“This pillowcase smells like monkey pee,” Harry says.

“Jesus, McGlade, do I have to cut out your tongue?”

“If you did, I could still make sounds with my throat. See? Wooooaaaaaaaaaoooooo!”

Harry continues to moan like a ghost, and Alex questions whether it isn’t better to simply kill him right now. Instead, she finishes hooking up the detonator and then gives Harry another punch in the face.

“If I take off your hood, will you shut the hell up?”

“I can’t make any promises. Your face is pretty frightening. I may scream.”

“You’re going to scream anyway,” Alex says, yanking off his hood.

McGlade opens his mouth, no doubt to make some smart-assed comment, but instead his eyes begin to wander around the RV. Alex has used every last bit of Lance’s explosives decorating the interior. It’s sort of like Christmas, except with dynamite, det cord, and PENO instead of tinsel, ornaments, and colored lights.

“Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ,” Harry says.

“Impressed?”

“No. I just forgot how ugly you are.”

Alex gives Harry’s cheek a not-too-gentle pinch.

“Don’t worry, Harry. You’re not going to die here. This is all for Jack. I’m taking you with me. We’re going to spend some real quality time together before I punch your clock.”

“I’ve got a question for you, Alex. And I’d really appreciate an honest answer.”

Alex waits.

“You’re a chick,” he says. “Do red velour sheets make you hot?”

Alex swings a leg over Harry, straddles his lap.

“Do you know what will make me hot, Harry? Using some pliers to peel all the skin off of your face.”

“But what about the sheets? They match those hooker boots you’re wearing.”

Alex gives Harry a peck on the forehead, then climbs off. His stupid jokes don’t bother her. He’s scared out of his mind, trying to use humor to cope. Once she starts drawing some serious blood, the joking will be replaced by begging. She was more impressed by how he found her than his current bravado. Tracking the cell phones through the SIM cards and a Bluetooth signal was clever. As soon as he told her, after a liberal application of the stun gun, she switched off her Bluetooth and call forwarding. Alex doesn’t want Jack to find her before she’s all set up.

She turns, going to check the bedroom one more time. That’s where the second Claymore is. But before she gets two steps away McGlade tilts his chair over, falling onto his side. He reaches out an arm—his fake hand had apparently been able to break through the duct tape—and hits the release button on the monkey’s cage door.

“Get her, Slappy! Like I trained you!”

McGlade points at Alex. The monkey leaps out of the cage, screeching like a hellspawn. Then he runs right past Alex, jumps through the side window, and tears down the street, disappearing into the distance.

Harry frowns. “There’s six hundred bucks shot to hell.”

“I think you paid too much.”

“It was him, or a gibbon with just one limb.”

“The gibbon couldn’t have run away.”

“Point taken.”

Alex checks her watch. Almost time to call. She hopes Jack is late, because Alex feels a little jumpy, and severing a few of Harry’s fingers would help take the edge off. She unclips her folder knife, thumbs open the blade.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I don’t have my blowtorch handy this time. So it looks like we’re going to get blood all over your carpeting.”

“It was pretty much ruined anyway.” Harry’s voice is an octave higher. The fear is taking over.

“Which one should we start with? The thumb?”

“I have a better idea. Why don’t you take that knife and jam it right up your—Slappy! I knew you’d come back, buddy!”

Alex checks the window, and sure enough, the monkey is perched there, teeth bared. He slaps himself in the head a few times, giving Alex a pretty good idea of how he got his name.

“Attack, Slappy! Attack!”

Slappy hops into the RV, screeches at Alex, then runs into his cage and grabs the sweater. Two seconds later he’s out the window again, dragging it behind him and running off into the distance.

“You really should have went with the gibbon,” Alex says, closing and locking the window.

Then she fishes out her cell phone to call Jack.

CHAPTER 55

“IT’S AN ABANDONED LOT,” Alex said. “On Old Higgins Road, just northwest of the airport. Look for the recreational vehicle.”

Old Higgins, I mouthed at Phin. Into the phone I said, “I want to speak to Harry.”

“He’s busy bleeding right now.”

“Put him on, or this isn’t gonna happen.”

A pause, then, “The whole place is wired to blow, Jackie. Get the hell away from—”

Another zapping sound, and McGlade crying out. The poor bastard.

“Two minutes,” Alex said, then hung up.

We made it to Old Higgins in ninety seconds, while I fussed with the walkie-talkies. The area resembled a war zone: crumbling buildings, overgrown lots, cracked concrete. Through some tall weeds, about a thousand yards away, I saw the Crimebago, as out of place as a beached whale.

Phin hit the brakes. I tried to find the words, tried to tell him that maybe I was wrong about us after all, maybe we should be together, but I wimped out and instead said, “Your last shots were too high. Aim lower. And compensate a little for bullet drop. It’s a much longer distance than you’ve tried before. Remember you’ve only got four shots. Wait for my signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

I considered it. “When I say Latham, let her have it.”

