Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “Why would you think I was depressed?”

  He shrugged, almost imperceptibly. Much of Alan’s emotional range was imperceptible.

  “Your mother seems to think you need someone now.”

  “So you came running to the rescue? Isn’t that odd, considering the last time I needed someone, you fled like a thief in the night.”

  He smiled.

  “I didn’t leave like a thief in the night.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I left in the mid-afternoon, and I didn’t take a single thing with me.”

  “You took my jacket.”

  “What jacket?”

  “The one you’re wearing right now.”

  “This is my jacket.”

  “I’m the one who wore it all the time.”

  “Why don’t we fight about it over breakfast?”

  “I don’t want breakfast.”

  “You need to eat.”

  “How do you know what I need?”

  Alan walked past me, and I wondered if I hit a nerve. I followed him into the kitchen.

  “I said, how do you know what I need?”

  “I heard you.”

  He found a mug, poured some coffee, and handed it to me.

  “I don’t want coffee.”

  “Yes you do. You’re always pissy until you have your first cup of coffee.”

  I whined, “I am not pissy.”

  Alan started to laugh, and I had to bite my lower lip to keep from grinning.

  “Fine. Gimmee the coffee.”

  He gimmeed, and I took a sip, surprised at how good it tasted.

  “If you don’t want to go out, I can cook.” Alan opened the fridge and pulled out a single egg. “It’s your last one. We can split it.”

  “I’d like my half sunny-side up.”

  I sat at my dinette set and watched Alan search for a frying pan. It brought back memories. Fond ones. Alan made breakfast almost every morning, during the years we’d been married.

  Having found the pan, Alan searched the fridge again.

  “No butter?”

  “I haven’t been to the store in a while.”

  “I can tell. What’s this, a lime or a potato?” He held out a greenish brown thing.

  “I think it’s a tomato.”

  “There’s something growing on it.”

  “Save it. I may need it if I ever get a staph infection.”

  He tossed the tomato in the garbage, and found two red potatoes, half a green onion, and half a bottle of chardonnay. From the freezer he took a bag of mixed vegetables and a pound of bacon. Then he went through my cabinets, liberating some olive oil, several spices, and a jar of salsa.

  “This doesn’t seem like an appetizing combination of food items.”

  He winked. “I’ve got to work with what I’ve got.”

  I sipped my coffee and watched him for the twenty minutes it took to microwave, peel, and dice the potatoes, fry the bacon, and sauté the veggies, chopped onion, salsa, and assorted spices in olive oil and white wine. He added the potatoes and bacon, stirred like mad, and then dumped the contents onto two plates.

  “Hash à la Daniels.” He set the plate in front of me.

  “Smells good.”

  “If it’s lousy, there’s always pizza. Hold on.”

  The egg was still frying on the stove. He slid it out of the pan, sunny-side up, onto my pile of hash.

  “Bon appétit.”

  I took a bite, and that led to two and three, and pretty soon I was shoveling it down my throat conveyor-belt fashion.

  We didn’t speak during breakfast, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

  When I scooped the last bite into my mouth, Alan whisked away my plate and refilled my coffee.

  “Still angry?” Alan asked.

  “A little. I thought we had an unspoken understanding all these years.”

  “Which was?”

  “You don’t call me, I don’t call you.”

  He nodded, putting his plate into the dishwasher.

  “I never called you, Jack, because I knew it would hurt.”

  “You didn’t seem to mind hurting me when you left.”

  “I wasn’t referring to you in this case.”

  “You’re saying it would have hurt you to call me?”

  “Yes.”

  What could I say to that? I chose, “Oh.”

  Alan closed the dishwasher, then sat across from me, leaning in.

  “So, how are you?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “I know you’re not fine, Jack.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Still have the insomnia?”

  I looked away. “Yeah.”

  “You feel guilty about that cop’s wife.”

  “Not really. IA cleared me on the shooting. It was completely by-the-book.”

