Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  Don

  I read the note again, but it wasn’t any nicer the second time. We’d dated for almost an entire year. He’d been living with me for six months. And now it was over, ended with a brief, indifferent letter. I didn’t even warrant the standard “I hope we can still be friends” line.

  I hit the freezer and took out an ice tray. Three cubes went into a rocks glass, along with a shot of whiskey and a splash of sour mix. I sat down and thought, and drank, and thought some more.

  When the cocktail was finished I made another. I was wading deep in the self-pity pool, but there was little sense of loss. I hadn’t loved Don. He was a warm body to hold at night and a partner for restaurants and movies and occasional sex.

  The only man I’d ever loved was my ex-husband, Alan. When he left me, the pain was physical. Fifteen years later, I’m still wary about giving another person that much control over my heart again.

  I eyed the half-finished drink in my hand. When Jacqueline Streng married Alan Daniels, she became Jack Daniels. Ever since, people have given me bottles of the stuff as gifts, each probably thinking they were being clever. I was forced to develop a taste for it, or else open up my own liquor store.

  I gulped down the rest of the cocktail and was about to pour another, when I noticed my reflection in the door of the microwave. Seeing myself, sitting at my cheap dinette set with my sleepy red eyes and my limp hair, I looked like a finalist in the Miss Pathetic America Pageant.

  Lots of cops I knew drank. They drank alone, drank on the job, drank when they woke up, and drank themselves to sleep. Law enforcement officers had a higher rate of alcoholism than any other profession. They also had the most divorces and the most suicides.

  Divorce was the only statistic I cared to add to.

  So I took off my blazer and my shoulder holster, replaced my skirt and blouse with a pair of jeans and a sweater, and went out to explore Chicago.

  I lived on Addison and Racine, in a part of town called Wrigleyville. Rent was reasonable because it was impossible to park anywhere, especially since the Cubs started hosting night games. But I had a badge, so any fireplug or no-parking zone was fair game.

  The neighborhood was loud and active, as expected. At any given time there were at least ten drinking-age college students per square foot, barhopping among the area’s forty-plus watering holes. Great if you were in your twenties. But a mature woman like me was out of place in these trendy clubs, where techno music shook the foundations and drinks like “Screaming Orgasms” and “Blow Jobs” were the house specials.

  Don had once dragged me into a bar called Egypto, where the only lighting in the place came from several hundred Lava lamps lining the walls. He bought me a drink called a “Slippery Dick.” I told him the drink wasn’t stiff enough. He didn’t laugh. I should have known then.

  So for a woman of my advanced years, Wrigleyville gave me only two real choices: the bar at the Westminster Hotel, or Joe’s Pool Hall.

  I’d only been at the Westminster once, out of curiosity. It turned out to be the kind of place where old people gather to die. The entertainment that night had been Dario, a small hairy man in suspenders with an electric accordion. He did a disco version of “When the Saints Go Marching In” while geriatrics polkaed furiously. I felt old, but not that old.

  So I wound up at Joe’s. They had good beer priced cheap and a dinginess that yuppies avoided. When I pushed open the door, I wasn’t assaulted by industrial dance music. Just the clackety-clack of pool balls and an occasional laugh or swearword.

  My kind of place.

  I went up to the bar, resting my forearms on the cigarette-scarred counter and propping a foot on the brass railing. A fat bartender took my beer order, which set me back a whopping two bucks, with tip.

  I pulled off the bottle and took in the surroundings, searching for an open table through the dim lighting and the cigar smoke.

  All twelve were occupied, all but two with doubles action.

  Of the singles, one was being worked by an elderly black man who was having a heated discussion with himself. At the other table was a bald guy in jeans and a white T-shirt. He was a few years my junior and looked vaguely familiar.

  I picked up a cue from a nearby rack and walked over.

  He was hunched over the table, his stick gliding on the solid bridge of his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the cue ball with intense concentration.

