“Want me to go get it?”
“I’ll save it as a last resort.”
Herb took a bite out of a rice cake. He made a face, found a packet of saccharine in his pocket, and dumped it onto the remaining half.
“Want one?”
“Thanks, but I’m trying to cut back.”
Herb took another bite, then added more sweetener. “At least the cat finally quieted down.”
I looked into the carrier. Mr. Friskers had curled up into a little ball of fur.
“He’s sleeping. Maybe we can get some work done.”
“Those few minutes of silence were all I needed. I got a name to go with that last number Davi called. Cell phone, belongs to a man named Colin Andrews. Twenty-three, black, lives on 95th and Wabash.”
“He’s got a record?”
“A long one. He’s a dealer.”
“Davi’s coke supplier?”
“All of his charges are for marijuana, but that’d be my assumption. And he was a guest of the city just a few weeks ago. Guess which district.”
For the first time since the case began, I had that flutter feeling in my stomach that indicated we were getting close.
“You’re kidding. Here?”
“The old two-six. For possession.”
The ducks weren’t perfect yet, but they were forming a row. If Colin Andrews had been in our building, he could have had an opportunity to pick up my handcuffs.
“Who booked him?”
“Hanson.” Herb pressed a few computer keys. “She’s gone for the day. Speaking of which, I need to leave early.”
“Big plans?”
Herb gave me a grin that was positively wicked. I understood.
“Ah, those kind of plans. That requires leaving early?”
“In this instance, yes.”
“Okay then, Romeo. We can get rolling on Andrews tomorrow.”
“Good. You know”—Herb eyed the cat—“I drive by the Chicago River on the way home.”
“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll let him live for the time being.”
Herb said good night and left my office.
“Just me and you, Mr. Friskers.”
At the mention of his name, the cat awoke and commenced howling.
I tried to ignore him, and attempted to finish up a report on a suicide from last week. After struggling through that, I went through my in-box and played pass-along with some current homicides that seemed open and shut.
My position in the Chicago Police Department allowed me more wiggle room than many of my contemporaries. As far as I knew, I was one of the only lieutenants in the Detective Division—the title had been mostly phased out around the time Homicide morphed into Violent Crimes. There are lieutenant inspectors, who are one silver bar below captain, but those are supervisory positions and I had no desire to give up investigative work. My rank allows me to skip morning roll call, operate in other districts without jurisdictional issues, give commands when needed, and pick and choose my cases.
It took over twenty years to gain this autonomy, and I enjoyed it. Which is probably why no one in the office knocked on my door to complain about the cat noise. Rank has its privileges.
In the midst of filing, my cell rang. Latham.
“Hi, Latham. Back in town?”
“I’m back, Jack. What are you wearing?”
I smiled. “A plaid flannel shirt and overalls.”
“Stop it—I’m getting turned on. Might I request the honor of your presence tonight for dinner?”
“I’ll have to check with my boyfriend first.”
“Screw him.”
“I was planning on it. Is six o’clock okay?”
“It’s perfect. I was thinking someplace nice.”
“Heels-and-a-dress nice?”
“Ooh, I like that even more than the overalls.”
“Does this have anything to do with that important question you mentioned on my answering machine?”
“Maybe, maybe so. Are you beating the confession out of some criminal right now?”
“That’s a cat. Long story. I’ll tell you when you pick me up.”
“Great. I’ll be the guy knocking on your door with flowers. See you soon.”
He hung up, leaving me sitting there with a dopey grin on my face. I was glad Latham was back home, and not just because I hadn’t had sex in three weeks. Latham made me feel special. He was funny, considerate, attractive, successful, romantic, and in love with me. What wasn’t to like?
Though, I had to admit, part of me kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had to have something wrong with him. But so far, the annoyances were only minor. Snoring. Back hair. Leaving the toilet seat up. A juvenile affection for bad horror movies and ’80s pop songs.
He probably had wives in four other states. Or his mummified mother tied to a rocking chair in the attic.
Speaking of mothers . . .
I called Florida, but the Do Not Disturb was still on her room phone. I spoke with a nurse, and Mom’s condition had improved, though she still seemed mad as hell. I asked the nurse to pass on an “I love you, Mom,” and hung up, spirits dampened.
“I won’t bend,” I told Mr. Friskers. “She needs my help.”
He howled, which I took to be agreement.
With only two hours to make myself gorgeous before my guy showed up, I decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped at a pet supply superstore and bought the essentials: litter box, litter, cat food, and a mouse toy stuffed with catnip. I asked an employee if they had muzzles for cats, but she looked so disgusted I’d even suggest such a thing that I left without getting an answer.
My apartment was where I’d left it, and it took two trips to bring everything up from my car. I kept the air-conditioning off to save money, which meant my place was roughly the same temperature as hell, but more humid.
The city of Chicago paid me a respectable wage for my services, but Mom’s condo payment took a big bite. I had a private arrangement with her bank; she’d get a token monthly bill, easily covered by her pension and Social Security, and I took care of the lion’s share.
