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

by J. A. Konrath

  Good luck with that.

  And most of all, I wanted to find Tucker Shears and make him choke to death on his own blood.

  Welcome back, Phineas. Now get us the hell out of here.

  The hole was now big enough to fit two fingers through.

  I kept scraping until fatigue and dizziness almost made me drop the gun through the hole.

  Supper time.

  I cut my other wrist. Deep enough on the first cut. Actually had to pull my own arm out of my mouth because I was sucking so greedily.

  What have we become? Earl said.

  I ignored him, wrapped a piece of my shirt around the wrist and kept on scraping.

  Three fingers through.

  You seem like you need some extra motivation, so I’m going to make you hurt even worse.

  The pain Earl caused actually did make me work faster, because I was full-blown into opiate withdrawal and having to bite my shoulder to keep from throwing up.

  Four fingers through.

  But not my thumb. And if I couldn’t get my thumb through, I couldn’t get my hand through. And if I couldn’t get the hand through, I couldn’t find the lock or knob or latch or whatever and get out.

  There was also a possibility that I could get my hand through, but still couldn’t open the door.

  I tried not to think about that. I just needed a little more room, for my thumb.

  Thumbs were the reasons that handcuffs didn’t just slip off.

  You could try cutting your thumb off, Earl suggested. Then your arm will fit through, plus we can have a nice snack.

  I put my mouth to the hole and breathed in the sweet air. Air that didn’t stink of my own bodily functions. Air that tasted like freedom.

  All I needed was to open up the hole a half an inch, and that freedom would be mine.

  My hand couldn’t grip anymore. The gun kept slipping. Between the five dozen cuts and the constant clenching I could no longer make a fist. I switched to my left hand, but progress was slow and frustrating.

  Been at it for hours and the hole hadn’t gotten noticeably bigger.

  I must sleep.

  JACK

  After a restless night of tossing and turning, a run to the dry cleaner, a vending machine breakfast that was older than my gun and slightly less edible, and playing wordsy with Remir’s lawyer the entire morning, we finally cut a deal. Remir would get immunity, and the cash reward, but he had to give up Lester; the guy who stole the rental truck that had the Jane Doe in back.

  Lester was picked up, and he immediately called his lawyer, and the whole cycle started all over again.

  Lunch was burgers, a joyless meal for me, but Herb could derive gastronomic satisfaction from eating old ketchup packets—which I’ve seen him do—so he was quite pleased by it. Afterward, we went directly to interrogation room C and found Lester occupying a chair, looking sullen. His full name was Lester Warknuckle, and he was a short stature white guy, balding, with grease under his fingernails and an Adam’s apple so large he sort of looked like a stork.

  “Hi, Lester. I’m Lieutenant Daniels. This is Detective Benedict. We’re Homicide. You know why we’re here.”

  His lawyer, also present, was a public defender we knew, a guy named Longquist. He was a young, sharp, fussy individual who always wore beige. Every item in his ensemble, from shoes to tie to glasses, was some shade of beige. He was tough and competent, and the running joke behind his back was to keep on your toes, or he’d shit all over you. And the shit would be beige.

  “My client is willing to discuss the truck he found, if he receives immunity from prosecution for the charges filed and any incidental crimes revealed during his statement.”

  “The truck had a murdered girl in the back. Even if the State’s Attorney agrees, he’s not going to get immunity from murder.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” said Lester. It was halfway between a mutter and a whine. He had that schoolyard bully look, the kind where his peers outgrew him at a young age and he resented it.

  “I advise you to answer no more questions,” said Longquist, still without looking at his client.

  “This is his third trip to our house, same charge. He’s going to do time. We’ve also placed him at the scene of a murder, whether he committed it or not, it’s a guaranteed accessory after the fact.”

  “I didn’t kill her,” muttered Lester again. Or maybe he whined.

  “Don’t answer anything until we have a deal on paper, Lionel.”

  “His name is Lester,” I said.

