Jack Daniels Six Pack (20 page)

“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

I
N 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

I
T 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.