Phin nodded. His face looked pained.

“Be careful,” he said.

“You too.”

We stared at each other for a few more seconds. I shivered. Not from the cold. From fear.

Phin clipped the walkie-talking to his front pocket and reached for the door handle, ready to climb out of the truck.

Dammit, Jack. Say something.

“You know,” I managed to sputter, “a little while ago, I was going to try to talk you into still staying friends.”

Phin turned, looked at me.

“Is that how you feel now?”

“No. Now the only thing I want in the whole damn world is for you to kiss me like you mean it.”

He leaned over, his lips finding mine, his tongue finding mine.

I was sure he meant every second of it.

“Don’t die on me, Jack.”

I smiled at him, my eyes glassy. “Just try not to shoot me.”

He grabbed his rifle and climbed out of the truck, blending into the weeds. I crawled over to the driver’s seat, shifted gears, punched the gas, and headed for what ever hell Alex had in store.

I parked a dozen yards away. McGlade was in the parking lot outside the Crimebago, next to the side door, taped to his computer chair. Alex crouched behind him. She had a gun in one hand, holding it to Harry’s temple. The other held some sort of detonator, the wire trailing from it and into the open side door of the RV.

I made sure the radio was on, the talk button depressed, and hung it under my armpit, clipping it to my sports bra. The sweatshirt was loose enough that you couldn’t tell it was there. I hoped. Then I grabbed my gun and climbed out of the truck.

“Hold it! Drop the gun! Hands over your head!”

I let the gun clatter to the pavement.

“Raise your hands, turn in a full circle!”

I complied, searching for Phin when I faced his way. I didn’t see him. And then I had a really bad thought—did he grab the right rifle? If he took mine by mistake, the sights would be way off because they’d been configured for me. And with his bad elbow…

“Walk toward me slowly, Jack, keeping your hands raised.”

Her gun had switched from pointing at Harry to pointing at me. Right at my heart. Alex liked the chest shot. I felt a cold, dead spot where the bullet would hit if she pulled the trigger. It made me want to run into a corner, curl up fetal, and suck my thumb. I managed to get my legs moving, even though they felt like wet noodles.

“Stop there.”

She made me halt ten feet in front of her. Alex was an excellent marksperson, and at this distance she might as well have been holding the gun directly up my nose. She wouldn’t miss. Even if Phin fired on her. My only chance was if his first shot was a kill shot.

I didn’t hold out much hope for that. This plan was looking worse and worse. It would have been smarter to just drive up really fast and run her over.

“Let Harry go,” I said, with a lot more strength than I felt.

“I’m going to.”

“You’re going to?” Harry said. “My ass.”

Alex patted him on the head. “Don’t worry. I’ll come back for you eventually. But Jack and I are going to go away for a while. I’ll send you some pictures. Maybe you’ll even be able to recognize her, under all of the blood.”

I shook my head slowly, my eyes fixed on her gun. “I’m not going with you, Alex.”

“Yes you are. You’ll do what ever I tell you to do. You’ve given up, Jack. You’re a shell of your former self. I knew that when I saw you at Latham’s funeral.”

I tensed, waiting for the shot. It didn’t come. Was I in Phin’s line of fire? Or did he know that was Alex talking, not me?

Was the walkie-talkie even working?

Jesus, this plan sucked.

“Even if you kill both of us, I’m not going anywhere with you, Alex.”

“You can walk over here, Lieutenant. Or I can shoot out both your knees and drag you over here.”

“No you won’t,” I said. And the fear washed away, being replaced by cold, hard anger. “This is for Latham.”

The shot came from my left, plugging into the Crimebago only inches above Alex’s head. She reacted instantly, ducking down and diving inside through the door.

Phin fired again, his shot aimed at where she disappeared.

Save your last two, I thought, willing him to hear. Then, in a crouch, I ran toward Harry.

Phin fired again, apparently not hearing my telepathic message, his shot pinging into the side of the RV.

“Stop firing, you knucklehead!” Harry screamed. “The whole thing is one big bomb!”

I grabbed Harry’s chair—which thankfully was on coasters—and began to pull him back toward the Bronco. My thanks were short-lived. The parking lot surface was rough, uneven, covered in gravel. It would have been easier tugging him through mud.

“Dammit, sis, pull!”

“I’m pulling, McGlade! There are rocks stuck in the wheels.”

We’d only gotten halfway to the truck when gunfire erupted, coming from the RV. Bits of asphalt flew up from the ground, peppering my legs, making me fall. It felt like being hit with a birdshot. I clawed my way back to my feet, calves bleeding, and dragged McGlade another few steps.

“Try pushing me!” Harry ordered.