In my quest to pinch pennies, I’d turned my apartment into a greenhouse. It was so hot I had wild orchids sprouting on the sofa. I set the air to tundra and took a cold shower, but the water never got any cooler than lukewarm. Wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, I attended to the Mr. Friskers situation.
My skiing days long behind me, I did own a pair of black leather gloves that would offer me some protection. I slipped them on, ready for battle.
Mr. Friskers sat patiently in the carrier, probably plotting the downfall of the United States. I opened the door latch, but he made no attempt to howl or attack.
Perhaps he’d worn himself out.
I took two bowls from the clean side of the sink and poured water into one. The other I filled with some of the dry cat food I’d purchased. I set the bowls on the floor in front of him.
Mr. Friskers walked out of the carrier, sniffed the food, and gave me a look of utter disappointment.
“Your cream-from-the-bottle days are over, buddy. And come to think of it—”
I reached down and grabbed him by the diaper. He morphed into the Tasmanian Devil, whirling and clawing and spitting and hissing, catching me a good one on the right forearm. But I proved to be the stronger mammal, and managed to pull off the tabs and remove the diaper before losing too much blood.
The aroma was heady. When the dizziness passed, I wrapped the diaper in a plastic garbage bag, then wrapped that garbage bag in another garbage bag, and walked it out into my hallway, depositing the package down the garbage chute.
When I returned, the cat was lapping at the water dish. Without the diaper, he looked less demonic, and more like a plain old cat. After slaking his thirst, he again sniffed at the food dish. He gave me a look that on a human would have counted as a sneer.
“This guy likes it,” I told him, pointing to the cat on the bag of food.
He seemed to
consider it, then began to eat.
Now for phase two.
I set the cat box on the floor and read the instructions on the back of the kitty litter bag. Simple enough. I tore the corner and filled the box, getting a noseful of sweet, perfumey dust.
Mr. Friskers looked up from the food dish, cocking his head at me.
“Okay. Time for your first lesson.”
I picked him up gently, and he allowed it, going limp in my hands. But when I tried to set him down in the cat box, he dervished on me, twisting and screaming and kicking up a spray of litter. I had to let go of him, for fear of losing an eye, and he bounded out of the kitchen and down the hall.
I spit out some kitty litter. The bag hadn’t lied; the granules clumped like magic.
“We’ll get to lesson two later,” I called after the cat.
I picked some litter out of my damp hair and attended to my makeup. For work, I made do with a light coat of powder, some eyeliner, and a slash of lipstick. Tonight I went all out—base and mascara and eye shadow and lipliner and a touch of color on my cheeks and a final brush of translucent powder with highlighting bits of glitter in it.
Satisfied I looked as good as I could with my bone structure, I went into the bedroom to pick out special occasion underwear. I put on black satin French-cut panties and my only good bra, a cleavage-enhancer that Latham had only seen me in twice before.
I hated my clothes closet for more than simple fashion reasons, so I didn’t dally choosing an outfit. I went with a classic black dress, low cut and strapless. It was calf length, but had a dramatic slit on the right side up to mid-thigh. I liked it because it hung rather than clung, meaning I didn’t have to suck in my tummy all night.
I was searching through my sock drawer in a fruitless effort to find a pair of nylons without a run, when I noticed Mr. Friskers on my bed, clawing at my sheets. He wasn’t tearing them, just kind of gathering them in a ball as if burying something.
“Hey, cat. What are you . . . aw, dammit.”
So much for the litter box.
I stripped the bed and went to the kitchen for some stain remover. Cat litter blanketed most of the kitchen floor, trailing into the living room. Not a bad effort for an animal without opposable thumbs.
It was coming up on six, and I hadn’t even started on my hair yet. I hurried back to the bedroom, dumped some cleanser on the stain, then did a quick blow-dry.
My intercom went off. I hit the button to buzz Latham through the lobby door, squeezed into my least-runny pair of hose, and managed to tug on some two-inch heels just as the knock came.
Mirror-check. Not bad. I gave my hair a final finger-fluff and went to let Latham in.
Only it wasn’t Latham after all.
CHAPTER 10
“Hiya, Jackie. Wow, you’re all dressed up and looking girly. How’d you know I was coming?”
Harry McGlade had gained a few pounds since I’d last seen him a few months back, on my solitary visit to the set of Fatal Autonomy: Harry McGlade Meets the Gingerbread Man. He wore his usual three days’ growth of beard and a wrinkled yellow suit jacket over a solid red T-shirt.
“I didn’t know the Miami Vice look was back.”
Harry grinned. “I don’t have socks on, either. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jackie. You can’t still be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I lied. “I’m getting ready for a date. Why don’t you stop by sometime after Christmas? Of 2012?”
“Jackie, partner—”
“We’re not partners anymore, McGlade.”
Harry spread out his hands. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought the screen credit would make you happy.”
I’d visited a location shoot because McGlade had insisted on me meeting the director and the actor playing me. “So they get the authenticity right,” he’d told me.
It turned out my character was there for comic relief, and so stupid she had mismatched shoes for half the film. I cringed, recalling the scene where the idiot with my name read a suspect his Fernando rights.
