Shaken (35 page)

—just as Victor Brotsky filled the bedroom doorway.

I dialed 9, hands trembling, thinking about how easy it was to screw up a number on these phones, and how it took forever to dial again. I couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

Brotsky thrashed, trying to force himself into the hall, but the bed frame was too big and wouldn’t pull through.

I stuck my finger in the 1 and spun the dial again. The rotary seemed to turn in slow motion, taking forever for the
click-click-click-click
to get to 0.

Brotsky spat more invectives at me in several languages. He managed to get his shoulders through the door, but the frame still held him at bay.

My finger found the last 1, the dial taking impossibly, ridiculously long to register the number, and then, blessedly, I heard ringing on the other end.

Brotsky bellowed, more animal than human. His head shook, his shoulders straining, and then there was a tiny, almost insignificant
ching
sound.

His hands came free, and Brotsky stumbled forward.

He had broken the handcuffs.

Chapter 21

“T
his is Officer Jacqueline Streng!” I yelled, dropping the receiver and hopping away from the phone as Brotsky rushed at me. “Officer needs assistance! Officer needs fucking assistance!”

I limped backward as Brotsky charged like a bull, panic overriding my pain. He would be on me any second, and I had two choices of where to go: the basement, or the kitchen.

I threw myself into the kitchen, climbing over the upside-down table, belly-flopping over Shell’s cooling corpse, scrambling for the utensil drawer in the cabinet. My fingers sought, and found, the handle, and I jerked my arm back, silverware exploding into the air and raining down on me, the tarp, the counter.

Locking my hand around a steak knife, I twisted onto my back and faced Brotsky’s attack, my weapon outstretched and clenched in a death grip.

But Victor Brotsky wasn’t there.

Still brandishing the knife, I felt behind me for the counter, painfully pulling myself up to my good foot while wondering where he’d gone. My imagination fired into overdrive, conjuring up scenarios. Was he going to get a gun? Had he heard me calling the police and fled the house? Or was he on the phone with someone, maybe the person he’d been talking to earlier?

“I’ll take care of her soon,”
he had said.
“In fact, I’ll do it right now.”

What if Victor Brotsky was calling for backup?

I needed to get the hell out of there. Right now.

Keeping one eye on the doorway, I began tugging open drawers, looking for keys. The back door was right behind me. If I found the damn deadbolt key, I was sure I’d get to safety, because once I had an out, I would break the world record for the hundred yard dash, even if I had a compound fracture.

The drawers contained more utensils, loose change, various plastic toys from cereal boxes, bendy straws, pens and pencils, and an assortment of maps. But no keys.

Expanding my search, I began opening cabinets. Plates, glassware, plastic containers, pots and pans, but nothing else. No key hooks on the walls. No key bowl on the counter. I hadn’t noticed any keys in the bedroom, or the bathroom. And he was naked, so he certainly didn’t have them on him.

So where were they? Men don’t have purses, so where did they put their goddamn keys? Their pants?

Could the keys be in Brotsky’s pants?

I pictured him taking off his clothes so they wouldn’t get bloody when he murdered Shell. Brotsky excited. In a hurry. He might very well leave his keys in his front pocket while he undressed.

I tried to envision the bedroom. I’d seen my clothes in there. But had Brotsky’s been in there, too? On the bed? On the floor?

The bathroom!
I’d stepped over his stained underwear in the bathroom.

Though my pulse was still pumping like a thrash metal song, the adrenaline in my system had faded enough for the pain to become debilitating. With one hand on the counter-top, I hopped once toward the kitchen entryway. The exquisite agony that shot through me literally pushed tears right out of my eyes.

How many more hops to the bathroom? Fifteen? Twenty? Then twenty back?

Crawling, or scooting, would hurt less, but take longer. Any second, Brotsky might make an appearance. Speed was paramount.

I scooped up a wooden spoon from one of the open drawers, jammed the handle in my mouth, and ground my molars on it as I hopped for the door.

