Jack Daniels Six Pack (89 page)

I didn’t think Harry would mind, considering I was trying to save his life.

McGlade used to live in Hyde Park, in a little rat hole apartment. Since hitting it big with
Fatal Autonomy,
he’d moved to a penthouse on the GC—the Gold Coast. Heated garage. Twenty-four-hour doorman. And a damn good front door, which I hurt myself getting through.

The condo dripped opulence, which isn’t to say it was attractive or tasteful. Harry decorated like a child-king rules a country—with enthusiasm, but no intelligence.

The carpet was deep, expensive. While the furniture all screamed wealth, the styles were confused. An art deco table breakfront. A colonial dining room set. Art nouveau chairs and a rococo sofa. And beanbags. Lots of multicolored beanbags.

The walls displayed pricey-looking paintings and drawings: oils, watercolors, acrylics, pencils. Some postmodern, some minimalist, some classical. The only common theme was their subject: naked women.

A plasma TV was the centerpiece of the most hi-tech entertainment center I’d ever seen, boasting stacks upon stacks of blinking stereo and video equipment. It was like Harry had gone into a Sharper Image store and said, “I’ll take everything.”

The place was clean, to the point of fastidiousness. Unusual for Harry. I’d had the unfortunate displeasure of visiting his last apartment, which was like a landfill, only roomier.

I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Holly/Alex had spent some time here. I doubted she’d left any clues; Holly was too smart for that. But I had no other leads, and I had to do something. Waiting around my office for another videotape to arrive wasn’t in my game plan.

The kitchen was larger than my whole apartment. Copper pots hanging from a rack on the ceiling. A center island with a six-burner stove and a grill. A microwave large enough to defrost a whole pig.

“You find anything?”

One of the Feebies, calling from the hallway.

“Some pictures,” I yelled. “Hoover in a cocktail dress.”

The kitchen let out into a hallway. I limped into the bedroom first. A king-sized bed dominated the room, dead-center. On the right side of the bed was a control panel. I had no desire to find out what it controlled.

The next room was all shelves containing videos and DVDs, many of them still unopened in their plastic wrappers. The room after that was a spare bedroom, which looked unused. Lastly, at the end of the hall was a closed door that had a plaque on it that said
Spy Room.

The spy room contained electrical gadgetry, and a lot of it. Infrared cameras. Listening devices. Night-vision goggles. A biohazard suit. Plus a large collection of remote control cars, helicopters, and airplanes.

I had no idea McGlade was such a techno-geek.

“Lieutenant Daniels! The police are here.”

I followed the voice back out into the hall, and indeed four of Chicago’s finest were surrounding the Feebies.

Which made sense. If Harry loved electronics this much, he probably had a silent burglar alarm. I hadn’t seen the arming panel when I came in, but I hadn’t been looking for it.

We coddled the cops, who were willing to overlook the criminal breaking and entering but still had to file a report in case Mr. McGlade wanted to press charges. I also arranged for the door to be fixed, so no one could walk in and steal all of Harry’s goodies. And he had lots of goodies.

“Are either of you car buffs?” I asked the Feebies in the elevator going down.

“I know a few things,” said Dailey. Or maybe it was Coursey.

“How much is a 1967 Mustang worth?”

“Depends on the mileage, the condition, and the model.”

“Assume everything is mint or rebuilt.”

“Maybe forty or fifty thousand. If a lot of custom work had been done on it, maybe more.”

Harry loved his car. He’s had it for as long as I’ve known him. If he pimped out his condo like that, he would have also pimped out his ride. And if he pimped out his ride, he’d want to protect it.

Back in my humble Nova, I radioed in a stolen vehicle—Harry’s Mustang. Then I gave my location and requested for any nearby squad cars equipped with LoJack tracking equipment to give me a holler if they got a ping.

Chicago adopted LoJack a few years ago. The LoJack company sold transmitters that were hidden in cars. If a car was stolen, a police report automatically activated the transmitter, which emitted a silent radio signal, revealing its location using global positioning satellites.

LoJack helped us locate stolen cars. I was betting Harry had one in his Mustang, and I was also betting that Holly had taken his car rather than a cab, which meant we might be able to track her right to Harry and Phin’s location.

