Jack Daniels Six Pack (68 page)

“No bodies?”

“Nothing.”

“You check the basement?”

“We checked everywhere. House was empty, thank God.” I thought about that. I would have bet good money that Diane Kork’s body was somewhere in the house.

“Did you see anyone running from the house before me? Someone in jeans and work boots?”

“I didn’t. But someone was in a hurry to get away from there. Tommy got clipped by a car in the alley out back.”

“Tommy?”

“Tommy Thurston, guy from my unit. He’s just a couple beds down. Broken leg. Want to meet him?”

“Yeah, I would.” I squeezed on my second shoe and stood, one hand holding my pants.

Peter led me down the hall. Tommy lay on his cot, his calf wrapped in a fiberglass cast. His eyes were closed. He looked too young to shave. Where were they getting firemen these days, out of grammar school?

“Mr. Thurston?”

“What? Oh, hey. You’re the one we pulled out.”

I offered a hand. “Lieutenant Jack Daniels. How’s the leg?”

“Tibia fracture. Not bad.”

“I heard you were hit by a car.”

“Damnedest thing. He came screeching out of the alley like Dale Earn-hardt. Clipped engine number twelve and the side of a building, and gave me a love tap like I wasn’t even there. Probably didn’t see me.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“No. Too dark. Happened too fast.”

“How about the car?”

“Dark color. Looked new. Could have been anything. Lots of cars look alike these days, don’t you think? Shouldn’t be hard to find, though.”

“Why is that?”

“Guy lost both his side mirrors driving through the gap.”

I nodded. “Any chance you noticed the license plate?”

“Actually, right before it hit me, I did notice the plate. Started with
D
one.”

“
D
one? You’re sure?”

“Uh-huh. I remember because when it was coming right at me I thought,
I’m the Dead One.
D one. Get it?”

“I got it. You don’t remember any other numbers?”

“Nope. There were six or seven of them. Looked like an Illinois plate.” His eyes lit up. “Hey, your name is Jack Daniels?”

“That’s me. Lightly braised, but in the flesh.”

“I like that show on TV that you’re in, that
Fatal Autonomy
. You’re pretty funny. I loved the one where you were screaming and screaming and screaming for help and that private eye guy took off his dirty sock and crammed it in your mouth.”

I gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. Good episode.”

Peter chimed in. “My favorite is the one where you tracked down that killer and went to shoot him but you forgot to load your gun.” He slapped his thigh, grinning. “Classic.”

“That didn’t really happen.”

“Sure was funny, though.” Peter eyed my outfit. “I think it’s great you’re losing weight. Made my job a lot easier, carrying you.”

I considered telling him that I wasn’t fat, that was only the actress who played me, but I let discretion be the better part of valor.

“Excuse me.” I slid past. “Gotta get home and drink my Slim-Fast shake. Thanks again, guys.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Daniels.”

Since the paramedics had taken me to the hospital, I had to take a cab to my car, still parked on Hamilton. A single fire engine remained on the scene, hosing down Diane Kork’s house. The flames had long since been extinguished, but the heat remained. When the water hit certain spots, it hissed and steamed fiercely.

I wanted to poke around inside, but now didn’t seem like a good time. Plus, I was exhausted. I did drive around to the back alley, and was rewarded with a nice surprise: two rearview mirrors, broken and lying on the asphalt.

Evidence. I hoped it would be enough.

Chapter 13

I
MANAGED TO
sleep for six whole hours, which was wonderful, but waking up was a Spanish Inquisition interrogation.

My eyes were glued shut with crust, my nose and throat were raw, my hand felt like I was holding it over a stove burner, and my ear throbbed with my heartbeat. A bad headache was the cherry on top of the pain sundae.

Good freaking morning.

I sat up and stared into the indifferent eyes of Mr. Friskers, who perched at the foot of my bed like a gargoyle.

“What do you want, cat? Food?”

He meowed.

I almost did a double take. Mr. Friskers never meowed. His normal method of communication was hissing or yowling.

“What, are you actually trying to be friendly?”

The cat meowed again.

Though my heart was carved from glacier ice, I felt it melt a bit.