  “By-the-book isn’t enough for you. You have to be perfect, or you can’t live with yourself.”

  I felt the armor I’d built up over the last decade begin to flake away. I needed to hate Alan. That’s how I got through it.

  “You don’t know me like you think you do.”

  He shifted back in his chair, giving me room to breathe.

  “How’s the injury?”

  “Almost healed, thank God. Latham has been more than patient.”

  “Latham?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  I stared hard at Alan, but he didn’t react. I don’t know why that disappointed me.

  “That’s probably why you think I’m not fine. I just need to get laid.”

  “That did make you cranky. Remember that time I threw out my back?”

  I grinned. “The three worst weeks of our marriage. Productive, though. I doubled my arrest record during that time.”

  “Remember when I was finally healed?”

  “Yeah. We made up for lost time, didn’t we?”

  “Sure did. And I threw out my back again.”

  We both laughed, and I wondered how he turned the conversation away from Latham so quickly.

  “I love him. Latham, I mean.”

  Alan stood up and walked over to me.

  “That’s nice. You deserve it.”

  “He’s wonderful. You’d like him.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder.

  “I hope I get a chance to meet him.”

  He leaned down, getting in my personal space.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do you think there could ever be an ‘us’ again?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Prove it to me.”

  “How?”

  “Kiss me.”

  “No. You don’t have that right.”

  “I made a mistake, leaving. I want to make it up to you. But I need to know if your feelings are still there.”

  “Alan . . .”

  “I still love you, Jack. I always have. I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because I couldn’t compete with your job. It took everything you had, and there was nothing left for me. Plus, the constant worrying you wouldn’t come home.”

  “Nothing has changed, Alan.”

  “I’ve changed. I can handle it now. And seeing you again . . .”

  I said, “Don’t,” but his lips met mine, and I didn’t stop it, I didn’t pull away, and all of our history came rushing back, all of the good times, and I closed my eyes and let my tongue find his and spent a moment wondering what might have been.

  Then I found my center and pushed him gently away.

  “I’m in love with another man.”

  “I know.”

  I traced my fingers along his jaw.

  “You hurt me, Alan.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to do this.”

  But when he kissed me again, I knew that I did.

  CHAPTER 24

  I didn’t sleep with him, but felt so damn guilty I might as well have.

  After the kissing beca
me light petting, I excused myself to check on Mom.

  Mom was snoring peacefully, with a silly smile on her face. I wasn’t stupid. Bringing Alan here was part of some grand plan of hers, and for all she knew, it was working out fine.

  For all I knew, she was right.

  I dragged my tired bones into the shower, a cold one, and dressed in the most unattractive outfit I had: one of Latham’s ratty football jerseys and an old pair of size ten jeans (after Alan left I briefly went from an eight to a ten, having traded the comfort of a husband for the comfort of pie).

  I was searching through my closet for my ugliest pair of shoes, when I heard the screaming.

  Alan.

  My gun was in the bedside nightstand, and I grabbed it and ran into the living room. Alan was writhing on the sofa, Mr. Friskers trying to gnaw off his ear.

  I realized I was pointing my gun, relaxed my death grip and set it on the table, and then tried to goad the cat off my ex-husband.

  “Bad kitty. Let go of his ear.”

  I tugged. Alan screamed.

  “Careful, Jack! He’s clamped down on cartilage!”

  “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

  “Hurry! He’s chewing!”

  I found the catnip mouse under the sofa, and shoved it under Mr. Friskers’s nose.

  “Easy, cat. Let him go. Let him go.”

  The cat went limp, and I pulled him away from Alan and set him on the floor.

  “I was just sitting there, and he attacked me. How bad am I bleeding?”

  “Bad.”

  “Stitches-bad?”

  “You’re missing about half your ear.”

  Alan spun around, alarmed.

  “Really?”