Lots of betting involved with this plan.

“Roger, Lieutenant. This is car 88, just received confirm on LoJack, have the vehicle moving north on La Salle, just passing Adams. Over.”

Sometimes betting pays off.

“What’s your twenty, car 88?”

“South on Columbus, east ofRandolph.”

I was on La Salle and North Avenue, about two miles away.

“Car 88, maintain pursuit but do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. We don’t want to spook her.”

I kicked my car into gear and headed south on La Salle, hoping the Feebies had the good sense to turn on their scanner and follow at an inconspicuous pace. Which, knowing them, was hoping a lot.

“Suspect is at Washington, continuing north on La Salle.”

I stopped at a red light on Division, squelching the urge to blow through it and set a new land speed record. Holly would recognize my car. I needed to remain calm and focused, keeping a safe distance.

Arresting her was the wrong move. Holly wouldn’t give up Phin and Harry’s location, even with physical persuasion. Though I was having a hard time reconciling the calculating murderer with the woman I’d spent most of yesterday with, I knew Holly would die before telling me where they were. She was too competitive, her desire to win too strong. She wouldn’t take losing well.

The smarter move was to follow her and hope she led us to my friends. Which should work . . . unless they were already dead and in her trunk.

“This is car 88. We’re west on Van Buren, turning north onto La Salle.”

“Keep your distance, car 88. I don’t want her spooked.”

“Roger that.”

The light changed. I stayed the course, weaving in and out of the sparse traffic. In the rearview, I noticed the Feebies’ sedan, stuck to my bumper as if I were towing them.

“Dailey, Coursey, if you’re on this frequency, loosen up the tail. You’re crawling up my muffler.”

They must have heard me, because they pulled back to almost half a car length.

“Suspect just passed Wacker Drive, continuing on present course.”

I was coming up on West Chicago Avenue. Less than ten blocks away from Holly. I turned left on Chicago. I’d try to flank her by running parallel on Dearborn, two blocks over.

“Suspect has stopped at the corner ofLa Salle and Kinzie.”

I passed Clark, and pulled up to a fire hydrant on Chicago and Dearborn to wait.

“This is car 88. We’re still on La Salle, coming up on Washington. Suspect is still on Kinzie.”

A honk, behind me. Then several more. I looked in the mirror, and saw the Feebies were parked in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. This didn’t go over well with the long line of commuters forming behind them.

“We’re approaching Wacker Drive. Suspect is still stopped on Kinzie, one block ahead. Please advise.”

“Hold position. Wait for her to move.”

More honking, along with several colorful suggestions that perhaps the Feds might move their car. I watched in the rearview as a motorist actually stepped out of his vehicle and walked up to the Feebies, in a manner that made the vintage newsreels of a ranting Hitler seem genteel.

“Suspect is still holding at Kinzie, please advise.”

Shit.

“Approach with caution, 88. If suspect is still in the car, pass her without stopping.”

“Roger that.”

Now Dailey was out of the car, showing the angry motorist his ID. The motorist responded by showing Dailey one of his fingers.

“We’re approaching Kinzie, and see a black Ford Mustang parked alongside the street. No driver. Over.”

Double shit.

I pulled out into traffic, made a U-turn, and headed back to La Salle. This time I floored it, wincing from the pain in my right ankle, which had swollen enough to break my shoe strap. I blew the light on La Salle, jerked the wheel hard to the left to avoid a collision, and raced toward Holly, nine blocks to go.

“You’re looking for a white woman, mid-thirties, long black hair, a hundred and thirty pounds, very attractive. She might be wearing a white dress, but she’s probably in street clothes. She has ID in the name of Holly Frakes.”

Eight blocks. A green light, and I sailed through, easing the car up to forty-five.

“No one within sight matches that description. My partner will search on foot. Over.”

Seven blocks. I chanced a quick look in my mirror and saw I’d lost the Feebies. Maybe they’d been torn apart by angry motorists.

“Awaiting okay to approach the Mustang, over.”

“Hold, 88. I’ll be right there.”