I thought about telling him to shut up, but every ounce of energy I had was being expended trying to get him away from the bomb. One of the coasters snapped off, forcing him off balance and making him tip onto his side. I let go, pitching forward, my legs screaming at me. I crawled back to Harry, meeting his eyes.

“Come on, Jackie. You can do it. We have to get farther away.” He grinned at me. “I ain’t heavy. I’m your brother.”

I thought—absurdly, considering the situation—that Harry had kind of a nice smile.

Then the Crimebago exploded, tossing us through the air like rag dolls.

CHAPTER 56

I OPENED MY EYES, stared up at empty sky.

A moment later, the sky wasn’t empty. There was a plane flying over me. A jumbo jet, so close I could almost touch it.

But I couldn’t hear it. All I heard was a dull, droning hum.

Then the pain hit.

My head felt like it had cracked open and was leaking. My arm was behind my back, twisted at a funny angle. My legs were on fire.

I blinked. Checked my head. No major leaks, but a helluva lump, and my stitches had opened up. My arm hurt, but didn’t seem to be broken. And my legs weren’t actually burning, just cut up.

I looked left. I was lying next to the Bronco, when I’d been several yards away from it before.

I looked right. The Crimebago was mostly gone, leaving a smoking crater where it had been parked.

The lot had become a debris field. Harry’s scorched sofa. Part of the Murphy bed, red velour sheets still clinging to it. Half a computer monitor. The top part of a bucket seat. A severed human leg.

I squinted at the leg. It wore jeans, and a red boot with a stiletto heel.

The boots Alex had been wearing.

“Told you I wasn’t going with you,” I said to the leg.

I sat up, the world spinning, making my stomach unhappy. After swaying a little, I found my balance and began looking across the landscape of detritus for Harry.

He was ten yards to my left, taped to the broken remains of the chair.

I crawled to him, wincing at a dozen kinds of pain, navigating bits of engine and a burning spare tire that stung my eyes and nose.

“McGlade…”

His eyes were closed, his face a mess of gore. But he was bleeding. That meant he was alive.

I wiped some of the blood off his face, and was horrified that his nose came off in my hand. I resisted the urge to drop it—maybe surgeons could sew it back on somehow. I turned his head down, so the blood dripped away and not into his lungs, and then checked his pulse.

It was strong. I might have actually smiled a little.

Harry coughed, wet and garbled.

“Jackie?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“I can’t…I can’t feel my nose.”

“It, uh, it came off, Harry.”

“Fuck me. Where is it?”

I held up his nose, for him to see. He grunted, and I realized he was laughing.

“You got my nose,” he said.

I grinned at him.

“My ass hurts Do I still have an ass?”

I looked him over.

“Except for the nose, you’re pretty much intact.”

“I’m lying on something hard.”

I wasn’t thrilled to reach under him, but I quickly found the object causing him discomfort. A cell phone. And, incredibly, it still seemed to be working.

I dialed 911, told them to send everything they had.

“Is the bitch dead?” McGlade asked when I got off the phone.

“Yes, bro. She’s dead.”

“Good. I was getting kind of sick of her.”

I glanced over my shoulder and realized I had to make sure. “Be right back.”

I made the long return journey to the severed leg, winced at it, and then worked the zipper on the back. These looked like the boots Alex had been wearing, but I wanted to confirm it, grisly as the task was. When the zipper was down I reached inside…

Grabbed the ankle…

Began to pull it out…

Felt a hand, on my shoulder.

I spun around, terrified, thinking it was Alex, still coming after me like the Terminator, refusing to die even missing a limb.

It was Phin.

“Jack?”

“Toenails,” I told him. “Alex told me she was painting her toenails.”

I tugged the boot free, exposing her foot.

Five toes stared back at me, their nails fire engine red.

This was Alex. She was finally dead.

“Phineas Troutt, this is the FBI! Drop your weapon and raise you hands up over your head!”

Phin and I exchanged a panicked glance. Feebies were all over the place, rushing in from all directions. How the hell could they have followed us? Was there some sort of transmitter on me? Or on Harry? Had he made good on his deal and turned Phin in?

“Go,” I told Phin. “Run.”

He shook his head.

“Please.” I held on to his shoulder. Squeezed.

“You’re not going to jail for me, Jack. This is the only way to make it right.”

“Phin….”

He dropped the rifle and raised his hands.

Twenty seconds later they had him in cuffs and were dragging him off.

Special Agent Dailey approached me, looking prim and proper in a neatly pressed suit.

“Is that Alex Kork?” he asked, indicating the leg.

“What’s left of her. How’d you find me?”

“Your cell phone.”

Dammit. The call to my mother, and the calls from Alex.

“Phin’s a good man,” I said.

“I’m sure he is. But it’s not my job to get personal. It’s just my job to catch him. Getting personal would take more than I have to give.”

