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

by J. A. Konrath

  “Frank,” I said.

  He scanned his clipboard. “You’re not on my list.”

  “I work with John?”

  Common enough name. Everyone knew someone named John.

  “John who?”

  “Hey, I work with the guy. I don’t know his life story.”

  “What kind of work you do?”

  “I’m here about the condensers on eleven.”

  “What’s wrong with the condensers?”

  “You know anything about heating and cooling?”

  “Yeah. I installed air conditioners for ten years.”

  Shit.

  “This got nothing to do with heating and cooling,” I said. “It’s the radio condensers.”

  “Radio condensers?”

  “You know,” I said, “because everyone is switching from analog to digital.”

  He nodded. That’s another secret to bullshitting; say just enough that people recognize. The average person knows that everything is going digital, but has no clue what that means.

  “What do condensers have to do with signal processing?” he asked.

  Shit. They hired Nikola goddamn Tesla to be their security guy. I moved along to my next trick.

  “Good work,” I said. “I’m Marty with the home office. The big guy wanted me to come over and see how easy it is to just walk in. Were you here earlier, during the security breach?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “You let some maniac get in the building with a rifle. How’d he sneak that past you? Hide it up his ass?”

  “He was dressed as a construction worker.”

  “So you think closing the barn door after the cow already left—and shot up the city—is going to let you keep your job?”

  Bright Boy went sheepish. “Am I fired?”

  “I don’t hire and fire. I just report back. And in my report, you stopped me. I’d call that a check in the don’t fire column. Now I need to check out ten.”

  “Want me to show you where it happened?”

  “And leave your post? Do I need to put that in my report too?”

  “I’d prefer you left that out.”

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And do me a favor.” I motioned him to come closer, like I was going to whisper something. When he leaned in, I yelled, “If they’re carrying a rifle, don’t let them into the damn building!”

  Harry McGlade: Master of Bullshitting.

  I got into the elevator, and it spit me out on the tenth floor. For a building only a few months away from officially opening, it was in sad shape. Walls weren’t all up. Wires and pipes everywhere. Bare ceiling. Stacks of wood and drywall. And lots of garbage; fast food cartons, empty pop bottles, candy wrappers, and chip bags. I didn’t notice any apple cores or banana peels. I guess construction workers weren’t overly concerned with their health.

  I walked around, checking windows, trying to find my condo, and was quickly able to locate the sniper’s perch. The CPD hadn’t even cordoned off the area with yellow crime scene tape. I began to suspect that they hadn’t taken my attempted execution seriously.

  I knew my city’s grim stats; five hundred murders annually, and more than four thousand incidents of gun violence. The shooting this morning was probably one of a dozen that happened today. But I was a former cop, and I was a celebrity. Didn’t either warrant a little extra effort?

  Or… maybe the Chicago Police Department wasn’t pleased with my past performance, and my current hit TV show that depicted them as a bunch of buffoons.

  Could they really be that petty?

  The sniper had cut an eight inch hole in the window, which had been patched with duct tape. The glass was thick, but they made hole saws with diamond bits that could be attached to cordless drills, and it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes to accomplish.

  I looked around for spent brass, and found over a dozen casings, all .270 Winchester. I gathered them all up and put them in a baggie that I wore, inside-out, on my hand like a glove. Then I hunted around for other clues, and found two cigarette butts. Kools. Those went into another baggie.

  Important private eye tip: carry baggies.

  I looked around for the glass circle he’d cut out of the window, and didn’t see it. A guy who was careless enough to leave spent brass and butts would have left that too, and glass is great for lifting fingerprints. But it wasn’t around. I bet it popped through and fell ten stories.

  I didn’t find anything else, so I left. The security guard met me as I exited the elevator.

  “So… how’d it go?”

  I could read his face and see he was worried about his job. And he should be. He was supposed to be watching the building, and let in some guy with a rifle. A guy who almost killed me. And then, to add a cherry on top of his gross incompetence sundae, he let me get past him as well.

  “Did you get a look at the shooter?” I asked.

  He nodded. “White guy, thirties, thin, dressed in work clothes. Dirty, torn jeans, flannel shirt, boots.”

  “Beard?”

  “Hadn’t shaved in a few days.”

  “Hair color?”

  “Brown.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Sunglasses.”

  “Anything else about him? Tattoos? Missing teeth? Walk with a limp?”

  “Naw. Just a normal looking guy.”

  I had a sudden idea. I was going under the assumption that the shooter was my crazy telephone Darth Vader Jigsaw stalker. I showed him a pic on my phone of the guy with Cherry at the trailer park. “This him?”

  “Naw.”

  So much for sudden ideas. I put my phone away and turned to leave.

  “Hey, sir,” he called after me. “So, your report. What’s it going to say about me?”

  “You can read it when it comes out,” I said. “But you should probably check the want ads for heating and cooling jobs, because you’re the worst security guard ever.”

