Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  I was picking at a hamburger that tasted like it had been steamed, when Herb came into my room, his fourth visit in twenty-four hours.

  “I see I’ve arrived coincidentally at dinnertime.” He pulled up a chair.

  “Some coincidence. You’re the one who filled out my menu card.”

  “Is it good?”

  “I’m not sure. Somehow they’ve managed to drain every nuance of flavor from it.”

  “Hmm. May I?”

  I allowed him access to my food.

  “It tastes like it’s been steamed.” This fact didn’t stop him from polishing it off, along with my applesauce, my green vegetable, and the rest of my juice.

  “I saw some gum stuck under the table there, if you want dessert.”

  “I love a free meal.”

  “Free? They’re charging me forty-five dollars for that feast there. A forty-five-dollar hamburger. It gives me a headache thinking about it.”

  “Want me to call for some aspirin?”

  “I can’t afford the aspirin. I’d have to put them on layaway. Now help me up so I can use the can.”

  “I thought you weren’t allowed out of bed until tomorrow.”

  “You want to warm up my bedpan for me?”

  Herb helped me up. The pain in my leg made my eyes water, but I kept my footing. The best way to describe it was like a charley horse, but sharper. Maybe I’d break down and get some aspirin after all.

  When I’d finished bathroom duty I sat in a visitor’s chair opposite Herb, wincing when my knee bent.

  “Are you sure . . .”

  “I’m fine,” I told him. “I don’t want my leg to get any stiffer than it is. I want out of this hospital. I hate waiting around like this.”

  “This is your first time, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve been shot at before. This is the first time the bullet hit home. You were . . .”

  “Almost twenty years ago now. Took it right in the upper thigh.”

  “You mean the ass.”

  “I prefer to say upper thigh. Or lower back. Gang-banger got me from behind. It still itches sometimes in dry weather.”

  “Really? And I thought you were just unsticking your underwear all the time.”

  “I do that too. Jack . . .” Herb got serious on me. “We found another body about an hour ago.”

  My heart sank. “Another girl?”

  “No. A boy. Stabbed twenty-three times with a hunting knife, left in a Dumpster behind Marshall Fields on Wabash. Blasky’s doing the autopsy now.”

  “How do we know it’s our perp?”

  “There was another gingerbread man cookie. We ran the kid’s prints, ID’d him as Leroy Parker. Two shoplifting convictions, wanted in connection with half a dozen more counts. His description and MO match the kid who pulled the seizure distractions. Perp also left another note.”

  Herb handed me a photocopy. The Gingerbread Man’s familiar scrawl filled the page.

  “If I was only faster yesterday . . .”

  “Our job is to catch him, Jack, not blame ourselves or take responsibility for what he does.”

  The nurse came, and went into a lecture about how I shouldn’t be out of bed. To assuage her wrath I allowed myself to be helped back in.

  “No more getting out of bed, Ms. Daniels, or I’ll have you tied down.”

  “Kinky. I may like that.”

  The nurse picked up my tray and smiled her nurse’s smile. “At least your appetite is healthy.”

  I eyed Benedict. “Just like Mom used to steam.”

  The nurse left, and I made Herb get me my clothes.

  “You’re not leaving.”

  “I’m leaving. I hate being coddled. I’m a grown woman, and I can fend for myself. Now help me put on my pants.”

  After ten minutes of sweating, grunting pain, I managed to get changed into the clothes Herb had brought me the night before. I was even able to tie my own shoes without ripping my stitches.

  “There’s a media circus waiting outside the front entrance for you to come out,” Herb said. “Should we find a back way?”

  “Hell, no. Our man isn’t making any mistakes, but maybe if I piss him off enough, he will.”

  “So—you’re going to anger the psycho?”

  “Not at all.” I called the surveillance team and told them I was getting out of there. “I’m simply going to give an honest, bare-bones interview.”

  After fighting with two doctors and four nurses, I was finally discharged against hospital recommendation and had to sign a paper absolving them of responsibility if I died after stepping off their property. Then I ran a brush through my hair, wiped the crud from my eyes, grabbed my aluminum hospital cane, and went to meet the press.

  Benedict hadn’t been exaggerating about the media circus. At least two dozen reporters were hanging around outside the hospital entrance, all waiting around for the off chance that I’d appear. I’d had big cases before, and had been on TV. At first I was impressed. But then I saw myself on the tube, which added twenty pounds, made me look short, and somehow distorted my fine speaking voice into something squeaky.

  “I have some things to say, and then afterward I can answer a few questions,” I told the crowd, giving them a chance to switch on their cameras and focus. “First of all, I was shot by the criminal that the press is calling the Gingerbread Man. He’d broken into my apartment last night. As you can see, my injury isn’t serious. He couldn’t aim the gun properly, because he was hysterical, crying for his mama.”

  Herb gave me a slight nudge in the ribs, but I was just warming up.

  “Besides the obvious emotional problems, the killer is also very stupid. The only reason we haven’t caught him yet is because he’s been lucky, and because he’s a coward who runs away when confronted. I fully expect that with the combined efforts of the Chicago Police Department and the FBI, we should have him in custody soon. Now I’ll take questions.”

