Jack Daniels Six Pack (157 page)

“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

“
S
TOP 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

A
LEX 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.