Shaken (36 page)

“It wasn’t. My spear is above average size, not that it’s any of your business. My dream was about lawn gnomes.”

“Lawn gnomes.”

“Yeah. A bunch of lawn gnomes.”

“What were they doing?”

“Nothing. Just standing there, looking gnomish.”

I pondered this for a moment. “And this is interesting because?”

“I dunno,” my partner said. “You think it means anything?”

“Dreams don’t mean anything at all, Herb. You know I don’t buy into that stuff.”

“You do lack a certain spirituality.”

I checked through the binoculars again. Our person of interest hadn’t returned. “I believe in facts, not superstition.”

“How about chance? Coincidence? Fate?”

“Fate is a future you didn’t work hard enough to change.” I read that on a blog somewhere and liked it.

“Come on, Jack. Weird things happen all the time. Unexplainable, cyclical things.”

“Such as?”

“How about when you hear a new word, then a few days later you hear it again?”

“Give me an example.”

“The other day, on TV, someone said the word
lugubrious
. It means mournful.”

“I know what it means,” I said.

“Really? I had to look it up. Anyway, two days later, I’m at the butcher shop, and guess what word he uses?”

“Bacon?”

“
Lugubrious
. Things like that get me thinking. It’s like hitting your finger with a hammer, and then ten years later, hitting it again in the exact same place. You could have hit any other finger, or any other spot. But it was right smack-dab on the previous injury. What does that tell you?”

“That you shouldn’t be using a hammer.”

Herb shook his head. “I think that maybe, just maybe, there is some sort of grand scheme to everything.”

“You mean God?”

“I mean maybe the universe has a sense of irony.”

I didn’t agree, but I couldn’t completely disregard the comment either. Sometimes things did happen that could make you scratch your head.

“Think this guy might really be Mr. K?” I asked.

“Personally, I think Mr. K is an urban legend, started by one Dr. Horner to scare rookies and prove his BS about good and evil.”

I recalled that police academy lecture, and probably still had the notes from it.

“Over a hundred unsolved homicides, the only links being torture and ball gags,” I said.

“Why do they have to be connected? Because the Feebies say so?”

“You know my feelings about the Feds, Herb. But I’ve looked at these cases. The murder methods vary wildly, but there’s something about them that seems similar. Call it, I dunno, a
tone
.”

“Not every murderer is a serial killer, Jack.”

He was right. But I seemed to wind up dealing with more than my fair share.

Herb put his hand in the bran box again, going for seconds.

“If you spit bran in my car again, I’m firing you.”

“Like it’s my fault you don’t have any milk. I almost choked to death. Horrible way to die.” I endured more munching sounds. “Didn’t Mr. K choke his last victim?”

“Stuffed the guy’s junk down his own throat.”

“While it was still attached?”

“Severed first.”

“Would have been more impressive if it was still attached.” Herb ate more bran.

“Jesus, this is dry. It’s like eating sand, but with less flavor.”

Herb put another handful into his mouth.

Finally I said, “I think we should go in.”

“I thought waiting for him was easier. Then we can grab him with whatever he brings out.”

“But if we get him now, then we can check out his storage space ourselves. Probable cause, no warrant needed.”

“I’m for staying in the car,” Herb said. “It’s hot out, and my feet hurt.”

He had a point. It was hot. And chances were high the warehouse wasn’t air-conditioned.

“Flip a coin?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Okay.”

I checked my purse but as expected didn’t find any change. I got rid of it whenever possible, not wanting to jingle when I walked. It used to annoy my ex-husband, Alan. I didn’t keep him, but I kept the habit.

“Got any coins?” I asked Herb.

“No. Vending machines are my nemesis.”

“I thought your shoelaces were your nemesis.”

Herb got a full aerobic workout whenever he tried to tie his shoes.

“A cop of my longevity makes many enemies throughout his career.”

“Check the ashtray.”

Herb checked while I took another look through the binocs. Nothing happening. I picked up the radio handset and called dispatch, requesting possible backup.

My partner found something in the ashtray, but rather than flip it and call it, he popped it into his mouth.

“Did you just eat a dime?” I asked.

“Hell no. It was a mint.” He made a face. “I think.”

