Jack Daniels Six Pack (153 page)

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

T
URNING 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.