  Longquist didn’t miss a beat. “And not from you, Lieutenant. I want it from a judge or the State’s Attorney.”

  “We just want to know where he stole the truck.”

  “Allegedly stole.”

  That was all we could do without any paper, so we left.

  I called Cluck, to see how the task force was doing.

  “Shitty,” he said. “We got shit and more shit and nothing but shit.”

  I called Hajek, to see how the CST was doing.

  “Nothing new. Running DNA off the second blood sample. That takes time.”

  So goes police work sometimes.

  “We could visit Mr. Dalt,” Herb said. “It’s before four o’clock. He works at four.”

  “So I’ve heard. Or I could repeatedly hit myself in the face with my stapler.”

  “I see plusses and minuses for each suggestion.”

  We could show Dalt the pics of Remir and Warknuckle and confirm what we pretty much already knew; that they were car thieves, not serial killers.

  “I think I’m going to catch up on some paperwork,” I said.

  “Have fun. I’m going to search the building for my coffee machine.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You, too.”

  After a boring, frustrating work day I was back at Latham’s apartment, reassessing my career, my living arrangement, and the people in my life. My home in the suburbs didn’t feel like home. Latham’s place didn’t feel like home, either. And the fact that the Motel Mauler case was moving so slowly it was gathering dust only added fire to my blues.

  I knew, with the Job, I was just in a slump. And I knew, with Latham, that I was projecting my other problems onto him. I loved him, and wanted to marry him.

  But I didn’t love his apartment. And he did.

  Assuming I got up the nerve to tell my mother I no longer wanted to live in Bensenville, and even more to the point, live with her due to the endless parade of naked, pendulous suitors that surrounded her, I didn’t want to move in with Latham, either.

  So I had no clue what to do, or what to tell either of them.

  What I wanted was to have a beer and shoot some pool. I wondered if Phin was around. I had his number at the shitty motel he stayed at, but I didn’t know if we’d developed that far into our friendship. If it even was a friendship. I don’t know what I’d label it. The only time Phin called me was when he needed a favor. And when we did hang out, it was a lazy sort of company that didn’t require effort. We barely even spoke.

  I decided against going out, and decided I was going to try to make peace with Latham’s place. I drew a bath, looked for bath salts or oils or bubbles, remembered that Latham had a Y-chromosome and wouldn’t stock any of that, and tried a trick my mother taught me: hand soap, egg white, and a spoonful of honey.

  Once I had a glorious bubble bath going, I tried to dim the bathroom lights. He didn’t have a dimmer. But he did have several flashlights, and three were enough to give the bathroom a sort of relaxing glow.

  Latham’s music collection seemed to center around Madonna, 80s hair metal bands, and Kenny Rogers. But I found a Leonard Cohen album, put that on in the background, and climbed into my bath.

  It was no good. His tub had a funny shape that I couldn’t relax in. And one of the flashlights on the sink was reflecting off the vanity mirror and hitting me right in the eyes.

  I stood up in the bath and took a shower instead, and I hated Latham’s s
howerhead; it sprayed this fine, steamy mist, when all I wanted was to be pounded on with hot water. And he didn’t have a wand. How could any modern shower not have a shower wand?

  I cut the shower short, dried off, put on one of his old t-shirts (Kenny goddman Rogers), and went to the kitchen to fix myself dinner.

  Latham shopped like a guy. He had a lot of frozen meat, a lot of cheese, no fruits, veggies, or bread, and exactly three spices; salt, pepper, and Lawry’s BBQ seasoning.

  I checked the shelves for pasta, found some linguini, and defrosted an unmarked pack of chicken while cobbling together a makeshift alfredo sauce. Half and half (which he used for his coffee), cream cheese, parmesan, butter, and his entire spice rack of salt, pepper, and Lawry’s.

  I cooked the pasta, pan fried the chicken filets, which were small and sort of odd looking—maybe free range?—with a dusting of flour, and while it wouldn’t win a James Beard Award (those were food Awards that Herb followed like they were the Oscars), it was more comforting than the fast food crap I’d been eating too much of lately.