  The questioning went well. When it was over I’d also called the killer a bed-wetter, said he was impotent, and predicted that when we found him, he’d probably be picking his nose. I explained I felt no anger toward his attack on me; rather I felt sorry for him, like a sick dog. When asked if I was afraid of him going after me, I laughed and said he would be too scared to make another attempt.

  At that point my cellular phone began to ring, and I had a pretty good idea who it was. I excused myself from further questions and walked away from the crowd before answering.

  “Daniels.”

  “Why didn’t you clear this with me before broadcasting live on five channels?”

  Captain Bains.

  “I was live? Did I sound squeaky?”

  “You sounded like you’re provoking him. Dime-store psychology is not the way to run a headline case.”

  “You left me in charge, Captain. This is how I want to run it.”

  “And when this guy kills a dozen people because he’s mad you called him a mama’s boy, how do you figure we’ll still be employed after the lawsuits come rolling in?”

  “I’m provoking him to come after me. The only one I put in danger is myself.”

  “And what if you don’t catch him? You just promised the city you’ll have him in custody soon.”

  “I’ll catch him.”

  “If you don’t, it’s your ass.”

  He hung up. That was two conversations with Bains in two days. Maybe now was a good time to ask for a raise.

  “Jack . . .” Herb caught up to me. The reporters had snagged him for a few questions after I’d jetted out. “You sure poked your stick at the hornets’ nest back there.”

  “Hopefully the hornet will come out. Can you do a crippled girl a favor?”

  “Sure. You bought dinner.”

  “See my tail?” I nodded in the direction of the two plainclothes cops, following our path twenty feet behind us. “If they were any closer they’d be wearing my clothes. Ask them to loosen up.”

  “You got it.”


  Benedict waddled up to them, giving a mini lecture on the art of being inconspicuous. I gave them a big smile and a thumbs-up to smooth it over. Don’t want to anger the guys guarding your life.

  Herb drove me home, first stopping at the Salvation Army on my request, where I wanted to replace my antiseptic aluminum hospital cane with something more distinguished. I found a polished piece of hickory that fit the description.

  “Very distinguished,” Benedict commented.

  “We ladies of good breeding demand nothing less than the best. Lend me fifty cents so I can buy it.”

  He forked over some pocket change and then insisted on seeing me into my apartment.

  “If you’re looking for a good-night kiss, I’ll whack you with my cane.”

  “Just want to make sure you can work your burglar alarm okay.”

  “Since when did a bullet wound make a person feeble-minded?”

  I couldn’t work the burglar alarm, so Herb had to show me.

  “You press the green button first, then the code.”

  “Thanks. Want a drink?”

  “Can’t. It’s Sunday.”

  I waited for more.

  “Lasagna night,” Benedict explained. “Got to get home.”

  “See you tomorrow, Herb. Thanks again.”

  “Get some rest, Jack.”

  He left me to my empty, quiet apartment. The lab team had taken half of my possessions, including the phone, which saved me from having to take it off the hook. The free press has no qualms about around-the-clock harassment.

  My leg was throbbing as if it had its own heart. I limped into the bedroom to get undressed and froze stock-still.

  Dread crawled over my body.

  My blood was still on the mattress. The bullet holes were still in the wall. The closet door was closed, and I had an unrealistic fear that the Gingerbread Man was still hiding in there. It was silly and stupid, but a fear nonetheless.

  I forced myself to open the closet, and left it open. Then I gathered up every bit of clothing that was in the closet and arranged for dry cleaning. I had no desire to wear anything that might have touched him.

  Afterward I took four Tylenol, grabbed my blanket, and went to go sleep in my rocking chair.

  Well, attempted to.

  The apartment was too quiet. So quiet that I could hear myself breathe. So quiet that when a car honked outside, I almost wet my pants.

  I turned on all the lights and flipped on the TV to keep me company. The Max Trainter Show was on—local talk soup at its basest level. Whereas other shows relied on melodrama to keep the viewer interested, Trainter went for shock value and violent confrontation. Six bouncers were on the set at all times, necessary to keep the guests from beating one another silly. Which they did, several times a show.

  I tried to relax, losing myself in the wonderful drama of human nature. A white-trash couple confronted their daughter’s lesbian lover. The lover fought back with a folding chair, which seemed as if it had been placed on stage for that very purpose. I counted four felonies and a dozen misdemeanors on screen before tiring of the show and switching it off.

  When sleep finally came, it came with nightmares.

  Chapter 22

  THE PAIN WOKE ME UP. My leg had stiffened overnight, and I felt like a piece of twisted licorice from my big toe to my bottom. I admit to some less than heroic yelping as I got out of the chair and hobbled to the bathroom in search of drugs. I’d gotten a prescription for codeine at the hospital, but hadn’t bothered to fill it, big tough girl that I am. Luckily I still had some of Don’s medication from when he’d had his wisdom teeth pulled. Vicodin. I took two.

  Showering was an awkward, painful affair that involved a garbage bag, duct tape, and more patience than I thought I had. When I was finally clean and dressed, an hour of my life was irretrievably gone.