  “This may sound like a come-on, but haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  He took the shot without looking up, banking the three ball into a side pocket. Then he righted himself and squinted at me, and I suddenly knew who he was.

  “You arrested me six years ago.”

  That’s one of the dangers of being a cop. People you think you remember from high school turn out to be felons.

  “Phineas Troutt, right? Tough to forget a name like that.”

  He nodded.

  “And your name had something to do with booze. Detective José Cuervo?”

  His face was blank, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  “Jack Daniels. I’m a lieutenant now.”

  I noted his body language. His blue eyes were steady, and he held himself in a relaxed stance. I didn’t feel threatened by him, but at the same time I was aware I’d left my gun at home.

  “You had brown hair before,” I said. “Long, in a ponytail.”

  “Chemo. Pancreatic cancer.” He pointed his chin at my cue. “Can you use that thing, or do you hold it for some Freudian reason?”

  That seemed like a challenge to me, and I was feeling a bit reckless. I recalled the bust vividly, because it had been the easiest arrest of my career. It had been an 818—gang fight in progress. When we arrived on the scene, Phineas dropped to his knees and laced his hands behind his head without even being asked. Strewn around him were four unconscious gang-bangers in need of medical attention. Phin claimed they jumped him, but since he was the only one without anything broken, we had to bring him in.

  “Loser racks and buys the beers.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We played eight ball, calling shots, putting the eight in the last pocket called. He beat me an average of two games to one, so I wound up paying for most of the games and buying most of the drinks. We hardly talked, but the silence was companionable, and the competition was good-natured.

  By the eighth game, the alcohol was starting to affect me, so I switched to diet cola. Phin, as he preferred to be called, stuck with beer, and it didn’t seem to affect him at all. Even after I’d sobered up, he continued to whup my butt.

  I liked it that way; it made me play better.

  Day became night, and Joe’s began to fill up. Lines formed at all the tables, forcing us to relinquish ours.

  I thought about asking Phin if he wanted to get a cup of coffee, but it sounded too much like a date, and I didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Instead, I offered my hand.

  “Thanks for the games.”

  His grip was warm, dry.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. It’s nice to have some quality competition. Maybe we’ll have a chance to do this again?”

  I smiled. “Damn right. Bring your wallet, because next time you’ll be buying most of the beers.”

  He smiled, briefly, and we went our separate ways. I made a mental note to check outstanding warrants on him. If he was wanted for something, I wasn’t quite sure what I would do. I liked the guy, even if he did have a rap sheet. These days it was rare for me to like anything. Could I arrest a pool buddy, especially one dying of cancer?

  Unfortunately, yes.

  Once home, my bed was uncomfortable, my mind refused to relax, and the clock mocked me with each passing minute.

  I was tired, exhausted actually, but thoughts kept flashing through my skull and wouldn’t let me be. They weren’t even profound thoughts; just random flotsam.

  I tried counting backward from ten thousand. I tried deep breathing and relaxation exercises. I tr
ied to imagine myself asleep. Nothing worked.

  Time marched forward, taking me with it.

  By the time I was feeling the slightest bit drowsy, the sun peeked in through the blinds and I had to get up to go to work.

  I sat up and stretched my tired bones, and then went into my morning exercise routine. A hundred sit-ups, with a promise to do two hundred tomorrow. Twenty push-ups, with a similar promise. Thinking about doing some barbell curls and rejecting the idea because the barbell was hidden in the closet. And then off to the shower.

  I’d survived my first night without Don, and it wasn’t nearly as bad as it might have been. It could only get easier with time.

  Then I saw his toothbrush on the bathroom sink and was depressed the rest of the day.

  Chapter 5

  CUTTING OR SLICING DOESN’T WORK, because it’s impossible to close it up afterward.

  The way to do it is to pinch each side of the wrapper by the seam and pull gently. This is tricky—opening the candy without ripping the package. Even the smallest tear is no good. People aren’t stupid. No one will eat candy with a torn wrapper.