I tried to recall the last time I had mints in the car. It had been years. No, a decade, at least.

“It was a dime,” Herb said, sticking out his tongue. “I was fooled by the fuzz.”

I decided not to ask Herb why he would eat anything covered in fuzz. The radio crackled. Car 917 responded, saying they were en route. Approximate arrival in two minutes.

I made the executive decision. “We’re going in.”

“What happened to flipping a coin?”

“You ate the coin.”

“How about rock, paper, scissors?”

“You really don’t want to get out of the car, do you?” Herb frowned. “What do we know about the guy? Sure, he’s got possible criminal associations and an expensive condo, but he hasn’t even gotten so much as a parking ticket, for chrissakes. His record is squeaky clean.”

“He’s carrying a gun.”

“Did you see a gun? Or just a bulge in his jacket? Maybe he was carrying an iPod, or a can of pop, or a magazine.”

“Or a lawn gnome.”

“Did you see a red, pointy hat? That would be eerie.”

“It was a gun,” I said.

“I’m just trying to protect you from a false arrest lawsuit.”

“God, you’re lazy.”

“I prefer the term
cautiously inactive
.”

“Okay. Rock, paper, scissors. One, two, three…”

I held out a flat palm: paper. Herb had a fist. Rock.

“Paper covers rock,” I said. “We go in.”

“Wait, it’s two out of three. It’s always two out of three.”

I sighed. “Okay. One, two, three…”

I held out paper again. Herb held out a single, chubby finger.

“What the hell is that?”

“That’s a hot dog.”

“A hot dog?”

“I’m starving. I can’t get my mind off of food.”

“Again,” I said. “No hot dogs this time. One, two, three…”

I made a rock. Herb, paper.

“I win,” he said.

“You sure that’s paper, not a sirloin steak?”

“Mmm. Steak. Stop teasing me.”

“One more time. One, two, three…”

I held out scissors. So did Herb.

“My scissors are bigger,” he said. “I win.”

I said, “One, two, three…”

I had a rock. Herb stuck with scissors. I won.

“We’re going in.”

I hit the gas, driving the two blocks’ distance in about eight seconds, parking in front of the Cadillac. Then I dug my Colt out of my purse, checked the cylinder, and got out of my car. A moment later, Herb rocked himself out of his seat and onto the sidewalk.

“Be pretty funny if this was Mr. K, wouldn’t it?” he said.

“It would be the perfect gift to myself.”

“Oh, yeah.” Herb nodded, his three chins wiggling. “Your birthday is in a few days. You don’t have much luck with birthdays. Remember Classy Companions?”

My lips pressed together, forming a tight line. “I remember.”

Herb must have noted my expression. “Sorry, Jack. Didn’t know that was still a sore spot. I’m sure this birthday will turn out a lot better.”

“Can’t be any worse than the last twenty.”

Herb checked the clip on his Sig. “Okay. Let’s go do it.”

“Now? Backup will be here in a minute.”

“I bet you dinner the only thing he’s got in his jacket is a magazine.”

I nodded at Herb. “You’re on.”

We headed for the entrance, and I was feeling pretty optimistic. Maybe I’d finally have a decent birthday for a change. My fiancé was out of town on business, but closing a hundred unsolved homicides was definitely the way I wanted to spend my forty-seventh.

Besides, I was more than a little curious about what he was keeping in that storage locker.

Chapter 2

I
walked briskly to the storage facility, minding each step so I didn’t scrape my Jimmy Choos. They weren’t the most appropriate footwear for police work, but a long time ago a man taught me that more people remembered style than deeds, and that stuck. Even so, I tried to overcompensate with deeds in an effort to compete with my boundless style.

Herb waddled behind me, wheezing. I slowed my pace just a tad, letting him catch up, trying to remember what he used to be like when he was thin. Back in the day, Herb Benedict could run a hundred meters in thirteen seconds. Now it would take him two minutes. Seven minutes if he had to stop to tie his shoes. Eighteen minutes if there was a hot dog stand on the route.

Merle’s U-Store-It was an ugly brown building, the dirty brick coated in graffiti so old even the taggers didn’t think it worthwhile anymore. It was a few stories tall, probably a converted warehouse or factory from the days when Chicago was an industrial hub. The entrance was a single metal door with a sign next to it, proclaiming they were open six a.m. until midnight, seven days a week.

