Jack Daniels Six Pack (14 page)

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

H
E 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.”