  Working on the candy itself is the exciting part. “Fun Size!” the bag proclaims. “Dinky” was a more appropriate description. The mini candy bars are scarcely a bite each.

  But one bite is all it takes.

  His average is good; he only ruins four wrappers out of twenty-four. He sets the chocolate on a tray and opens up the package of sewing needles. Needles and pins work best. They don’t mar the surface going in; just leave a tiny hole that is easily covered up with a dot of melted chocolate. He uses four needles per candy bar, on cross angles, so no matter where it’s bitten, at least one will draw blood.

  After doing ten candy bars with needles, he cracks his knuckles and feels warmed up enough for some harder work.

  Fishhooks take finesse. He holds the candy lightly in a latex-gloved hand and picks up a hook with needle-nose pliers. Pushing the barb into the bottom of the candy, he inserts the hook bit by bit, angling the pliers in a curving motion so the entire fishhook disappears through the entry hole.

  It is difficult work, but he’s had years of practice. His personal record is eleven hooks in one small candy bar. He liked to prepare for Halloween weeks in advance, and when the big day arrived, he’d find a neighborhood house that was empty and set up his bowl full of lethal treats next to their door. Sometimes he also put a sign that said Only Take One! next to the bowl. A nice ghoulish touch.

  After rigging five pieces with fishhooks, he opens a box of X-Acto knife blades and pushes several of those into the remaining bars. X-Acto blades leave a bigger entry hole, but with a cigarette lighter and an extra chocolate bar, he can hide the hole from even the most intense inspection.

  After finishing all twenty candies, he places them carefully back into their wrappers. A few drops of Super Glue seal them back up. Then he puts the bars into the plastic bag they came in, one by one, through a small one-inch slit in the side. When he’s done, he puts four untainted candies from a second bag into this one, so it holds the correct total of twenty-four.

  Holding it in his hand, it looks like an ordinary bag of candy bars, ready to be consumed.

  He plugs in a hair crimper, lets it get hot, and then carefully crimps closed the slit he’s made in the bag. The crimper melts the plastic edges together somewhat unevenly, so he trims away the excess plastic with a razor blade.

  Perfect.

  Now it’s time to see whom the treat will go to. He turns his attention to the photos on the table, flipping through them to find the two he wants.

  They are both close-ups of faces. He’d taken them at the 7-Eleven the other day, while standing in the crowd and watching the stupid pigs trample around his crime scene. One is of a fat man with a mustache. The other is of a thin woman with nice legs.

  One of these is the officer in charge of his case. They were the only two cops there who weren’t wearing uniforms, so they had to be the top guys. But which one is the head honcho? The one who, by the luck of the draw, has become his nemesis?

  A simple phone call to the police will reveal who heads the case, but he doesn’t want to call from his home phone. The pigs can trace phone calls instantly, and he doesn’t want it to lead back to him somewhere down the line.

  Nothing will lead back to him.

  His plan is flawless. Perfect. Every last detail has been worked out. Stalk. Abduct. Destroy. Dispose. Repeat. He has the perfect cover, has their schedules down pat, even has a contingency plan if the police ever find him. Not that they will, but it pays to plan ahead.

  So he takes a walk to the nearest pay phone, on the outside of a Mini-Mart, and calls Information to find out what police station is nearest to Monroe and Dearborn—the corner where he dumped the first whore.

  Armed with the district number, he calls the officer on duty and identifies himself as a reporter from the Herald.

  “Can you spell out the name of the detective in charge?”

  “Daniels, first name Jack.”

  “Jack Daniels? For real?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is he on the heavy side, has a mustache?”

  “No, that’s Detective Benedict. He’s Daniels’s partner. Jack is a woman. Short for Jacqueline, I think. She’s a lieutenant.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hanging up, he feels excitement crackle through his body like electricity. He rushes back home to his pictures, leafing through them until he finds one of Daniels leaving the scene in her crappy Chevy Nova.