  “Maybe we can pump the cat’s stomach.” I kept my voice neutral. “We might be able to sew it back on.”

  He figured out I was joshing him and threw a sofa cushion at me.

  I went to the kitchen and pulled a bunch of paper towels off the roll. Since acquiring Mr. Friskers, I always made sure I had an ample supply.

  “It hurts.” Alan had a hand clamped to his ear. He frowned, petulant.

  “Oh, quit being a baby. It’s nothing.”

  “Easy for you to say. For the rest of my life, my sunglasses will be crooked.”

  “You’ll be fine. If you want, I’ll let you borrow some of my earrings.” I dabbed at the blood. “You have enough holes for six or seven.”

  “Funny. What’s wrong with that cat, anyway?”

  “I haven’t been able to figure that out yet. Hold this, here, while I get the rubbing alcohol.”

  Alan moaned, and I went off in search of supplies.

  A liberal splash of Bactine knocked the ardor out of Alan, and he didn’t make another pass at me during the time it took to bandage his ear. I silently thanked Mr. Friskers for the reprieve.

  I suggested watching a movie until my mom woke up, and offered Alan a choice of Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Royal Wedding, the only two videos I owned. While we debated the various merits of each, the phone rang.

  “Jack? Herb. How you feeling?”

  “Better,” I said. And I was. “Calling to check on me?”

  “No. We, uh, need you at the office.”

  “I thought I was still on medical leave.”

  “The leave has been canceled. Direct order from Captain Bains, we need you here yesterday.”

  “What’s this about, Herb?”

  “It’s Fuller.”

  “Gimme twenty minutes.”

  Alan stared at me. I realized this was a micro-encapsulation of our marriage—me getting a phone call and then running to work.

  But we weren’t married anymore, so I had nothing to feel guilty about.

  “There’s an extra set of keys in the little ceramic frog on top of the refrigerator,” I told him. “Tell Mom she can reach me on my cell.”

  I tiptoed into the bedroom and changed into a pantsuit without waking my mother. Rather than fuss with my hair, I tied it back in a short ponytail. I spent all of two minutes on my face, not bothering with foundation or eyeliner.

  Alan was sitting on the sofa, facing a TV that wasn’t on. I picked up my gun from the table and put it in my holster.

  “Be careful.” He didn’t turn his head to look at me.

  “Will you be here when I get back?”

  He met my eyes and cocked his head slightly to the left, as if appraising me.

  “I’ve got a room at the Raphael for a week. I figured I’d look up some friends, visit a few old haunts.”

  I felt something that I realized was relief.

  “I’ll see you soon, then.”

  “Dinner tonight?”

  “It might be late.”

  “I’m used to waiting up for you.”

  I nodded, grabbed my London Fog trench coat, and left the apartment.

  Chicago smelled like fall, which is to say the garbage and exhaust fume stench carried a hint of dying leaves. The Windy City was suitably windy, temperature in the mid-fifties, the sidewalks damp from a recent rain.

  There was a powwow waiting for me in my office when I got to the station. Benedict, who was wearing the new Brooks Brothers suit he bought himself as a reward for losing twenty pounds, our boss Captain Bains, and Assistant State’s Attorney Libby Fischer.

  Stephen Bains had been captain of the 2-6 for as long as anyone could remember. He was short, portly, and balding. He combated the latter with a hair weave, which looked realistic except for the fact that it lacked gray, whereas his mustache was practically white.

  Libby Fischer was around my age, and a clotheshorse. She wore a beige Gaultier top with a matching knee-length skirt that probably cost more than I made in a month. A white pearl choker, red Kenneth Cole pumps, and a small red Louis Vuitton bag rounded out her ensemble.

  Libby smiled a lot. If I had her wardrobe, I would have too.

  “How’s the stomach?”

  That was as close to a pleasantry as Bains would get.

  “Better,” I answered. “I think I’ll be—”

  “We’re going to lose the Fuller case,” Libby interrupted. She smiled sweetly.