  Walking back to my condo, I passed a horse and carriage. The driver sat on a wooden carriage that looked like the pumpkin from Cinderella. He wore a sleeveless tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and top hat, and looked like he’d just won the lottery. Seriously, his smile was so wide I wondered how he did it without breaking his face.

  His horse was white, wore blinders and a harness, and didn’t seem nearly as enthused. In fact, it seemed downright depressed.

  “How’s business?” I asked.

  “Not good,” he said, beaming.

  “Then why are you so happy?”

  “I’m smiling through the pain, brother. Just lost a horse.”

  “Sorry.”

  “He was Mirna’s best friend. They grew up together. She’s really sad right now, so I’m trying to be happy for the both of us.”

  I gave Mirna a pat on the rump. “What do you charge?”

  “Thirty-five for half an hour.”

  For some reason, Mirna turned her head and tried to lick me.

  “I’ll give you fifty to go around the block once,” I said.

  He agreed. I climbed into the carriage, sans Cinderella, and he actually said, “Giddy up.”

  Mirna sprang into action, which was about the speed that I could walk if I was fall-down drunk and had a broken leg.

  “So why don’t you get Mirna a new friend?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to bring you down, brother. You paid for your time.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  “Horses aren’t cheap. And there’s a waiting list at Chicago’s only stable. When Champ died, I lost his stall. Would take years to get another in town.”

  “Sorry.”

  He smiled wide, even though his eyes were glassy. “That’s life, brother. You want to know the secret to happiness?”

  “Does that cost extra?”

  “Free to all paid riders.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “Always eat like it’s your last meal ever. Make love like it’s for a tandem gold medal. Exercise like there’s a gun to your hea
d. Love like it’s your super power. And keep smiling.”

  He had something there. Except for the exercise part.

  We got to my place, I had him pull over, and then I tipped him twenty bucks. He smiled, even with tears on his cheeks.

  I almost took the twenty back. Way to put a damper on my mood.

  Back at my place, I spent the day cleaning up, ordering pizza (Rover got the box), dealing with the new cleaning service and the window installers, and building a cyanoacrylate fuming chamber.

  Cyanoacrylate was a fancy name for superglue. I put a brand new coffee machine in a plastic storage bin, squirted a tube of superglue on the heating element, placed all the bullet casings in the bin on a wire rack, put in a small bowl full of water, then sealed it up and plugged in the coffee machine.

  Half an hour later, I unplugged the machine, opened up the lid (avoiding the fumes, and then began to dust the cartridges with a make-up brush and some black powder.

  When heated, the glue vaporized and stuck to the fingerprints on the bullets. The black dust made them stand out. I found eight prints, and lifted them off the casings using some clear packing tape.

  After mounting the tape on white paper, I scanned the images on my computer printer, then accessed Chicago’s online fingerprint database using my old password. I ran all eight prints, then waited to see if there was a match.

  Twenty minutes into a mediocre episode of Seinfeld (Kramer was far too outrageous to be realistic), I got a hit on the fingerprints.

  And it completely blew my mind.

  PHIN

  Freezing.

  Burning up.

  Fever dreams.

  You wanted to live, Earl said. Life is pain. Deal with it.

  I dealt with it.

  How many days?

  Fever. Hot.

  Pick up knife.

  Scrape. Scrape.

  Drop knife.

  Shivering.

  Find knife.

  Scrape.

  Four bullets left.

  So this is it? You’re finally gonna end it?

  “Yes,” I mumble.

  Aim the barrel.

  Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.

  Three shots into the wood.

  Drop gun.

  Bullets made hole bigger.

  Arm through.

  Feel around the outside of the door.

  A board, barring the door closed.

  Rests in two slats on each side.

  Board is big.

  Too heavy to lift.

  Can’t grip it with my hand. Slippery from blood.

  Try pushing it. Too tight.

  Push hard, until my head is bursting and my tongue is bleeding.

  The board moves.

  A third of the way…

  Half way…

  Two thirds…

  Try the door.

  Still won’t open.

  Stick my hand through the hole and push at the board with my fingertips.

  Can’t push any further. Out of reach.

  What now, Phin?

  I noticed you saved the last bullet.

  “That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Earl,” I rasped. “You notice the little things.”

  Why’d you do that? Have you finally given up? Gonna have your last meal, a .380 in the mouth?

  Ignore him.

  Be honest, Phineas. Is it checkout time?

  It’s checkout time, all right.

  Time to check out of that goddamn wooden box.

  Find the gun.

  Use it to reach another few inches.

  Stick arm through hole.

  Drop the gun.

  Can’t find where it dropped.

  Sob.

  I worked off my boot, and shoved it into the hole.

  Too big to fit through.

  Rage sucked up the last of my strength, screaming and swearing, using all I had left to push and punch and kick that goddamn leather boot through that goddamn hole.

  I got part of the heel through—

  Look at you go!

  —then the rest.

  I grabbed the heel and used the boot toe to prod the remaining length of board away. The boot wasn’t stiff enough for a steady push, so I had to jab at it.

  Little baby kicks.

