Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline "Jack" Daniels Mysteries Book 10) (3 page)

Phin had killed before, when it had been necessary. There had been some dark years in his past, but those were gone. His new role was loving husband and father, and it was one he much preferred to wandering dark alleys, targeting urban scum. He didn’t consider himself a murderer.

But there probably weren’t any murderers that did. People tended to think they were the heroes of their own stories. Even when they were the bad guys.

“I’m giving you thirty seconds to make your point, Ms. Glente. Ten are already up.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’m a writer, Mr. Troutt. I write about serial killers, and those who catch them. Your wife has managed to run into more of them than just about any other single person in history.”

“Jack doesn’t do interviews.”

“I know. I talked to her partner at the private investigation firm she works at. Harrison Harold McGlade. He was willing to tell me anything about Jack, over breakfast in bed at the Hotel Monaco in Chicago. I gave him points for effort, but declined.”

“Did he give you this address?”

Katie shook her head. “No. He was happy to share old stories about shoot-outs and close calls, but not any personal info. I got this address through the Cook County Assessor’s Office. The house is in the name of Jack’s mother, Mary Streng. Is that were Jack and Samantha are now? Visiting Grandma?”

Phin didn’t like how easy it was for Katie to find them. “Five seconds.”

The speed of her speech increased. “Jack has managed to eliminate most of the high-profile enemies she’s picked up over the years. All but three. They’re the reason for all of this security and caution, no doubt. One is an older man named Donaldson. He likes to kill hitch hikers. Another is a girl named Lucy. She likes to kill people who pick up hitch hikers. But the worst of the three is Luther Kite. He may have killed more people than Lucy and Donaldson combined.”

“If you came to talk to Jack about Luther Kite, or Lucy and Donaldson, she’s not here. And if she were, she doesn’t talk about that part of her past.”

“Is it still the past, though, Mr. Troutt? All three are still at large.”

Phin had done quite a bit of research on this topic. “I thought Donaldson was dead.”

“It’s a nice thing to wish for. But his body was never recovered.”

Duffy brought over his ball. He dropped it on Phin’s lap and waited, tail wagging.

“Your thirty seconds are up,” Phin said, taking the 9mm in hand once again. “It’s time for you to go.”

“I believe I know where Luther Kite is, Mr. Troutt. He and Lucy.”

“So call the FBI.”

“They aren’t in the US. The FBI has no jurisdiction.”

Phin put two and two together. This woman claimed to be a writer, but had the bearing of a soldier. She came here knowing Jack wouldn’t talk to her, knowing Jack wasn’t even home. And she wanted to talk about Luther Kite, who was no longer in the US.

“You’re hunting him,” Phin said. “And you want Jack’s help.”

“I’m hunting a story, Mr. Troutt. I’ve written three books about serial killers. I can show you.”

“What branch did you serve in?”

“I don’t understand your question.”

“Where did you get your military training?”

“I’ve had no military training, Mr. Troutt.”

Phin threw Duffy’s tennis ball, hard, at Katie’s chest.

Her hand shot up like it was spring-loaded, and she caught the ball with an audible smack as it connected with her palm.

Phin wasn’t sure he could have caught it, had their positions been reversed. Her reflexes were exceptional.

They stared at each other for a moment, then Phin raised the 9mm. “The truth,” he said.

She shrugged. “No formal training. I’ve done some mixed martial arts. Firearms courses. But not through the usual channels. You could say my life experiences have been a bit… unorthodox. I’ve picked up a few things, taken some classes, but I was never in the military.” Katie tossed the ball down the hallway, and Duffy went bounding after it. “Yes, I do want to track down Luther Kite. And I’d like Jack’s help. She’s the best. Once we find him, we can turn him over to the local authorities. This would make a great story, and it would help ease your obvious, ongoing paranoia.”

Phin didn’t need any time to make his decision. “No one here is going to help you, Ms. Glente. Ever. You can leave. And don’t come back.”

If Katie felt rejected or disappointed, it didn’t show on her face. “Can I use your bathroom?”

“No.”

“It was a long trip from the city. You can escort me if you don’t trust me.”

“A woman with your unorthodox life experiences can no doubt hold it in.”

“Okay. I’m taking out my cell to call a cab.” Katie reached slowly into her pocket. “I’m also leaving you a business card, in case you or Jack would like to get in touch. On the back of the card I’ve written down a YouTube URL. I believe it will interest you both.”

Katie stood, did a slow stretch, and rubbed her head, undoing the bun so her black hair fell to shoulder-length. She set the card on the table and dialed the cab company. As she spoke, Duffy came up with the ball. Katie gave the dog a pat on the head, a tickle under the chin, and walked to the front door as she finished her call. Phin shielded the security code with his body as he punched it in, then opened the door, handing Katie the Schempp after she’d walked outside.

It took eight minutes for the taxi to arrive.

Phin stood by the door, the FNS in his hand, watching the video monitor until she’d gone.

W
hen the taxi had driven half a mile from Jack’s house, Katie told him to pull over. She paid him for the time on the meter, both for the trip up and the time he’d waited for her to call back, and tipped him the fifty she’d promised. Then she grabbed the backpack she’d left in the cab and exited the vehicle.

The area was suburban, wooded. The houses were large, with big lawns, and there was plenty of cover between them. It took her ten minutes to hike her way to Jack’s house by cutting through back yards. She stopped when she reached the edge of the property. Removing a Bushnell Sentry scope from the bag, she scanned the house for activity while placing the radio bud in her ear. When she flipped her walkie-talkie on, she heard the sounds of slurping.