He appraised Alex’s leg again, then nodded to himself.

“Nice work here, Lieutenant.”

Someone found a fire extinguisher and was killing one of the burning tires. I watched for a moment, then looked beyond him, into the distance, into the world. A world that I was finally ready to be part of again. But not as a cop.

“It’s not lieutenant,” I said evenly. “Not anymore.”

CHAPTER 57

“I’M READY TO SAY GOODBYE.”

The day was gorgeous, sun blazing, birds singing, a warm breeze whistling through the tombstones. I wasn’t wearing black this time. I had on a floral print dress, one I’d bought de cades ago, something casual and flirty and created for a much younger, happier woman. Someone optimistic.

The grass over Latham’s grave was green and lush, like it had been growing there for years rather than just four days. I crouched down, placed a single red rose on the ground. Six feet above his heart. I stayed like that for a moment, the two dozen sporadic stitches in my legs protesting.

“I’m sorry for everything. Mostly that I didn’t reach this conclusion earlier. You never pushed me into quitting, never made any demands. Thank you for that. But I’m retired now, and if there’s anything beyond this world and you’re listening, I hope you can forgive me. I also hope I gave you even a tenth of the happiness that you gave me. I love you, Latham.”

I stood, wiped the tears off my cheeks. My purse rang, and I fished out my cell.

“Thank you for the gift,” Herb said.

“Did the Turduckinlux come?”

“Did you send me that too? How about steaks?”

“Assorted steaks, Herb. I got you the Meat Lover’s Package. It also comes with an angioplasty.”

“I appreciate it, Jack.” He cleared his throat. “Bernice also gave me the other thing. Your badge. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I think it’s a good thing.”

“Because now I can’t boss you around anymore?”

“Because you deserve to be happy. Now you have a chance to.”

I stared at Latham’s headstone and pursed my lips.

“When are you getting out?” I asked.

“You know hospitals. They want to milk every last cent out of you. I could actually use some milk right now. Or ice cream. Do you like ice cream? I like bacon. They should make bacon-flavored ice cream.”

“Hi, Jack,” Bernice was talking now. “The latest morphine dose is kicking in, he’s babbling.”

“He’ll be okay?”

“Everything looks good.” A pause. “Will you be okay?”

I glanced at the grave again, then looked up at the sun.

“I think so.”

“Good. Stop in later, that will cheer him up. But don’t bring any food.”

“Bring food!” Herb thundered in the background. “It’s horrible here!”

“Don’t bring food,” Bernice repeated. “Doctors have him on a liquid diet.”

“It’s horrible!” he wailed.

“I’ll be by later.”

I hung up, popped the phone back into my purse, and it rang again. I put it to my face.

“Hello?”

Another ring. But it wasn’t my phone. It was coming from my purse. I hunted around, found the cell Harry had had in his pocket, the one I’d used to call 911. I checked the caller ID. Four-one-four. A Wisconsin area code. I answered.

“Hello?”

“Is this Gracie?” A woman’s voice.

“I’m sorry, no it’s not.”

“Do you know anyone named Gracie?”

“I don’t. This is Harry McGlade’s phone.”

“Do you know Samantha Porter? I’m her neighbor. I’m watching her daughter, Melinda.” The voice was frantic, and picking up speed. “Sam’s been gone for two days, and I finally got the landlord to let me into her apartment. I found this number with the name Gracie written on it. She was supposed to go shopping with Gracie, but I haven’t heard back from her in two days.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know any of those people.”

“I don’t know what else to do. I’ve called the police, but they haven’t been able to find her. Sam didn’t tell me much about Gracie, only that she was a dancer too before the car accident scarred her face.”

My core temperature dropped ten degrees.

“Gracie had a scarred face?”

“Just one side, Sam said.”

“Can you describe Samantha for me?”

“Tall. Athletic. Blond hair.”

“Did she have a pair of red boots?”

“She was a dancer. She had a lot of boots.”

“I’ve got your number. I’ll call you back.”

I hung up, feeling numb. This wasn’t Harry’s phone. It was Alex’s phone. The last phone in the daisy chain.

It all came to me in a rush. What Alex had done. How she’d pulled it off.

Alex was still alive. And she was getting away.

And I knew what I had to do to stop her.

CHAPTER 58

NOT PERFECT, but not bad.

The plan had been to grab Jack and drive the Winnebago to the Prius parked a few blocks away. Then she’d blow up the RV, with Samantha Porter’s body inside, and Harry would ID the body from the ugly Enrique Perez boots. But things had gone a little squirrelly, and she had to abandon both Harry and Jack.

Still, the plan mostly worked. After her date with Sam, they’d gone back to her apartment. Alex had taken Sam’s passport, ID, and some of her belongings, then marched the naive stripper back to her Prius and shot her in the backseat.

