Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2)

by J. A. Konrath

  “If she left a trail, it may only take a week. But it may take months.”

  His hard, grey eyes looked sad for the first time since I met him.

  “Months won’t cut it Mr. Troutt. I don’t have that much time.”

  “Does anybody?”

  Vincent and Phyllis Scadder lived in a suburb of Chicago called Shorington. On the forty-minute ride I listened to the radio until the zany antics of the afternoon DJ began to bore me. Then I popped in an old Tom Waits cassette, Heart Attack & Vine. Tom kept me company the rest of the way.

  The Scadder residence was large and easy to find. The three acres it sat on boasted well-kept fir trees and a lustrous, thick lawn. The house was wide, an off-white that some builder probably called creme, with ivy creeping its way up the east wall to the second floor. I parked my Ford Bronco in the circular driveway next to a four-car garage and checked the rearview to make sure I didn’t have any crud left in the corners of my eyes. I hadn’t showered yet, and still hadn’t brushed my teeth, and I felt shaggy. Earl was also starting to act up, nibbling at me with pointy little teeth, and I remembered that I didn’t have any codeine left. My glove compartment revealed a bottle of Tylenol. I dry-swallowed the last four. They went down rough and I still felt them in my throat when I rang the ornate doorbell next to the ornate double doors.

  Phyllis Scadder opened one of them and regarded me with disinterested, liquor-stained eyes. Her corneas were the same startling blue as her daughter’s, with the exception that they stared out from two seas of bloodshot. The dark smudges under them were either the worst mascara job I’d ever seen, or an indication of a sleepless night.

  Or maybe she wanted to be a tight end for the Bears, and was using a black grease stick to reduce the sun’s glare.

  She wore a loose fitting house dress that might have had a belt but was presently without one. The grey was showing at her roots, and she wore a fragrance that I identified as brandy.

  “You must be the hired help,” she said.

  Her mouth made a distasteful gesture, and then she turned and walked into her home, leaving the door open for me to follow.

  I did, closing the door behind me. The foyer was tiled in an Indian mosaic pattern, and a massive crystal chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, illuminating the gradually spiraling staircase that led to the second level.

  “Her bedroom is upstairs,” Phyllis said, continuing to walk away from me.

  “I wanted to ask you some questions first.”

  She stopped and turned around. “Vince didn’t say you wanted to talk.”

  I didn’t reply. She shrugged.

  “Fine. So we’ll talk. I need a drink first.”

  I followed her through a living room and into a den with carpeting so thick a cat could suffocate in it. She stopped at a wet bar and filled a snifter with Courvoisier XO. I waited for her to sit on one of the off-white leather couches, and sat across from her.

  “You said your name was?” she asked, with just a hint of the faux interest that she probably used hundreds of times, hosting parties for her husband’s business acquaintances.

  “I didn’t. Name is Phineas Troutt. Call me Phin.”

  “I’m Phyllis, Phin. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m afraid I’m not at my best. Recovering from a nasty bout with the flu. Now what did you want to know?”

  She smiled politely, easing into the hostess role. But she hadn’t offered me a drink yet, and those Tylenol still felt like they were clinging to the inside of my throat.

  “Do you have any water?” I asked.

  “How rude of me. I’ll be right back.”

  She got off the sofa and went behind the bar, filling a tumbler with ice and Perrier. I watched her slice a lime like a seasoned pro, and hang a section on my glass. She also took a can of peanuts from a drawer, poured them into a bowl, and set them in front of me next to my drink.

  I thanked her and drained half the water. Then I grabbed a few peanuts. I’d missed breakfast, and was starving.

  “How well did you get along with Amy, Phyllis?”

  “Not as well as I could have, I’m afraid.”

  I finished the water and waited for more.

  “Well, if I had a really good relationship with her,” she continued, “she wouldn’t have ran off.”

  “Do you know where she might have gone?”

  “Probably California or Florida. That’s where the police said most runaways go.”

  “Have you had any contact with Amy since she left?”