  That is, until I detected something off about the meal. Something so off, that I had to stop eating and investigate.

  I checked the empty half and half container, gave it the sniff I should have earlier.

  Spoiled. The expiration date was last month.

  Also in the garbage was the plastic around the chicken, and I noticed a label I hadn’t before.

  Exotic Meats.

  Uh-oh.

  I was an unrepentant carnivore. I’d hunted deer in my younger days. I’ve been known to have an occasional buffalo burger, or fried alligator, or partridge. But as I stared at the package I remembered a conversation with Latham. After we’d finished a second bottle of wine and were watching some cooking show.

  “Some of my college buddies, we send each other weird meat,” he said. “As a gag gift.” He laughed. “Sometimes, literally gagging.”

  “Define weird.”

  “There are companies that specialize in exotic meats. You know, like iguana. Or those chickens that have black meat. Or lion.”

  “Lion? Seriously?”

  “Lion is about fifty grand a pound.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m serious. Think about it, Jack. You pay ten bucks a pound for good steak. But what do cows eat? Plants. Cheap plants. Doesn’t cost a lot to feed a cow. Now how much does it cost to feed a lion? How many other animals does it eat? That factors into the price.”

  “Have you eaten lion?”

  “No. But I’ve got some bobcat in the freezer that Sheldon sent me.”

  I was pretty sure I’d just eaten the bobcat.

  My stomach shrunk five sizes at the thought of it, and I threw the rest of my dinner in the garbage.

  Then I went to brush my teeth, trying not to think of my cat, Mr. Friskers, when I heard the front door open.

  Latham wasn’t due back until tomorrow.

  “Latham?” I called.

  No answer.

  Fight or flight kicked in.

  “I’m armed,” I lied. “Who’s there?”

  Still no answer. But I heard footsteps on the hardwood floor.

  I’d been targeted by criminals before. People I’d arrested. Friends and families of people I’d sent to jail. I’d even had a few stalkers due to my fleeting brushes with celebrity, as a cop who sometimes appeared on the news, and as the basis for that ridiculous caricature on McGlade’s stupid TV show.

  Normally, my .38 went with me everywhere. It was never more than three steps away. But I still wasn’t used to Latham’s apartment, and when I undressed in the bedroom and slipped on a robe, I’d left my gun on the bed, which was down the hall.

  To get to it, I’d have go past the living room, and the front door.

  I looked around the bathroom for a weapon. A good one was usually the lid on top of the toilet tank. It was removable, and heavy enough to crack a skull. But Latham had one of those modern toilets with no tank that was attached to the plumbing in the wall. Looked sleek and modern, but didn’t help a girl when she needed to bash an intruder’s face in.

  The seat itself was substantial, but was attached with heavy screws.

  I looked for a metal towel bar, only found plastic. That left me with the shower curtain rod.

  I pulled it down, sliding off the curtain rings. Lightweight aluminum, too long to swing. But it was all I had.

  Here goes nothing.

  I crept out of the bathroom.

  HARRY

  So I was at the police station for five hours, giving statements, and I hated the police station. I know, right? How could I hate it so much when I worked at a police station for years?

  Well, being on the cop end of things wasn’t too painful. But being on the victim end, talking to one moron after another, repeating the same thing over and over, it was like an endless commercial break when all you wanted was for your show to come on. Seriously, why does cable TV even have commercials? We frickin’ PAY for cable. Shouldn’t it be ad-free?

  Anyway, they did finally investigate the building across the street, they told me they didn’t find anything. And made me tell my story yet again, like I was the one who shot up my own apartment.

  The dick condo manager pulled through, which left me with mixed emotions. On one hand, I didn’t like the guy, and he’d been causing me a lot of grief. On the other, basic humanity.

  Basic humanity won. Barely. So I called it a win.