  Tap tap tap…

  Little by little, the board moved.

  I’m scraping my face, pressed up against the inside wall of the closet. My neck and back muscles were screaming.

  Tap tap…

  Like hammering a nail.

  Just a little more…

  Tap tap…

  Just a little…

  Tap.

  The board dropped away.

  I pushed the door open.

  I was free.

  JACK

  My experience with home invasion was, unfortunately, extensive. There were two kinds.

  The ones that wanted to rob you, and would run away if they knew you were home.

  And the ones who wanted to do you harm, who had come armed and ready to do so.

  Since this invader didn’t reply when I called out, I could only assume the latter. The rules when dealing with someone who wanted to harm you were simple.

  Call for help.

  If possible, get away.

  If you can’t get away, fight like your life depended on it. Because it does.

  Latham had phones in the kitchen and bedroom. The kitchen was closer.

  The kitchen was also in sight of the front door. Any call I made would be noticed.

  I didn’t know how many there were, or the weapons they had. I could make a run for the bedroom, and get to my gun and a phone, or make a run for the door and try to get away wearing nothing but a Kenny Rogers t-shirt.

  I decided to go for the gun.

  This all ran through my head systematically, like I was reciting my shopping list while entering the grocery store. My fear was off the charts, adrenalin spiking, and I had all the fight or flight symptoms; fast heartbeat, sweaty palms, shaking legs, shortness of breath. But focusing on my next action, rather than focusing on the fact that someone was in the apartment, allowed me to act despite my terror.

  Being able to act in an emergency situation wasn’t because you were beyond fear. It was because you could still function, despite fear. That came from training, practice, and experience. So when I ran into the living room, I was mortified. I was just able to get past it and still function.

  Two steps into my sprint, I noticed a man with his back turned to me. As I lifted the shower curtain rod, aiming for his neck, my eyes sent my brain half a dozen instant signals.

  He was mid-size.

  He wore a suit.

  He had a suitcase next to him.

  He had red hair.

  Latham.

  I narrowly avoided breaking his spine, my blow glancing off his shoulder instead. He spun around, eyes wide with surprise, and I saw he was wearing earbuds.

  He pulled one out. Kenny Rogers.

  “Jesus, Jack, you scared the crap out of me.”

  That was mutual. I let out a deep breath and lowered the rod. Latham glanced at it, a smile growing on his face.

  “Is this some sort of kinky sex thing?” he asked. “Because I’m all in.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow,” I said. Not the best welcome home greeting in the world, but I needed a minute to calm down.

  “Good to see you, too. After our last conversation, I thought I’d come back early and surprise you.”

  “Consider me surprised. I called your name, you didn’t answer. You know I get a bit jumpy.”

  “I do. But I didn’t expect you to be here. If I did, I would have brought flowers.”

  Tough to stay irritated at a guy that sweet. Plus, he was correct. This was his home, not mine.

  I went to Latham and gave him a warm kiss, his hands encircling my waist like they were custom made to fit me.

  I was happy I didn’t snap his spine. He was husband material
.

  I kissed him a little harder, and he pulled away. “Need to shower, wash the travel off,” he said.

  How conscientious of him, wanting to be clean for me.

  Kinda spoiled the spontaneity of the moment, though.

  He pulled away, walking toward the bathroom, and then stopped. “I’ll probably need that,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I gave him the curtain rod.

  Twenty minutes later, I was in bed with my fiancé, kissing him, and seized by the irresistible urge to tell him how much I hated his apartment.

  It was the self-saboteur in me, forever vigilant that I might get too happy.

  “The floorplan is stupid, the parking sucks, the managers are jerks, and your appliances are ten years out of date and ugly,” I said.

  “Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “We haven’t talked about where we’re going to live when we get married.”

  “Didn’t you just buy a house in Bensenville?” Latham asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t that where you want to live?”

  “With my mother?”

  Latham laid back, lacing his fingers behind his head, sporting that happy-go-lucky look that attracted me to him in the first place. “I won’t lie. I like it here. And I’m not anxious to move to the suburbs, much as I love your mother.”

  J’accuse. “See! I knew it! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “But,” he added, “I’ll be fine living wherever, as long as I’m with you.”

  “So you’re okay with Bensenville?”

  “As long as you’re with me, I’d be okay living in the ninth circle of hell.”

  Which, coincidentally, was how I felt about Bensenville.

  I realized I’d been hoping that Latham would refuse to live in the burbs. Because then I could blame moving out on him.

  “Sometimes I think you don’t have a spine,” I said, knowing in this case that I was the one who didn’t have a spine, which made me feel worse about myself, which made me want to pick a fight with him so I could confirm my own inadequacies.

  Note to all shrinks: knowing how and why you screw your own life up doesn’t mean you’re able to stop doing it. I believed I had a handle on all of my many flaws, and I couldn’t change any of them.

  “What’s really bothering you?” he asked, looking concerned.

  His concern bugged me. He should have been calling me out on my bullshit, rather than wanting to listen.