  “I know who you are.” The Gingerbread Man rubs his finger over her face. “And I know what you drive. But I’ll know more. Much more.”

  He smiles. Chicago thinks a simple bitch like that can catch him?

  Think again.

  He checks his watch. Nine in the morning. He isn’t going to grab the second girl for another two hours. What time does the good lieutenant go to work? Is she there right now?

  He decides to check. Picking up the bag of candy with pliers to avoid leaving fingerprints, he carries the gift to his truck and takes a meandering path to the 26th District.

  It looks like any other building in Chicago, except this one houses cops rather than offices or apartments. There is a parking lot next to it with a big sign that reads “Police Vehicles Only.” On his third trip around the lot, he spies Jack’s Nova, near the back, between two patrol cars.

  “Hey, buddy!”

  A cop flags him down. He almost hits the gas in panic, but when the pig approaches, it’s obvious what he wants.

  “It’s on me, Officer.” The Gingerbread Man smiles, handing the cop his selection. “I appreciate you keeping the city safe.”

  The pig doesn’t even thank him, waddling off down the street, letting the biggest arrest of his life drive away.

  The Gingerbread Man parks in front of a meter and puts on some leather gloves. Cradling the bag of goodies in his jacket, he walks briskly back to the police station and enters the parking lot as if he belongs there. Two uniformed patrolmen give him a glance, and he nods a hello, confident and at ease. They return the nod and walk on.

  Adrenaline threatening to make his heart explode, he approaches Jack’s car and pulls the slim-jim out of his pants leg. It’s a long strip of thin metal with a forked end. He forces it between the driver’s-side window and the weather stripping, and jams it down into the inner workings of the car door. By feel, he finds the lock mechanism and pushes down.

  Up pops the button, in about the same amount of time it would have taken to open it with a key.

  The interior smells faintly of perfume. Even though he’s in a hurry, he climbs behind the wheel and savors the moment.

  Violation is such a rush.

  “I’m in your car, Jack.”

  He sniffs the steering wheel. Hand cream and hair spray.

  It tastes salty.

  On the floor is an empty cardboard coffee cup. He picks it up and licks the smudge of lipstick on the r
im.

  His eyes close, and he can see Jack, tied up in his basement, naked and bloody and screaming.

  Such an excellent idea.

  Another look around proves the parking lot is still empty. He places the package on the passenger seat and searches through the glove compartment for the lieutenant’s vehicle registration. He memorizes the address, grinning at how easy this is.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Jack.”

  His lingering has put him a few minutes behind schedule. He doesn’t want to be late grabbing the second whore. He has a bunch of new things he’s just aching to try out with her.

  He makes sure no one is watching, then he gets out of the car and strolls back to his truck, a spring in his step.

  What a day this is turning out to be.

  Chapter 6

  I WAS FINISHING MY THIRD CUP of coffee when the FBI walked in.

  They didn’t immediately announce themselves as Feebies when they entered my office, without knocking. But both wore tailored gray suits, Harvard ties, spit-shined shoes, and crew cuts. Who else could they be—yearbook committee?

  “Lieutenant Daniels?” The one on the right continued before I acknowledged him. “I’m Special Agent George Dailey. This is Special Agent Jim Coursey.”

  Special Agent Coursey nodded at me.

  “We’re from the Bureau,” Special Agent Coursey said.

  Special Agent Dailey nodded at me.

  Dailey was slightly taller, and his hair a shade lighter, but that minimal difference was negligible. They could have been clones. And knowing our government, they might have been.

  “We’re both ViCAT operatives of the BSU.”

  “The Violent Criminal Apprehension Team of the Behavioral Science Unit.”

  “We’ve done a profile of the perpetrator, and we have a printout of possible related cases with percentile rankings of same suspect likelihood.”

  “Are we going too fast for you?”

  I said, “You’re early.”

  They looked at each other, then back at me.

  “The sooner we give your people an idea of what we’re looking for, the sooner we catch him,” Dailey said.