  Her pleasant smile dropped a fraction, and she paused too long before answering.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  I took a handful of nuts and stood up, walking over to the bar to grab another Perrier. I twisted off the cap and drank from the bottle.

  “Did she have any close friends?”

  “She and Sharon Pulowski were very close. Sharon used to live down the street. They grew up together.”

  “Does Sharon still live there?”

  Phyllis shrugged.

  “Boyfriends?”

  “No. Amy didn’t attract many boys. She was pretty, but she never presented herself to men in the right way.”

  I drank more Perrier. It tasted metallic.

  “Do you want your daughter back, Phyllis?”

  “Mr. Troutt, my daughter is an adult. She can do what she chooses.”

  “That includes dealing drugs and jumping bail.”

  “She’s eighteen now. She gets a clean record.”

  “Not on outstanding warrants. If the police pick her up now, she’ll do time as an adult, not a juvenile. And she will do time. No judge would release her into your custody when she ran away for two years. I’m sure you have the best lawyers money can buy. But if she gets picked up now, she’s in real deep shit.”

  “She won’t get picked up.”

  I shrugged. It was obvious this woman had some contact with her daughter, and she wasn’t going to share the information with me. I doubted beating it out of her would be wise, considering her husband was my client.

  I finished the Perrier and she sipped her brandy while we traded tolerant stares.

  “Where’s her room?” I asked.

  “Second floor, first door on the right.”

  I left Phyllis alone with her alcohol and mounted the curving, carpeted staircase. The first door on the right was closed, as if someone were in there. Or the ghost of someone, maybe.

  It didn’t look like a typical teenage girl’s room. It was too orderly and clean. Scadder said the maid still did her weekly ritual in here, but it looked more like a guest room than a kid’s room. Light blue carpeting, with a white set of drawers, white closets, and a matching white headboard for the single bed draped in pink sheets. On the dresser was a large oval mirror, which reflected the closets.

  No posters. Just three bland framed prints of horses, the type hotels purchase by the hundreds to glue to the walls in their rooms. No cosmetics on the dresser, or clothing on the floor, or stuffed animals on the bed. Nothing to show the personality of the individual that lived here.

  I began methodically searching for something that would give me a lead. A diary, an address book, letters, pictures, drugs, receipts, phone bills, a pamphlet about California, anything that might point a finger to which way she ran. What I found was a lot of expensive clothing, several dozen pairs of shoes, a drawer full of make-up, some school text books, and a small boom box with a crate of pop CDs.

  Then I searched again, trying to think like a teenage girl. Where would I hide something I didn’t want my parents to find?

  I checked under the mattress, behind the horse prints, under the drawers, and between the pages of her textbooks.

  I found it in Beginning Algebra. A picture. It was of Amy, as confirmed by the snapshot Scadder gave me. She was wearing a bikini, her long brown hair pulled back, leaning against a white Land Rover. Next to her, with an arm around her shoulders and clutching her breast, was a tall, muscular man, ten years ol
der, wearing a pair of jeans. He had limp greasy blond hair, in a designer cut that left the sides long in sort of a male page-boy. His bare chest showed some definition. The smile on his face was different than the one on Amy’s face. It didn’t seem like a happy smile. I don’t know exactly why. I squinted closer.

  It was the eyes. When a normal person smiles, the eyes crinkle and shine. This man’s eyes were blank. Dead. They gave him a predatory look.

  Between their legs, I made out a partial license plate number on the Land Rover. Three numbers and a letter.

  I put the picture in my back pocket and resumed the search. It bore no additional fruit, other than a lipstick wedged behind the dresser. I left the room and closed the door behind me, making my way back down to the den.

  Phyllis was perched on the couch, a full glass of brandy tilting down her throat. After a generous gulp, she turned her eyes to me.

  “Find what you were looking for?” she asked, the liquor making her voice lower.

  “It would help if you told me the truth.”

  She got up and walked over to a table, picking an envelope up off the top.

  “Vincent called and said to give this to you.”