Now Alex was Samantha. They looked enough alike that she should be able to cross the border into Mexico without any hassle. Once there, the plastic surgeon she’d been exchanging e-mails with would fix her scarred face, turning her into an exact copy of Sam, for the tidy sum of forty grand cash. After recuperating, Alex could go after Jack, Harry, and Phin at her leisure, without worrying about the law breathing down her neck.

Alex smiles, half her face immobile, and runs her hand along the My Ass jeans she’s wearing. Samantha’s jeans.

I knew I’d get into your pants.

Alex looks at her reflection in the rearview mirror, adjusts her bangs.

“Hello, Sam. I think I’m going to love you.”

For the first time in a long time, Alex has hope for the future. And it feels wonderful.

She checks out of the hotel using the TV remote control, grabs the duffel bag full of money, and notices that her cell phone, plugged into the charger, is blinking like it has a message.

Odd. No one should know this number.

She picks it up, sees the call forwarding is still on. Alex thought she’d turned it off. Maybe that’s what’s blinking. She turns it off for sure this time, and also double-checks that the Bluetooth is disabled.

Not that it matters. No one knows she’s alive. No one is coming after her.

Alex leaves the hotel and walks into the parking lot. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and warm. She left the windows open on the Prius last night, and the death smell is just about gone. There are some stains, if you look really close. Alex decides she’ll stop at the next car wash she sees and give the carpet a shampoo.

She climbs in, starts the car, and gets ready for the long drive south.

A few moments after pulling onto the expressway, her cell phone rings.

Alex’s breath catches. There’s a simple explanation. There has to be. It’s a wrong number. Or a telemarketer. Something stupid and harmless.

She picks it up but doesn’t answer, squinting at the caller ID.

555-5555.

What the fuck?

There has to be something wrong with the phone. That’s the only thing that makes sense.

Then it beeps, indicating a text message.

THIS IS ALEX. SHE’S A SERIAL KILLER.

It’s followed by a photo.

Alex’s mug shot.

THIS IS NOT SAMANTHA PORTER. AND THE BORDER PATROL KNOWS THAT.

This can’t be happening. This really can’t be happening. Alex has worked out every detail. This plan is perfect. Who the hell could have figured it out?

Another beep.

THIS IS JACK. SHE’S REALLY PISSED OFF.

A photo. Jack Daniels, staring right at her. Looking colder, harder, meaner, than Alex has ever seen before.

And Alex feels something she hasn’t felt since she was a little child, hiding in the basement from Father so he couldn’t punish her.

Alex feels absolute terror.

Someone honks, and Alex looks up and slams on the brakes, the Prius fishtailing, barely avoiding a collision with the car ahead of her. She pulls onto the shoulder, heart hammering, a giant lump in her throat preventing her from swallowing.

The phone rings again. Alex jumps in her seat.

Another ring.

Another ring—it seems to be getting louder.

Alex reaches for the phone, jittery and fearful, like it’s a scorpion, then tentatively holds it up to her ear.

“I know the ID you’re using,” Jack says. “I know the car you’re driving. You can’t leave the country. Once I call the state cops, you won’t even get out of Illinois.”

“What do you want?” Alex asks, surprised at how weak her voice sounds.

“To meet. We’re ending this, Alex, once and for all.”

Alex forces a laugh. “You’re insane. I’m not meeting with you. If I show up, I’ll be surrounded by cops.”

“No cops. Just us.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I’ll have my passport on me. Samantha Porter’s name is worthless to you. I’ve made sure of that. But if you kill me, you can be Jack Daniels. You’ll have to dye your hair from blond to brunette, but I’m betting you can manage.”

Alex considers it, then dismisses it almost immediately.

“No way. I’ve got no reason to trust you.”

“I’m not going to arrest you, Alex. I’m not going to make that mistake again. We’re meeting so I can kill you.”

Now Alex does actually laugh.

“You don’t have it in you, Jack. You’ve tried before and always lost.”

“I won’t lose this time.”

“Why? Because you’ll have one of your dumb-ass friends backing you up?”

“Harry and Herb are in the hospital. Phin is in federal custody, his bail set at a million dollars. This is between you and me, Alex. It’s always been between you and me.”

“And if I don’t show up?”

“Then I’ll be following you. Every day. Every hour. Every minute, I’ll be on your ass. But I won’t be playing it your way anymore, running around trying to save people. Latham left me a fortune, and I’ll spend every last dime hunting you down like the animal you are. If you want to live constantly looking over your shoulder, that’s up to you. But I want to finish this. Now.”

