Jack Daniels Six Pack (164 page)

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

S
OME 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

A
LEX 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.