  I went over and took it, knowing immediately by the weight and feel that money was inside.

  “She may be in trouble,” I said to her.

  Phyllis shrugged her shoulders without spilling any brandy.

  I grabbed another handful of nuts and found my own way out.

  The money was all there, the Tylenol was starting to quiet Earl, and I had what might be a solid lead. I pulled out of Scadder’s driveway and planned my next move.

  My next move was food.

  I stopped by the first deli I saw and had them make me a sub with enough corned beef to induce coronary in a horse. The old guy behind the counter seemed to take a special pleasure in his job. There weren’t too many people around that did. I tried the sandwich and it was good and I told him so. It brought forth a big crooked smile, and he said he’d owned the shop for twenty-two years. I left before he started talking about the good old days.

  Stomach satisfied, I found my way to a pay phone and punched in several quarters, dialing Chicago’s 26th Precinct. After being transferred twice, I got the office of Homicide Lieutenant Jack Daniels.

  “Daniels.”

  “Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”

  “How’s the game, Phin?”

  “Still better than yours.”

  She chuckled. As a rule, I didn’t like cops. Something about the very nature of the job seemed to attract assholes. What type of person would want to give out tickets and bust people’s balls for a living? Answer: bullies and jerks and guys with little man syndrome who needed to boost their fragile egos by pushing people around. But Jack wasn’t like that. She was a decent cop, and a decent person.

  But my pool game was better.

  “What do you need, Phin?”

  “I’m following up on a case. The Scadder runaway that you referred to me. Thanks, by the way.”

  “No problem. My hands were tied there.”

  “I’d like to look at the girl’s file.”

  I waited while her cop mind ran through the legal ramifications.

  “Stop by tomorrow,” she said after the brief pause. “Before lunch.”

  “I also have a partial plate I need to trace.”

  Another pause.

  “I think she could be in big trouble, Jack,” I pushed.

  “She’s in big trouble anyway.” Jack sighed. “What’s the number?”

  “White Land Rover, Illinois. The numbers are 345G, in that order.”

  “I’ll know by tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hung up, and so did I. I fed more quarters in the slot and dug out my wallet to find the number I wanted.

  “Harry McGlade Investigations. I’m not here at the moment, but your money is important to me. And you’d better have money, because I’m famous and charge five grand a day. If you can’t afford that, don’t bother leaving a message. If you can, I think we’re going to get along great. Speak after the gunshot.”

  Five K per day? McGlade wasn’t worth one-tenth of that. I figured he was milking his newfound celebrity. But there was a chance he’d help me for much less. Or for free. We were friends. Sort of.

  “Harry, this is Phineas Troutt. I’ve got some work for you if you’re interested. Call me at the Michigan Motel.”

  Since my diagnosis and subsequent plunge into the drugs and whores scene, I’d pissed away most of the contacts I used to have. Harry remained, for some reason. He didn’t need the money. Or the work. But he kept taking the jobs I offered. Might have been boredom, but I had a feeling it had more to do with companionship. Harry McGlade might be the only person in Chicago with fewer friends than me. His personality was a bit… abrasive.

  I hopped back in the Bronco and cruised through the burbs, passing drug stores and ice cream shops and currency exchanges and fast food joints and gift shops and Radio Shacks and business supply stores and convenience marts. One day northern Illinois will be one huge, unending strip mall. I probably would live to see it. No big loss.

  I saw a sign that said PAWN and pulled up. It was a large shop, filled with the prized possessions of many lives, lost due to hard times. Pawn shops exuded a certain sadness and desperation. I liked them.

  This one was organized like they all were; electronic stuff, music stuff, jewelry stuff, and gun stuff, each section separated and smaller expensive items in glass cases. The man behind the counter; short, hairy, with a big nose, looked at me and tried to figure out if I was buying or selling. I walked over to the jewelry section and began to browse.

  “Can I help you sir?” He had a gruff and cheerless voice, and his question seemed more like a haggle than an invitation to assist.

  “Looking for something for my girlfriend.”