Alex drums her fingers on the steering wheel, her mind churning. She’s always been smarter than Jack. Outsmarting her one more time shouldn’t be hard. And if it actually came down to a fight, Alex is stronger, and faster, and a better shot. The only thing to worry about is being lied to, but Alex doesn’t sense any deceit on Jack’s part. One of the good lieutenant’s many flaws is her honest streak. Like a forty-seven-year-old Girl Scout.

“Fine,” Alex decides. “Same place as yesterday, behind O’Hare. If I sense something is funny, I won’t show up.”

“Twenty minutes,” Jack says.

Alex pulls back onto the expressway. Jittery—from nerves, excitement, and anticipation.

How fun it will be to live life as Jack Daniels.

CHAPTER 59

IT ISN’T MURDER. Like my dad said, killing a rabid dog is actually mercy.

Which is why, when I pulled into the vacant lot and saw Alex parked in the distance, sitting behind the wheel of a Prius, I floored the gas and headed straight for her.

I had no idea what Alex had been expecting. Maybe a gunfight. Maybe a fistfight. And maybe she could have beaten me in both.

But in a demolition derby, a two-and-a-half-ton Ford Bronco truck beat a compact Toyota hybrid any day of the week.

By the time I got close enough to see Alex’s expression—pure shock that I wasn’t going to stop—she hit the accelerator. But it was too little, too late. The Bronco crashed into her front end with a satisfying, metal-crunching clang, the four-wheel-drive climbing up onto the hood of the tiny car, a heavy steel-belted radial smashing through her front windshield.

I jammed it into reverse, my tires found purchase on the gravel-covered asphalt, and I rocketed backward off the Prius, bouncing high in my seat from the shocks.

Alex was buried under an airbag, the front end of her car smashed to half its height. I backed up until I was a good fifty yards away, then punched it and rammed her again.

The Prius lurched sideways, its tires shrieking, the big truck pushing until it reached a divot in the cracked pavement and rolled up onto its side, and then over the top, rocking upside-down like a big metal turtle.

I backed up again, but after a few feet something begin to whine under the floorboard. I tried to pop it into gear, and the truck jerked, then was still. I’d killed the transmission.

No biggie. I was just getting started.

I tugged on the door handle. It didn’t budge. So I stuck my Beretta in my teeth and climbed out the missing windshield onto the hood of the Bronco. I slid off the bumper and onto my feet, then went after her.

When I got within twenty feet of the Prius I fired three shots, bursting all three airbags. Keeping the Beretta aimed, I pressed on the airbag fabric, deflating it, ready to fire at the first thing underneath.

But there was nothing there. The car was empty.

I spun around just as I saw the blur. The kick connected solidly with my hand, my gun taking flight and arcing through the air, clattering to the concrete a few dozen feet away.

I pivoted, brought my own leg around, aiming at Alex’s chest. She turned into it, absorbing the kick on her shoulder. Then she shoved me away, backpedaled, and assumed a tae kwon do stance, legs apart and fists raised.

I got in the same stance.

“I’m going to rip your fucking head off,” Alex snarled at me.

“Bring it, bitch.”

Alex advanced, feinting with her left, hooking with her right. I ducked my head down, her knuckles grazing off my skull, and then I brought my knee up, driving it into her ribs.

She recovered quickly, spinning to my left, whacking me in the neck with the back of her hand. I staggered from the blow, and she followed up with a scissors kick, her body taking to the air.

Her foot met my jaw, hard enough to bring the stars out. I spun with it, and kept spinning until I hit the ground, slapping both palms against the tarmac to cushion my fall.

Alex was on me quick as a snake, punting one of my kidneys up into my lungs. I screamed, but managed to pin her leg on the second kick, shifting with it, flipping her onto her face.

I kept hold of her ankle, rolling her up, getting on top of her.

Then I grabbed her bleach-blond hair and introduced her face to the pavement. Once. Twice, three times, and then she tangled her hand in my hair and yanked me off.

We both rolled to our feet. Alex spat out blood and teeth. Her face was the picture of rage, the scar tissue stretched so taut it was pure white. She lunged, but anger had replaced form and I easily sidestepped the move, giving her a one-two punch to the nose.

She wiped a sleeve across her face, mopping off blood.

“You’re all alone, Jack. No one is here to save you this time.”

I thought of every major case I’d ever been on. Each time, someone had come to the rescue. Herb. Harry. Phin. None of them were here now to watch my back.

Alex was right. This time I was totally alone.

But this time I didn’t need any help.

I moved in, kicked at her instep, dropping her to one knee, then hammered a right cross home, jerking her head back. Alex brought up her fists, swung and missed. I followed the right with a left, rocking her sideways, then another right, and another left. It was like hitting a heavy bag, except heavy bags don’t whimper.

She fell onto both knees, not even fighting back, keeping her head covered up.

I grabbed her arms and my knee met her nose. If it hadn’t been broken before, now it was.

Alex slumped onto her ass. She wasn’t getting up again.