The door opened to a narrow hallway, a bare forty-watt bulb stuck in the ceiling, which made the grimy walls look even dingier. A few yards down was the obligatory manager/watchman, behind a protective barrier of bulletproof glass that bore a few divots. Black guy, short beard, scar on his nose. At the moment, all the watchman was watching was a portable television set up on his desk. He didn’t even glance at us when we walked up, and I had to rap on the window to get his attention.

“New rental contracts are on the table,” he droned. “If you forgot your key, I need two forms of ID, and there’s a five-dollar charge.”

He still hadn’t looked at us.

“Police,” I said, fishing my gold badge from the pocket of my Tignanello handbag and clinking it against the glass.

“Police still gotta pay the five bucks.” He kept his eyes on the TV.

“We’re here to arrest the man who just came in. Did you see him?”

“Didn’t see nuthin’.”

I looked around the cubbyhole he used as an office. No security system. No surveillance equipment. If he didn’t see the guy, there was no way he’d know which storage unit he owned. This place was so low tech I was surprised the entrance had an electric lock.

“Buzz us in,” I said, using my cop tone. “Got a warrant?”

I considered saying yes. It was doubtful he’d turn away from the television to check. Instead I said, “I don’t need a warrant. I’m arresting him for carrying a concealed weapon. You want some guy with a gun running around your building?”

“Ain’t my building. I just work here.”

Now I understood the reason for the bulletproof glass. I’d known this guy for less than thirty seconds, and I was overcome with a fierce desire to shoot him.

“Let me see some ID, sir,” I ordered.

Now he looked at me, his expression pained. “Why you got to hassle me,
offa-sir
?”

I was the one hassling him?

“Open the goddamn door, pinhead,” Herb said.

The watchman buzzed us in. Incredible. I’d been on the force for over twenty years and outranked Herb, but because he was a man he automatically got more respect. So little had changed since I was a rookie.

The metal security door opened. I walked through and saw a lobby, which boasted a metal garbage can, a freight elevator, a door that said STAIRS, and corridors going left and right. Above the elevator were lights indicating three floors.

“Cover the exit and call me,” I told Herb, digging my Bluetooth earpiece out of my purse and attaching it to the side of my head. “This may take a while.”

I went into the stairwell, figuring I’d start on the third floor and work my way down. The storage units here had garage-style doors, secured with padlocks. Even if he was inside his unit with the door closed behind him, all I had to do was look for the missing lock and I’d know it was his.

The stairway smelled dusty, like old drywall. I listened for movement, heard nothing, then took the concrete steps two at a time, unbuttoning the strap over the Colt in my shoulder holster. My earpiece buzzed and I pressed the tiny button.

“They need to make these headsets bigger,”
Herb said.
“It’s too small for my fingers.”

“Maybe you need to make your fingers smaller.” I was on the second floor. I eased open the door and poked my head through, just to see if our man was around. He wasn’t, so I continued up the stairs.

“If this really is Mr. K,”
Herb said,
“what’s he storing here?”
“Maybe his money.”

One of the many persistent rumors circulating about the mysterious Mr. K was that he worked as a contract killer for the Outfit. With over a hundred unsolved murders attributed to him, perhaps he actually did need a storage locker to store all of his cash. Banks kept records of large deposits, and most of the mobsters I knew didn’t pay by check.

If Mr. K
was
a hired gun, he was an iceman. I’d dealt with a few serial killers over the years, and their motives made a warped sort of sense; hurting and killing people was exciting to them. But I believed contract killers, and contract torturers, were a whole different breed. If evil really existed, did it manifest itself in psychopaths who enjoyed inflicting pain on others? Or was it a trait of otherwise normal people who committed atrocities for money, because they were just following orders? Which was worse, killing because you liked it? Or killing because you just didn’t give a shit about humanity?

I stepped out of the stairwell onto the third floor, knowing I really didn’t need an answer to that question. My job wasn’t to psychoanalyze criminals. It was to catch them. And if our suspect was really Mr. K, it would be the high point of my career to put the bastard away.