  He moved over to the jewelry counter and stared down at his inventory.

  “What type of jewelry does she like to wear?”

  It was an observant question. Different types of women wore different types of jewelry. I thought of Pasha. She didn’t wear rings. The earrings she wore were fashionable without being gaudy. Her necklaces and bracelets were of the accessory type, rather than the precious type.

  “I’m thinking of an anklet,” I said.

  It wasn’t flashy, and it could be hidden under nylons or slacks, but it was sexy and classy. Like she was.

  “I’ve got several in different gold patterns.”

  He showed me various herringbone anklets of different thickness. Then several rope twists. Nothing jumped out at me.

  “I’ve got a diamond cut of platinum, but it’s a bracelet. Does she have big ankles?”

  I shook my head. He found the bracelet. It was a sparkling white, shinier than silver. The cut resembled the rope twist, but its edges were beveled flat with hundreds of facets.

  We discussed the price, agreed upon a reasonable figure after he showed me current platinum prices, and he threw in a new jewelry box. I was almost out the door when I noticed the guns.

  Some time ago I had a tiny Seecamp DA Auto, .25, only four inches in length. I had prized that gun because it fit neatly into the hollow heel of a pair of cowboy boots. It had saved my ass more than a few times. When I lost it, I mourned.

  “Gun enthusiast?”

  “I’m looking for something small.”

  “Do you have a FOID?”

  “Yeah.” An Illinois Firearm Owner’s Identification card. I had one, in the name of some dead writer from Schaumburg.

  “Interested in Derringers?”

  I shook my head. The antique two shot guns were too thick to fit in my heel.

  “Seecamp DA Auto or roughly the same size.”

  “I’ve got an AMT Backup Auto, takes .380”

  He pulled out a tiny gun that weighed about a pound. I sighted it and dry fired it several times. It seemed in good working condition, and also looked like a
likely candidate to fit into my hollow heel. Plus it had the added bonus of carrying a bigger slug than my Seecamp did.

  I turned the gun over. There was a small slit in the bottom of the stock, right next to where the magazine was inserted.

  I didn’t know the purpose of the slit. A mount?

  “What’s with the hole?” I asked.

  “Check the grip,” he grinned. “But keep your hand clear.”

  The grip was checkered Lexan, but the left side seemed to be set in a grooved track. I pushed up on the grip and a one inch gravity stiletto snicked out of the slit. It was a quarter inch wide and razor sharp. I pulled the grip back down and the knife was locked in place.

  “Gunsmith modified it,” he grinned. “Lost money on the ponies, sold me his entire collection.”

  I pushed the grip back up and upended the gun. The stiletto retreated back into its hidey-hole. It was the work of a craftsman. I tried not to show my enthusiasm and ruin my chance at price negotiation.

  “How much?”

  We played the haggling game, I eventually wore him down, and we agreed on a price. I waited while he phoned in a background check on my fake name. The dead writer came through for me, but there was a mandatory three day waiting period before I could take the gun home.

  “If we call this a private sale, I can take the gun now,” I reminded him.

  “The price I gave you was the store price, not the private sale price.”

  I wound up paying the price he originally offered, plus twenty bucks. So much for my bargaining skills.

  Then I was back in my truck and heading to school.

  Shorington High was a few miles up the road. I arrived just at lunchtime, and all the kids who had passes were flooding out the doors and heading to their cars. It was a large parking lot, and it was filled. I wondered how many of these students had actually bought their cars themselves, without Mom and Dad.

  That tiny moment of envy flickered and died as I pulled up into the parking space. My life hadn’t been a rich one, emotionally or financially, but that had nothing to do with these kids. If their parents had money, good for them.

  I took my 9mm out of the back of my belt, putting it in the glove compartment with the anklet and the AMT. I had no idea how far gang activity had infiltrated the suburbs, so I didn’t want to walk unexpectedly through a metal detector. Being without a gun while on a job made me feel naked, but I was pretty confident I could handle a seventeen-year-old if he started getting rough.