“Lucky,” Alex said, blood dribbling down her face from eight different places. “You got lucky.”

“Wrong. I’m better than you. And I just kicked your ass.”

I scanned the empty lot, found my Beretta only a few yards away. I strode over to it and scooped it up. Then I returned to Alex, sticking the gun in her face, pointing it at her eye socket so she could look up the barrel.

Alex tried to smile, all red gums and broken teeth.

“You’re not going to kill me.”

“Yes. I am. And I don’t want your last thought to be a hopeful one, so stop trying to convince yourself of that. In five seconds, I’m pulling this trigger.”

“You can’t do it.”

“You’ll find out in four more seconds.”

Alex’s half grin faltered. “You’re a cop.”

“Not anymore.”

And there it was. The sneering, mocking face that had haunted my dreams for so long became something pitiful, pathetic, filled with fear.

“Jack. Don’t do this.”

“This is for Latham, and Alan, and Coursey, and the dozens of others you’ve slaughtered. But mostly, it’s for me.”

“Jack, please—”

“When you get to hell, say hi to Charles.”

Alex cried out, “Jack—no!”

The bullet took off the back of her head. She flopped onto her side, blood spraying the broken concrete. I put two more into her skull, kicked her over, and fired three more into her dead heart.

Dad was right. It was like killing a rabid dog.

I checked her pulse, found none.

But just to make absolutely sure, I waited ten minutes before calling the police.

CHAPTER 60

I WAS SWEEPING UP my wreck of a house—something I’d put off during my three-week bout of drinking and depression—when a car pulled into the driveway.

“How’s the nose?” I asked when I opened the door.

“I’ve got an extra nostril.” Harry’s voice was nasally, for obvious reasons. He had a big white ban dage across his face, with some sort of nose brace, and his black eyes made him look like a raccoon.

“Nice,” I said.

“Doc said it came off pretty clean, so it should look more or less normal when it heals. Thanks for giving it to the EMT. And thanks, you know, for coming to my rescue and saving my ass.”

“My plea sure, Harry.”

Harry looked down at his feet, then scratched himself in a bad place.

“So I was thinking. Alex is dead, right?”

“Yeah.”

I’d found Alex’s gun in the wrecked Prius and given it back to her, so it looked less like an assassination and more like self-defense, but otherwise told the authorities everything that happened. There would be a hearing, but I’d learned from on high that no charges would be filed. Stopping a serial killer’s multi-state crime spree and recovering over eighty thousand dollars in stolen money counted for a lot, and supposedly no one was anxious to prosecute me.

The only weak link was Officer Scott Hajek. After leaving the cemetery I’d visited the Crime Lab with the phone Harry had found, asking Hajek to get Alex’s number off the SIM card. He agreed, and promised he’d keep quiet about helping me, as long as I promised to go out with him sometime.

Sometime wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

“And you’re not a cop anymore, right?” Harry asked.

I nodded. “I start getting my retirement pension next week.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking, since this is the big day—”

“Big day?”

“DNA Day. Today we get the test results.”

Oh, brother. Or in this case, Oh, I hope it isn’t my brother. “Yeah, it’s supposed to be today.”

“Did you call yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Good. I wanted to be there when you called. Anyway, I was thinking that since you aren’t a cop anymore, maybe you’re looking for some gainful employment.”

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“What are you saying, Harry?”

“I’m saying that the Crimebago is gone. So is my partner.”

“You had a partner?”

“Slappy. He wasn’t a very good partner, but he was all I had.”

I tried to look concerned, but didn’t quite make it. “I’m sorry your monkey blew up, Harry.”

“No, he didn’t die. He ran away before the explosion. Haven’t you been watching the news? All the monkey attacks in Rosemont?”

“Missed it.”

“Well, he’s at large, and when they catch him there’s no way in hell I’m claiming him, because I’m not paying the medical expenses of all those people he bit. He also assaulted a Chihuahua. The papers didn’t go into details, but I think there was sex involved and I don’t think it was consensual.”

“I’m not quite sure how to reply to that.”

“Anyway, he’s out of the picture and I figured, maybe, if the DNA tests show we’re actually related, maybe, you know…”

I folded my arms. “Maybe I can join your private investigation business?”

Harry nodded, smiling. “Full partners. Fifty-fifty. Think about it, Jackie. We’d be the only brother-and-sister crime-fighting team in the country.” His eyes danced like candle flames. “Mom will be so proud of us.”

“We don’t even have the test results, Harry.”

“Okay. Call.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

I led Harry through the shambles that was my dwelling, made my way into the kitchen, and picked up the phone. The number for the DNA place was written on a pad.

“Biologen, this is Dr. Stefanopolous.”

“Hi, I’m calling about a DNA match check. The name is Daniels. The batch number is 8431485.”