  Using the cellular, I informed my shadow that I was awake and well. The Vicodin in my system almost prompted me into song. I felt good. Very good. The drug even seemed to cure my sniffles.

  Later, I blamed the drugs for my decision to skip work that morning and reschedule my appointment with Lunch Mates.

  The bruises on my face from the bar fight were yellowing, but I opted for the natural look rather than concealer. Clad in loose-fitting chinos, my L.L.Bean sweater, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses, I left my building sans cane and hailed a cab, informing my tail I was following a lead to a dating service. Let them snicker. I felt too high to care.

  The taxi driver, a young Jamaican with a hemp beret, initiated a conversation about the Bulls, a topic that I’m normally lukewarm about but today happened to be bursting with opinion. I tipped him five bucks when he spit me out on Michigan and Balbo a dozen minutes later.

  The building that housed Lunch Mates had recently been made over. I remembered it years back to be a hotel for men, complete with dirty brown bricks and tiny yellow windows. Now it was all chrome and polish, replete with green plants and a fountain in the lobby. Chicago, like all big cities, was a cannibal. Something must die for something else to grow.

  I limped up to the information desk and was directed to the third floor. The elevator was mirrored, and I checked myself from every angle. Not bad for a forty-something cop who’d just been shot.

  But that might have been the meds talking.

  Two thick glass doors allowed me entrance to Lunch Mates, where a handsome man with perfect hair flashed me a smile from his reception desk. I smiled back, though not as electrically.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning. I’m Jack Daniels. I have an appointment.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jack. I’m Frank. Coffee?”

  I declined, thinking about coffee breath. He bade me take a seat, and motioned to the leather couch on my left. I sunk into it, extending out my bad leg in a way that I hoped looked demure. A windsurfing magazine caught my eye on the coffee table. Since I windsurf on practically a daily basis, I picked up the mag and perused an article about getting more hang time when it’s choppy.

  “Jack? I’m Matthew. I’ll be your Lunch Mates agent.”

  He was even cuter than Frank. Blond, baby blue eyes, a model’s square jaw. I wondered if the Gingerbread Man had actually killed me, and I’d died and gone to hunk heaven.

  I stood and took his hand. It was soft and dry, making me even more aware of how unkempt my hands were. I’d never broken the habit of biting my nails. It seemed so much easier than clipping them.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I love that sweater. It brings out your eyes.”

  “A recent purchase. The sweater, not the eyes.”

  Chuckles on both our parts. He led me through the carpeted hallways of Lunch Mates. It resembled any other office, with generic artwork on the walls and the obligatory Habitrail of cubicles where employees pecked away on computers between coffee breaks. It could have even been my workplace, except it was brighter and everyone looked happy.

  We made small talk about the weather and current news events, and then I was led into a corner office complete with view, fireplace, and a decor that made it look like a cozy den. We sat across from each other in two deep suede chairs, our knees almost touching. He reached over on the table next to us and picked up a leather binder.

  “What we’re going to do, Jack, is have you answer a few questions about yourself and make a data sheet like this one.”

  Matthew held up a glossy piece of paper with a picture of a woman in the upper right-hand corner. It almost looked like a resume.

  “This data sheet will be given to men who would be a likely match for you. I’ll also give you data sheets of men . . . it is a man you’d like to meet, correct?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided to give heterosexuality one more shot.”

  He gave me a million-dollar smile, and I flashed my five-buck grin right back. The Vicodin guide to better living through chemistry.

  “So . . . if you and a man choose each other, we pick a place and set the date
. If you’d prefer, you can fill out the data sheet yourself, but I like asking the questions because then I have a better idea of personality and compatibility.”

  “Ask away.”

  I leaned back and crossed my arms, held the pose until I realized I looked too defensive, then set my hands in my lap and crossed my legs. That was awkward as well, but I stayed that way rather than shift again so soon.

  “You mentioned you were a police officer. For how long?”

  “Twenty-three years. I’m a lieutenant. Violent Crimes.”

  “Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?”

  I took a moment too long to answer. Did I enjoy it? How could I enjoy Violent Crimes? I dealt with the worst element of society, I witnessed atrocities that regular people couldn’t even comprehend, I was overworked, underpaid, and socially retarded. But I still kept plugging away. Did I actually enjoy it?

  “I like getting the job done.” I crossed my arms in the defensive position again.

  “Have you ever been married?”

  “Yes. I was divorced fifteen years ago.”

  “Children?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Pleasant laugh. “Education?”

  “Northwestern. Bachelor of Arts.”

  “What was your major?”

  What the hell was my major? “Political science.”

  “Do you have any hobbies?”

  Was insomnia a hobby? “I play pool. I like to read, when I have the time.”

  He paused frequently to write things down. I reviewed in my mind what I’d said so far and was less than impressed. I was coming off like the most boring person to ever walk the earth. Unless I wanted to get hooked up with someone who was comatose, I needed to spice up my answers.

  “I got into a fight the other day. Bar fight. See the bruises?”

  I pointed to my face and grinned. My painkiller high had overtaken my better judgment.

  “And the other day I got shot. A maniac broke into my apartment.”

  “My goodness. Where were you shot?”