Duffy, at his bowl. Or maybe helping himself to some toilet water.

She liked the dog. Not only was it cute and affable, but being able to sniff out blood and firearms were handy skills to have.

She also liked Phin. He was attractive in that rough-hewn, bad-boy way, muscular and intense and potentially dangerous. He seemed extraordinarily devoted to Jack, and Katie much preferred the protective type to the predatory type. Like her, Phin had no professional training, picking things up via an unusual lifestyle rather than in the army or the police force. He’d found her knife, and hadn’t given up any information, and from the time she’d arrived until the time she’d left he could have taken her out. A careful guy. But not careful enough; he’d missed the radio bug she’d hidden in her hair and attached to Duffy’s collar.

Katie squatted down behind the large oak, invisible to all except the squirrels, and took out a bag of homemade trail mix. As she ate, she watched and listened.

G
oogle informed Phin that Katie had written three books. One about the minds of sexual predators. One about FBI agents who’d died chasing serial killers. And the most recent a biography of the horror author,
Andrew Thomas
.

The books had all been self-published, and Phin downloaded all three to the Kindle app on his iPhone. Katie had gotten several hundred reviews, most of them decent. There was a brief bio, saying she lived in Michigan and was working on her next non-fiction title. He followed her website link, which was basically an advertisement for her three books. There was another bio that said practically nothing, but a photo section showed Katie doing various things. In one she wore a karate gi with a black belt. Another had her proudly holding up a stainless steel revolver and a silhouette target, eight holes in the head and ten in the chest, the groupings tight. There were also pics of her in a volunteer firefighter uniform, and at the Tough Mudder endurance race in Tahoe.

A hard, capable person, who seemed to have been telling the truth.

Phin dialed Jack’s office.

“McGlade and Daniels, private investigators,” said a falsetto voice. “This is Mr. McGlade’s personal secretary. May I help you?”

“Stop acting stupid, McGlade. You don’t have a personal secretary.”

Harry went back to using his normal voice. “I wish I did. This thing won’t suck itself.”

“Nice.”

“Like it? I’m thinking of having T-shirts made. So what’s up? The old lady is out of town, so you want to go tomcatting around town? Hit a few strip joints, get a few lap dances, then drink so much we start talking about our feelings? I’d be up for that.”

Phin got an unwelcome image in his head. Chubby, unshaven, unkempt McGlade, his thousand dollar suit wrinkled and drenched in aftershave, being grinded on by some young dancer who no doubt wanted to eat a gun and end it all.

He forced away the picture and asked, “What did you tell Katie Glente?”

“You never want to hang out. Or call to say hello. If I didn’t know you had a man-crush on me, I’d be feeling hurt. If I had feelings.”

“Katie Glente, McGlade. She just came to see you. What did you tell her?”

“That writer chick? The usual. That I’m two inches longer than I actually am, and that story about how I ran into George Clooney at the Emmy Awards after-party. I left out the part where he told his security guards to beat me up. I was really unhappypants after that.”

“Did you tell her anything about Jack?”

“Just the stuff that’s already public knowledge; she’s mean-spirited, she’s got crow’s feet, she can fit her whole fist in her mouth. Some of the old cop stories.”

Phin clenched his jaw. “Did you tell her where we lived?”

“Of course not. Think I’m an idiot?”

“Everyone thinks you’re an idiot.”

“Yeah? So why am I a member of Mensa?”

“You cheated on the qualification exam.”

“I certainly did. Put one over on those stuck-up, snooty, intellinazis. I fooled smart people, ergo I can’t be an idiot. It’s simple math. Or something.”

“Okay, smart guy, so why am I calling you right now?”

I could practically hear the gears turn in McGlade’s pointy head. “The Glente chick showed up at your house.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you tap that ass? She was a little thin, but had some fire in her eyes. If you did, I won’t tell Jack. I made a pass, but she obviously wasn’t into guys with high IQs. So she’d probably dig you.”

“Did you run a background check?”

“Strange woman, comes snooping around asking questions about Luther Kite? Of course I ran her. No priors. Went through the NCIC, and Interpol, and some big cities. Also ran her prints.”

Harry rarely impressed Phin. He rarely impressed anybody. But getting her prints was praise-worthy. “How’d you manage that?”

“I tossed her my snow globe. You know, the one with Santa inside, banging Mrs. Claus from behind? The harder you shake it, the more they go at it. It’s the greatest thing ever. I’ll buy you one.”

“And you lifted her prints from the surface. Not bad.”

“Not bad? It’s brilliant! Besides getting latents, it’s also a good indicator of how freaky the chick is. Erotic snow globes are like a litmus test for nymphos. Katie didn’t react at all. Might not be into sex. Or might be queerpants.”

“Or maybe she just has some class.”

“No difference to me. Queer, classy, I don’t score with either type. Point is, she’s clean. No record. Credit check was fine, too. Owes about three grand on her Citibank Mastercard, pays monthly. Spends a lot of money at Radio Shack. I didn’t even know that place was still around.”

“Relatives?”

“Radio Shack is a store, Phin. It doesn’t have relatives.”

“Katie, McGlade.” Phin rubbed his eyes. “Assume my time is more valuable than yours.”

“It isn’t. And no relatives that I could find. Checked phone records, too. I know a chick, works in telecommunications. She pulls numbers for me, and I occasionally throw her one. She’s really old, so her hips creak like a rocking chair. And dry. Like hitting kitty litter. But when she pops out those dentures it’s like dying and going to head heaven. Woman has mad skills. Maybe it has something to do with all the hard candy old people seem to like.”