“Hold on, please.”

Harry poked me. “What did they say?”

“She’s checking.”

We waited, Harry’s eyes pressing on me, his ruined face awash with expectation.

“You’re looking for the results of the Daniels/McGlade comparison?” the doctor finally asked.

“Yes.”

“Negative. No relation.”

“You’re sure?”

“We’ll mail the detailed results to you within the next five business days. Thanks for choosing Biologen.”

She hung up.

“Well?” Harry asked.

I’d known him for over twenty years, and had never seen him so excited, so happy, his face so lit up.

Then I thought of Mom, and how pleased she was to have found her long-lost son. She’d be so disappointed.

I weighed that against the ickiness I felt. But, strangely, now that I knew we weren’t actually related, some of the ickiness was gone.

“Come on, Jackie! Don’t keep me in suspense!”

I frowned.

“Welcome to the family, Harry.”

I had to endure a big hug, which hurt like hell because of my various aches and pains.

“I gotta call Mom,” he said, breaking the embrace. “She gets back in a few days. We should all go out to eat. Celebrate.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. “Sure.”

“Then we can get our matching tattoos.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Awesome.” I don’t think he heard me. “I’ll call you to night about signing the lease.”

“What lease?”

“Our new office. It’s a primo location, Jackie. Needs a bit of a fix-up, but it will be perfect for our business.”

“Harry, I haven’t—”

“Gotta run.” He slipped in fast and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll tell Mom you said hi.”

And then he was out the door, leaving me to wonder about the monster I’d just created.

Since I was already in the kitchen, and since it was just as messy as the rest of the house, I grabbed a broom and dustpan and began sweeping. It was mindless work, rewarding in a menial, repetitive way. Being domestic wasn’t something I did much of, but I felt like I could get used to it. Maybe even start to enjoy it.

At around noon I got hungry and ordered Chinese food—my domesticity ended at cooking. Half an hour later there was a knock at the front door. I grabbed some cash, brushed some dust off my jeans, and went to pay the delivery driver.

But it wasn’t the food. It was someone else.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

Phin wore jeans and a white T-shirt, tight in all the right places. He had his hands in his pockets and a boyish grin on his face that made him look ten years younger, which would make him twenty years younger than me.

“Thanks for putting up the bond money.”

“I’ve got a little extra in the bank.”

“A hundred grand is more than a little.”

“Let’s call it even. I know you talked to the Feds, got the charges against me dropped.”

“We’re not even. Not even close.”

“I trashed your truck,” I said.

“I can steal another one. But the money…Jack, I can’t pay that much back.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“And chances are high I’m not going to appear on my court date.”

I nodded again. “I know. It’s okay.”

He moved a little closer to me, his gaze intense.

“Look, Jack, I know how you feel about me. And if you really want to just be friends, I’d rather have your friendship than none of you at all.”

I stared at Phin, and felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks. Happiness. I was actually happy. It was such an alien feeling I wasn’t sure what to do.

My mouth made the decision for me, locking onto his with a heat, a passion, an intensity that made me realize maybe, just maybe, things might work out after all.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Phin whispered. “I come with some pretty hefty baggage.”

I smiled, wicked, free, and wonderfully alive. Maybe for the first time in my entire life.

“Well, Mr. Troutt. I guess we’ll just have to take it one day at a time.”

Then I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him into my house.

Acknowledgments

SPECIAL THANKS TO Don Oakes and John Nebl, two very smart cops. Any mistakes in this book are mine, as they don’t make mistakes.

A toast to my fellow writers Raymond Benson, Blake Crouch, Barry Eisler, Jack Kilborn, Henry Perez, James Rollins, Marcus Sakey, and Jeff Strand for their unwavering support.

Thanks to my family and friends, everyone at Dystel & Goderich, Hyperion, the booksellers, the libraries, and the fans.

And finally, to a select group who continue to spread the word, including Ben Springer, Brenda Anderson, Brian Prisco, Corky Mayo, Dan Blackley, Dave Eaton, Elizabeth Brux, Greg Swanson, Jan May, Jeanne Donnelly, Jim Munchel, Joe Menta Jr., Karen L. Syed, Kathy Cox, Melanie Williams, Michele Lee, Nick Goodrick, Patricia Reid, Patrick Balester, Paul Pessolano, Robert Mosley, Robyn Glazer, Sean Hicks, Steve Jensen, and all the JAKaholics on my message board.

OTHER WORKS BY J. A. KONRATH

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Copyright

CHERRY BOMB. Copyright © 2009 Joe Konrath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

Adobe Digital Edition May 2009 ISBN 978-1-4013-9446-2

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Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination

THE JACK DANIELS SIX PACK. Copyright © 2010 by J.A. Konrath. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.

EPub Edition August 2010 ISBN: 9781401325978

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