Keeping quiet wasn’t a concern anymore. Whimpers soon became cries. Cries became deep moans. Then moans turned into full-wattage screams. Halfway into the hall, my entire world had been reduced to the incessant throb in my tortured leg and my raw throat, which ached like my vocal chords were bleeding.

When I reached the bathroom, throwing my hand on the doorframe, I almost wept in relief.

But my relief was short-lived.

Victor Brotsky was standing next to the bathroom sink, zipping up his pants.

Chapter 22

S
eeing Victor Brotsky, standing in the bathroom within arm’s reach, flipped a switch in me. I knew it was a turning point. Whatever I did next would shape the rest of my life.

If I ran, I was also running away from this career. And it would have made perfect sense to run. I’d witnessed more horror in the last hour than most had in their entire lives. I could picture life with Alan, being a housewife, having children, never having to deal with crime or murder or psychos ever again.

That scenario certainly had a lot of appeal.

But there was another side to that coin. Instead of running, I could attack. If I did that, I saw the life I always wanted, living it as the woman I wanted to be. A Homicide cop. A police lieutenant. Someone that others would respect. Admire. Look up to.

Either way, I was probably going to die.

But it mattered to me whether I died running, or died fighting.

Brotsky and I stared at each other. It was probably for no more than a second, but it seemed much longer. Long enough for me to make a decision. Long enough for me to decide what I wanted out of life.

There was a
SNAP.

The spoon in my teeth. I’d bitten the wood handle in half. Then I launched myself at the son of a bitch.

Brotsky’s eyes went wide. He raised up his hands in a defensive position as I hopped forward, stabbing at him with the steak knife, hearing a snarl that I recognized was my voice. I cut his forearm, his shoulder, and then buried the blade halfway into his flabby chest.

He slapped me, catching me on the chin, and I went sprawling out into the hallway. My back hit the wall so hard I saw stars. But I managed to keep my balance and keep hold of the knife.

Brotsky stared at me. The craziness was still there, in his eyes, but so was something else.

Fear. He was afraid of me. “Come on, you chicken shit!” I screamed at him, waving the knife in front of me, the serrated blade dripping with his blood.

Victor Brotsky dug his hand into his pocket.

He pulled out his keys.

Then he ran past me, heading for the front door.

Five seconds later, he had it open.

Five seconds after that, he was on his knees, hands behind his head, as three cops covered him and three more ran inside, guns out, bathed in blinking red and blue lights from the half dozen squad cars parked on the street, the lawn, and on Victor Brotsky’s violet garden.

Chapter 23

I
didn’t get the credit for Brotsky’s collar. That went to the six cops who burst into his house. Even though I’d cuffed Brotsky, I hadn’t actually placed him under arrest, or read him his rights.

Brotsky offered up a full confession, and he gleefully blabbed about all of the atrocities he had committed. But he kept a few key facts to himself. Though he claimed that he had been hired by the Outfit, he never mentioned anyone by name. According to him, he slaughtered one of their high-class escorts, and they sent a hit man to his house. But rather than kill him, the hit man hired him to keep eliminating escorts, but to make sure they were the competition, not the ones owned by the Mafia. When pressed if this hit man was the elusive figure known as Mr. K, Brotsky just smiled.

When Brotsky had grabbed me and Shell, I hadn’t been his original target. Shell had been. He’d been following Shell, and had gotten in line behind us—something I vaguely recalled—at Buddy Guy’s, drugging our drinks while they languished on the bar. When Brotsky found out I was a cop after searching my purse, he was ordered to murder me as well.

Though Herb saw me get into Shell’s car, he never heard that we went to Buddy Guy’s instead of Miller’s. Herb had spent three hours at Miller’s, waiting for us, when he caught the squeal about me and Brotsky on the radio. Herb got to the scene a little after the uniforms had arrived. He rode in the ambulance with me.

“You are one helluva cop,” he said as they were putting the cast on my leg. “When are you going to take your detective’s exam?”

“Soon,” I promised.

“Still interested in Homicide?”

“Absolutely.”

Herb smiled widely and shook his head. “One helluva cop, Jacqueline.”

I smiled right back. “Call me Jack,” I said.