“That’s sweet.” I reached out to pat him on the head, and he hissed and clawed my hand, drawing blood.

He ran off before I could find my gun and shoot him.

I glanced at the clock. A little after nine a.m. I had a lot to do, plus that handwriting expert was stopping by the office this afternoon, but I couldn’t comprehend going to work feeling as crummy as I did. The very thought of explaining to Captain Bains what happened last night made my head hurt worse than it already did.

Screw it. I needed a day off.

I peeled myself out of bed, found my way to the bathroom, coughed and hacked and spit black mucus into the toilet for ten minutes, changed into some old Lee jeans and the Bulls sweatshirt I inherited last night, and then lurched into the kitchen. Checked my answering machine. No calls. Plodded back into the bedroom and checked my cell phone. No calls. Found some aspirin, made quick work of three, then forced myself back into the kitchen, where I liberated a tray of ice from the freezer.

I chewed on the cubes, which helped my sore throat. Then I called the graphologist, Dr. Francis Mulrooney, to cancel our appointment. He wasn’t in. I left a message.

I spent the next thirty minutes cleaning and oiling my .38. I carry a Colt Detective Special, blue finish, black grips, with a two-inch barrel. It weighs twenty-one ounces, and is seven inches from butt to front sights. I preferred revolvers to semiautomatics for several reasons. They had fewer moving parts, which meant less could go wrong in terms of jamming and misfiring. At any time, I could visually check how many rounds were left. And they were easier to clean.

I threw away the two remaining bullets still in the cylinder, not knowing how the heat and the water from yesterday had affected them, and was loading six fresh rounds when I heard someone at my door.

It wasn’t a knock. It was someone trying to turn the knob.

I slapped the cylinder closed and walked silently up to my door, keeping to the right of the frame.

The knob continued to turn, and I heard the jangle of keys.

Latham? He had a key to my apartment. I disengaged the burglar alarm and almost turned the dead bolt and threw the door open, but thought better of it and checked the peephole first.

Good thing I did. The woman outside my door was someone I’d never seen before. She looked to be in her late thirties, short brown hair, with a jagged scar reaching from her left eye to the corner of her mouth.

I wondered how I should play it. Announce myself as a cop through the door? Ask who is it? Surprise her with a snub nose in her face?

“Who’s there?” I said.

My voice seemed to startle her. She backpedaled away from my door and walked quickly down the hall.

I flipped back the dead bolt and swung the door open, my .38 locking on her back.

“Stop! Police!”

She turned and froze, her face going from white to whiter.

“Hands in the air!”

Her hands shot up. “I just moved in! I thought that was my apartment!”

“Palms on the wall, feet apart.”

The woman hugged the plaster like she knew the drill. She wore some kind of work overalls, brown and grubby, and the odor she gave off wasn’t pleasant.

I did a quick but thorough pat down, and found a butterfly knife in her boot.

“That’s for work.”

“Where do you work?”

“Department of Sanitation. The sewers.”

“You need a martial arts weapon for sewer work?”

“It’s under four fingers. It’s legal.”

I opened the butterfly knife, and it had a short blade. Short but thick. Any blade longer than a handspan was against the law, and this one looked like it could go either way.

“Why were you trying to break into my apartment?”

“I told you, cop.” She said the word
cop
as if it hurt her. “I thought it was mine. It was an honest mistake. Quit hassling me.”

I fished out a wallet, which wasn’t the most pleasant thing to do because she had gunk—presumably sewer gunk—on her pockets. Her driver’s license told me she was Lucy Walnut. Address in Oak Park.

“Says here you’re in the suburbs.”

“I just moved in last week. Haven’t got the license changed.”

“Okay, Ms. Walnut. Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. Which door is yours?”

“I’m in 304. The doors don’t have numbers on them.”

Three-oh-four was right next to mine.

“Keys. And stay put.”

She handed over the keys and I kept a bead on her while trying the lock. It turned.

“Told you so. Can I go now?”

“Where’d you do time, Ms. Walnut?”

She stayed quiet.

“I can find out easy enough.”

“Did a nickel at Joliet.”