  While answering the Endless Parade of Stupid Questions by Dumb Cops, I managed to find a cleaning service that hadn’t banned me, and a local shop selling bulletproof glass windows that cost slightly more per pound than pure silver, and made appointments.

  There was an upside to all the waiting around; by the time the cops were done with me, my Corvette was ready to be picked up at the auto pound. After an endless line waiting behind some really whiny people (“I just want to get his things from the car! He’s dead! They’re all dead!”) I got my baby back and then headed to my office to pick up some gear.

  Harry McGlade Investigators Co. Inc. Ltd. (I was still working on the name) was in the heart of downtown in a classic old building that used to be called a skyscraper before actual skyscrapers were being built. The owners thought being seventy years old was prestigious and classy and meant they could charge high rent. I didn’t mind, because the building had fulltime security, was kept clean, and all the utilities worked.

  I took the elevator to my floor, and let myself in via the keypad next to the SORRY CLOSED sign on the door.

  Inside, all of the drywall had been yanked out, and so had the carpets, which made it look pretty shabby. But the mold smell was gone, replaced by a lemony antiseptic scent that gave me a tiny buzz.

  I went into my storeroom and found an appropriate disguise; blue jumpsuit, hard hat, tool belt, and a clipboard with an invoice pad of paper clipped to it. I also looked at my collection of fake IDs, and went with a driver’s license, union card, and name tag for Frank Smith.

  The picture of Frank Smith was actually a picture of me, with a mustache. Which meant I needed a mustache. Which meant I had to shave the mustache I was currently growing in order to glue on the fake one.

  That all took about ten minutes, and then I grabbed a few other items and went off to see if I could find out who just tried to kill me.

  The art to being somewhere you aren’t allowed, like backstage at a rock concert, or a fancy wedding reception, or one of those snooty clubs that always has a line around the block even though it sucks and charges $300 bottle service for Absolut Citron—c’mon, that’s less than thirty bucks at the liquor store, what are you paying for, asshole, a loud DJ and a possible chance of running into John Stamos? I mean, I love Stamos as much as anyone, but that’s too much for vodka, which unlike whiskey, rum, or tequila, isn’t barrel-aged, and let me take a moment to explain what a charred wood cask—which, again, doesn’t play any part at all in vodka production—does to alcohol to enhance
the complex flavors.

  Wait, my train of thought ran away. Something about vodka backstage?

  Oh, yeah, being places you aren’t supposed to be. The secret is to look like you belong there. The look like you belong there look is acting self-absorbed, not focusing on anything in particular, and being ready with some passable story and/or credentials if someone stops you.

  A police badge gets you in lots of places. A press pass gets you in lots of places. And, believe it or not, a clipboard and nametag gets you in a lot of places.

  I was going the clipboard and nametag route to get into Celebrity Asshat Tower, because I thought it had the best chance of success, and because I rocked the jumpsuit and tool belt look. So I parked at my condo and walked across the street to the tower, trying to look like a guy who was late for something.

  When I approached the tower, I saw a couple of uniformed cops standing outside the door.

  “What business do you have in this building,” the one on the left asked.

  “Condensers.”

  No one knew what condensers were, including me, so that was a good cover.

  “What floor?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Stay off ten. It’s closed.”

  “Why?”

  “Just stay off ten.”

  “Like I give a shit about ten,” I said, mentally noting that I needed to get to ten.

  They let me through. Good thing I hadn’t brought my fake badge along and tried to pretend I was still blue, because they probably would have sniffed out the phony.

  Then again, if they’d been any good, they would have at least patted me down.

  Inside there was a security guy, sitting behind a desk. I walked straight to the elevators like I did it all the time.

  “Hold up,” he called to me.

  I stopped. Where was this joker when some guy came in with a rifle?

  “Name?” he asked.

  Ah, hell. He had a clipboard. Which gave me the crazy idea that maybe he was the impersonator. I wondered if I should call him on it, then decided not to press my luck.