  I didn’t try to hide my surprise.

  “How the hell can that be? Is something inadmissible?”

  “No. The case is solid. It’s that brain tumor, floating in a glass jar, labeled exhibit A.”

  Bains frowned. “As you’re aware, Fuller has been claiming amnesia since recovering from surgery. He says he has no memory of any murders.”

  Libby stood up and went to the window. “And so far, our shrinks haven’t been able to crack him.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Fuller’s blaming the murders on his brain tumor?”

  Libby continued to stare out the captain’s window. “He’s doing just that. It was on his frontal lobe, the brain’s behavior center. It controls emotion, personality, and understanding of right and wrong. Expert shrinks are falling all over themselves eager to explain to a jury how a tumor can radically alter someone’s personality. Fuller’s lawyers are going for the first ever insanity defense based on physical evidence.”

  My anger level continued to build. “If he’s declared insane, he still gets locked up, right?”

  “Wrong. If they prove he was insane at the time of his crimes, and the insanity was caused by the tumor, he’s a free man. No more tumor, no more insanity. The bastard walks.”

  “Jesus.”

  Bains stared at me, hard.

  “Are you one hundred percent, Jack?”

  I didn’t feel one hundred percent, but I sensed something coming. I nodded.

  “Good,” Bains continued. “I want you to talk to him.”

  “To Fuller? Why?”

  “A confession would be nice. But I’ll settle for your impression of whether he’s bullshitting or not.”

  “If he’s faking, we can plan a better attack,” Libby said.

  “Do we suspect he’s faking?”

  “It would be nic
e if he was,” Libby sat back down, “but we just don’t know. He’s been interviewed by over a dozen people: shrinks, lawyers, cops, doctors. So far he’s unimpeachable.”

  “Has he taken a lie detector?”

  “One. Theirs. And he passed with flying colors. He’s got another scheduled tomorrow, with one of our examiners.”

  After a moment, I asked, “Why me?” My job was to arrest criminals. Other people were much more qualified to do follow-up interviews.

  Bains scratched his weave. “You worked with him for several years. You know him. You’re biased to our side, so you’ll try to see through the lies. I don’t have to tell you what a media circus this case has become.”

  “I’m not a professional interrogator, Captain. I don’t want to see him back on the streets, but I don’t think—”

  “There’s something else, Jack.”

  “What?”

  Bains caught me in his iron gaze. “Fuller asked for you. Specifically.”

  “For me? Why?”

  Libby leaned in close, like we were best friends sharing a secret.

  “We don’t know. He hasn’t given anyone a reason. But since his capture, he’s inquired about you many times. His counsel has advised him to not talk to us, and lately he’s been a clam. But Fuller agreed to an interview, and he’ll even do it without his attorneys present, but only with you. Of course, his statements won’t be admissible as evidence, so if he says anything we’ll have to introduce it through your testimony.”

  I replayed the scene in my head again. Kicking in the door. Telling Fuller to let his wife go. The bullets erupting from Holly’s stomach, drilling into mine.

  “I’d be happy to take a crack at him.”

  “He’s at Cook County. You’ll meet with him in a private visiting booth. Alone. Plexiglas wall between you. You know the setup.”

  “Will I be wired?”

  Libby placed her palms on her thighs and smoothed out the Gaultier. “We all know that it’s illegal to record someone without their consent. It would be inadmissible as evidence. As an officer of the court, I can’t be privy to any knowledge of criminal activity, and if I heard of any I’d report it immediately. On a completely unrelated note, I was reviewing some old case histories and came across some interesting legal terms. One is called recollection refresh, and the other is transcript for impeachment.”

  Libby then spent five minutes explaining how an illegal tape recording could be used in a trial.

  When she finished, Bains said, “I’d like to go on record to say there will be no illegal taping of any suspects in my district. Especially with this voice-activated tape recorder.”