“What for?”

Silence again.

“I asked, what for?”

“I don’t need to tell you nothing.”

“No, you don’t. But if you’re on parole, I can find out who your PO is and explain how you were trying to break into a cop’s apartment.”

“That was an accident.”

“My word against yours. Who do you think the judge will believe? Now, what were you in for?”

“Battery. I answered your damn questions. Can I go now?”

I tossed her keys on the floor by her feet.

“Keep your nose clean, Ms. Walnut. I’m going to hold on to your knife, because I wouldn’t want you hurting yourself with it.”

“Whatever.”

We both went into our respective abodes, and I took a big breath and let it out slow. My hands were quaking from adrenaline, just like they always did after I shook down a suspect.

I set my gun on the counter, tossed the knife in the garbage, closed my eyes, and let my body return to calm.

The calm was shattered two minutes later, by a knock on my door. Ms. Walnut again, back to take revenge against the cop who stole her knife?

I picked up my gun and peered through the peephole.

It wasn’t Ms. Walnut. It was someone a lot worse.

Chapter 14

W
HAT DO YOU
want?” I said through the door.

“Can’t an old friend drop by and say hello?”

“An old friend, yes. You, no.”

“Come on, Jackie. Open the door.”

“No.”

He knocked again, harder.

“Hurry! Open up! It’s my heart! I feel a blockage in my pituitary artery! My left arm has gone numb! Jackie, for the love of God!”

I thought about going into my bedroom and watching TV, but I knew he’d just keep bugging me until I let him in.

“I’m dying, Jackie! Everything’s getting dark! So dark! I’m too young and too pretty to die like this!”

I wistfully eyed the .38 I’d set on my counter, then unlocked my door.

Harry McGlade, private investigator sub-par and namesake to the lead character in the TV series
Fatal Autonomy,
came into my apartment without being invited.

He wore the typical Harry outfit: a wrinkled brown suit, a stained tie, a chubby face in need of a shave, and enough cologne to make my nose hurt.

“Hiya, Jackie. What’s shaking?”

“I see you’re still allergic to ironing.”

McGlade tugged on his lapels like a wise guy. “This is Armani. Armani doesn’t wrinkle.”

“Then what are all of the crinkles and creases?”

“Those are style lines.”

He smiled at me, the smile becoming a wince as he took in my condition. “Damn, what happened to you? Looks like you got into a fight with an ugly stick, and the ugly stick kicked your ass.”

I held my thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “This is the amount of patience I have left, McGlade. What do you want?”

“I need a favor.”

“No.”

“It’s important.”

“No.”

“It’s not work-related. It’s personal.”

“Hell no.”

“I’m getting married.”

“My sympathies to your fiancée.”

“I’d like you to stand up.”

I was about to say no again, but I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.

“What did you just ask me?”

McGlade spent a moment studying his shoes. Brown leather, Italian. Probably worth a fortune.

“I need a, uh, best man. I want you to be my best man.”

I considered all of the hurtful put-downs I could sling at him, and gave him my best.

“Let me guess. You don’t have any friends because you’re an obnoxious bottom-feeding creep, so I’m the only person you can ask.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. That pretty much covers it.”

I rubbed my eyes, a bad move because they hurt like hell. Millennia ago, McGlade worked for the CPD and was my partner. He screwed that up, and screwed me over, which should have been the end of our relationship. But Harry kept reappearing in my life, like an antibiotic-resistant rash. He was the reason why that stupid character on that stupid TV show was named after stupid me.

“Will you do it?”

“I’d rather eat a box of tacks.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I’ll pay you. I’m rich.”

“Pay someone else.”

“I would, but my betrothed wants it to be you.”

“She knows me?”

“She loves the TV show.”

That damn show. “I’m close to losing my job because of that show.”

“Aren’t you knocking on retirement anyway, Jackie? Pretty soon you’ll be chasing bad guys with a walker.”

It was my fault. I let him in.

“You want me to be your best man?” I gave him a sharp poke in his chest, feeling my finger sink into pudge.

“I’m begging you, Jackie. I’ll do anything.”

“Kill me.”