I crossed my arms, anger rising. “You had me listed as a technical consultant on a movie that failed to accurately portray one single aspect of police procedure.”
“Heh, heh. Remember the Fernando rights scene? Biggest laugh in the flick.”
I tried to slam the door, but Harry shoved a foot inside.
“Jackie! Please! I really need to talk to you. It’s hugely important.”
I pushed harder, leaning into it.
“It’s life or death! Please! These loafers are Italian!”
If I knew Harry, and unfortunately that was the case, he’d continue bothering me until I gave in. I considered arresting him, but as much as that would amuse me, Latham would be here any minute and I didn’t want to spend our date at the district house booking McGlade.
“Thirty seconds, McGlade, then you go.”
“Sixty.”
“Thirty.”
“Forty-five.”
“Twenty.”
“Fine. Thirty seconds, then I’m out of here.”
I released the door. Harry grinned.
“Thanks, Jackie. You going to let me in?”
I stood to the side, allowing him entrance. He sauntered in, trailing a fog of Brut.
“So, this is your place, huh? Kind of dumpy.”
“You have twenty-five seconds left.”
Harry stopped fingering my couch and faced me.
“Okay, I’ll get to the point. I need a favor. You know a sergeant out of the one-two, name of Pierce?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s—”
My buzzer sounded. Nice timing, Latham. I hit the intercom button.
“I’ll be right down, Latham.”
“Could I come up? These need to get in some water.”
I pressed Talk, unsure of what to say. I really didn’t want Latham to have to deal with McGlade.
“Jackie!” Harry yelled. “Come back to bed!”
I punched McGlade in the ribs, hard. Though I didn’t weigh a lot, I was working on my second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and knew how to hit. McGlade yelped.
“Jack, who was that?”
“Harry McGlade. He’s just leaving.”
McGlade pulled a face. “You promised me thirty seconds!”
“Jack,” Latham sounded flustered. “We can go out tomorrow, if you’ve got something going on.”
“No! Come on up.”
I buzzed him in, then jabbed a finger at McGlade’s spongy chest.
“You. Out.”
“But you said . . .”
“If you don’t leave right now, I promise that I’ll dedicate my life to making sure you never get whatever favor it is you want from me.”
McGlade considered it.
“So if I leave, you’ll do the favor?”
“I don’t even know what the favor is.”
“When would be a good time to discuss it?” Harry dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a PDA. “I think I’m free for lunch tomorrow.”
“Fine. Lunch tomorrow. But you have to leave right now.”
I shoved Harry out the door, hurried to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup, and swallowed two aspirin; McGlade never failed to induce a headache.
When the knock came, I did my damnedest to put on a nice smile.
“Hi, Latham.”
Latham stood in my hallway, a dozen roses in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. Standing next to him, arm around his shoulders, was Harry.
“Good news, Jack. We can cancel lunch tomorrow. Your boyfriend invited me to dinner with you guys.”
Latham shrugged.
“He said it was life or death.”
I gave Harry a look I normally reserved for rapists and murderers.
“McGlade . . .”
“I won’t stay long. And I’ll pay. The best bar and grill in the city is right around the corner.”
“Wait out here,
” I told him, tugging Latham into my apartment and closing the door.
Latham looked good. He wore a dark gray suit, a light gray shirt, and a rich blue silk tie. Businessman chic.
“So that’s Harry, huh? He’s older and fatter than the guy who played him on TV.”
“He’s stupider too. Are those for me?”
Latham handed me the roses. I took a compulsory sniff.
“They’re gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
Latham moved in for the kiss, and when his lips touched mine I felt it all the way down to my toes. I had a sudden urge to forget about dinner, and McGlade, and drag Latham into the bedroom. And I might have done just that, if my bed hadn’t been covered with cat stains.
“We should put those in some water.” Latham brought the roses into the kitchen, stopping when he saw the mess.
“What happened in here? It looks like Pompeii after Vesuvius.”
“Long story. I’ll tell you over a romantic dinner.”
“Jackie!” McGlade pounded on the door. “What’s taking so long? You guys bumping uglies in there?”
Latham laughed. “Romantic dinner, hmm?”
“My gun’s in my purse. Want me to shoot him?”
“Let him pay for dinner first.”
I found a vase in the cabinet while Latham cut an inch off the bottom of the stems. When the flowers were arranged, I kissed him again, then wiped a smudge of my lipstick off his lips.
“So what’s this big thing you wanted to ask me, Latham?”
Latham smiled, eyes twinkling.
“I’ll tell you soon enough.”
CHAPTER 11
“So this was back in the ’80s, and crack was still pretty new to the streets, and me and Jackie catch an officer down squeal at this known crack house.”
Latham nudged me. “You two used to ride together?”
I took a large swig of Sam Adams and frowned.
“No one else would ride with Harry, so I got stuck with him.”
“That’s true. It’s because I was reckless.”
“It’s because you’re obnoxious. Every partner Harry ever had put in for a transfer.”
Harry shook his head. “Wrong. Steinwank got shot.”
“Steinwank shot himself in the foot to get away from you.”
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