I figured I’d better get used to it, since I had decided to marry Alan. I didn’t want kids. At least, not yet. But having someone to go home to after nights like that one was something I couldn’t chance to pass up.

This case had changed me. Scared me. Matured me. Made me realize how strong I was, and what I was capable of. I had a new look. A new attitude. Soon I’d have a new rank.

And a new name would be perfect to go along with all of that.

Look out world, get ready for Jack Daniels.

PART 2

Chapter 1

2007, August 8

“Y
ou got anything to eat?” My partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict, was rooting through my glove compartment.

Two blocks ahead, the man we’d been following turned his black Cadillac DTS onto Fullerton. I gave it a little gas and continued pursuit.

“Jack? Food? I’m starving here.”

Herb was as far from starving as I was from dating George Clooney. He had to be close to the three hundred pound mark. Herb, not George.

“I think there’s a box of bran flakes in the back seat somewhere.”

Herb shifted his bulk around, making my Nova bounce on what little shocks it had left. After some grunting, and several glistening sweat beads popping out on his forehead, he found his prize.

“Got it.” Herb cradled the cereal box in his hands like it was a kitten. Then he frowned. “They’re bran flakes.”

“That’s what I said they were.”

“Where’s the milk?”

“No milk.”

“You eat them dry?”

I sighed. “No. I eat them with milk. They fell out of my grocery bag, and I keep forgetting to bring them into the house.”

“What am I supposed to do with these?”

“I have no idea. You asked if I had any food. I gave you what I had.”

Herb made a face. The Cadillac pulled over to the curb, a few hundred yards ahead of us, next to a warehouse boasting the sign “U-Store-It.” I parked alongside a fire hydrant and picked up the binoculars.

“Couldn’t you have at least bought raisin bran?” Herb asked.

“I could have. But I didn’t.”

“Who doesn’t like raisin bran?”

“My mother. They’re for her.”

Herb frowned. I peeked through the lenses and watched our person of interest exit his vehicle while Herb opened up the box.

“You’re kidding me,” I said, glancing at my partner.

“I gotta eat something. Look at me.” He patted his protruding belly. “I’m wasting away to nothing.”

Herb looked like he’d just eaten Santa Claus.

“We’ve got the rest of the day ahead of us,” I told him. “I don’t know if I want to spend it with you after you eat a box of bran.”

“I just want a few nibbles.”

My junior partner tore into the bag. I studied the surroundings. It wasn’t a good part of town. Industrial mostly, a few overgrown, fenced-in lots, some abandoned factories. Certainly not a place where a man driving a new Cadillac would hang out.

“What’s he doing?” Herb asked, his voice muffled by a mouthful of cereal.

“He’s walking over to a self-storage building.”

“Is he holding any milk? Because damn, this is dry.”

“He’s empty-handed.” I played with the focus. “Jacket is swinging funny on his left side. He’s packing.”

“Maybe he’s going to put it in storage.” Herb cleared his throat. “You got anything to drink? These flakes sucked up all my saliva. It’s like eating dust.”

“I might have a bottle of water left. Check between your feet.”

Herb rocked forward, trying to reach the floor. He failed. He tried again, bending even further, and then began to cough, spitting bran flakes all over my dashboard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

I winced at the mess Herb had made. He tried once more for the water, stretching and straining, his face turning red with effort, and snatched the bottle. Herb held up his prize, triumphant. Then he frowned. “This is empty.”

“He went in.” I lowered the binocs. “Now we have a choice. We can wait for him to come out, then bust him, or surprise him inside and bust him.”

“I vote for waiting,” Herb said. “Less work. And if he’s going in for something, maybe he’ll come out with it.”

We waited. Herb did a half-assed job wiping the bran off the dash, then sucked down the remaining five drops of water at the bottom of my bottle.

“I had a weird dream last night,” Herb said.

“Speaking of non sequiturs.”

“You want to hear it or not?”

“Is this the one where you’re a caveman and everyone has a bigger spear than you?”

Herb raised an eyebrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I remember someone saying something like that once. Thought it was you.”