I flew past Ohio street, then had to slam on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a bus that pulled in front of me. My ankle screamed at my decision, but the rest of my body was grateful not to have died. I swung into oncoming traffic, passed the CTA, and slowed down when I got to Hubbard, keeping my eyes open for Holly.

I didn’t see her, but I saw Harry’s Mustang parked along Kinzie. I pulled in behind it and limped over. When I looked inside, I understood why Holly had fled.

“Dammit, McGlade!”

Harry, in all of his disposable income wisdom, liked gadgets so much he not only purchased a LoJack, he also had a police scanner, mounted under his dash.

Holly had heard our entire radio conversation.

Triple shit with pink sugar on top.

I turned a full circle, my gaze drifting upward to the sky, cursing my failure. If I’d only maintained radio silence. Hell, if I’d only looked a little closer at Holly during the time I’d spent with her. Of course she was a killer. I should have known it from the start. Who else would have married McGlade?

Stupid, annoying, obnoxious, repulsive Harry McGlade.

God, I hoped he was okay.

Chapter 45

P
HINEAS TROUTT WIPES
his nose on his shoulder. The blood has slowed to a trickle.

He’s not sure how long ago Holly left. An hour, maybe ninety minutes. She worked on McGlade for what seemed like an eternity, until the poor son of a bitch passed out.

Phin lives in a seedy part of Chicago. He’s met pushers and bangers and hookers and pimps and johns and murderers, but he’s never seen anything as cold-blooded as Holly. She isn’t human.

For his part, McGlade had been pretty stoic through the ordeal. He screamed, for sure, but there was no begging or pleading.

There will be, though. Nobody can take that kind of agony for an extended period.

Phin wonders if McGlade has gone into shock. Might not be a bad thing. At least he’d be beyond the pain.

“How you doing, Harry?”

McGlade moans. “Got any aspirin?”

“Other pair of pants.”

“Nuts.”

Phin has to ask. His imagination has been running wild. “How’s the hand, Harry?”

“Doesn’t hurt much, because there’s not much left to hurt. Hope my screaming didn’t disturb you.”

“Actually, you interrupted my nap. Try to keep it down next time.”

“I’ll try. Sorry about that.”

He admires Harry’s guts. His respect for the private eye goes up a few notches.

“The hand the worst of it?”

“This damn rusty nail thing in my leg hurts worse. Dirty as hell. I can feel the tetanus, surging through my veins. Though I guess dying of tetanus might not be a bad thing right about now.”

Phin understands pain. He understands it more than most people. When there’s nothing else to focus on, pain can become all-consuming. Crippling. The psychological aspects of it are just as bad as the neurological effects.

If he keeps Harry talking, maybe the pain won’t be so bad.

“So your full name is Harrison Harold McGlade?”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents named you Harry Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s pretty funny, don’t you think?”

“This from a guy named Phineas Troutt.”

McGlade’s voice is getting weaker. Phin can hear the strain.

“At least I don’t have to piss anymore,” McGlade says. “When she cut off my thumb, I wet my pants.”

Phin has to grin at that.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Harry Harry.”

“All you dry pants guys say that.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing. There’s ammonia in urine. Maybe you disinfected that rusty nail puncture.”

“Didn’t reach. I was pointing in the other direction.”

A minute passes.

“I can see my fingers,” Harry says.

“How’s that?”

“They’re on the floor in front of me. Think a doctor can reattach them?”

To burned flesh? Phin doubts it. But he says, “Sure.”

“Assuming we get out of here.”

“I’m working on it.”

Listening to a man having his fingers removed and the stumps cauterized with a blowtorch can galvanize a person into action. Damage to himself be damned, Phin begins to twist his wrists in their binding. The wire is thin, and bites into his flesh.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks. “Using your psychic powers to call the other members of the Justice League?”

“I’m going to break this wire.”

“It’s too strong. You’ll cut your hands off first.”

“Either way I’ll be free.”

“Good plan. If it doesn’t work, I’ve got a plan too.”

Phin winces. He can feel the blood start to leak down his palms.

“What’s your plan?”

“When she comes back, I’m going to swallow my own tongue and choke to death.”