Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  I hesitated, keeping one eye on the dog, which was the size of a small bear.

  “Jeanna Davidson, arson investigator. Don’t mind Kevlar. He’s a sweetheart.”

  The sweetheart yawned, showing me enough teeth to swallow a Volkswagen. I shook Jeanna’s hand slowly, to avoid getting mauled.

  “I’m guessing this was arson.”

  Jeanna nodded. “Kevlar sniffed out the accelerant. Burn pattern suggests gasoline. Were you the one we rescued?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for that. Do you mind if I poke around inside?”

  “Sure. Structure’s stable. Want a tour?”

  “If it’s okay with Kevlar.”

  We went around back and Jeanna walked up the porch. The rear entry had a makeshift door nailed to it, with a standard latch and padlock. Jeanna opened it and switched on a Maglite.

  Unlike the exterior, the inside was an unholy mess. What wasn’t burned black had been soaked with water. Gray puddles (closer to Magnesium than Titanium Pearl) spread across the kitchen floor, each pool several inches deep. Jeanna led me into the dining room, and I knelt in the doorway and searched the charred floor.

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “Bullet casings. Someone shot at me from here.”

  “Do you have any bullets on you?”

  “In my gun.”

  “Show one to Kevlar.”

  I unholstered my .38 and removed a round, passing it over to Jeanna. She held it before the dog’s nose.

  “Kevlar, scent.”

  The German shepherd sniffed the bullet, which easily could have fit into one of his huge nostrils.

  “Kevlar, find.”

  She unclipped his leash and the dog shuffled off, snorting here and there.

  “Kevlar is one of four dogs in the state’s canine arson unit. I’ve been handling him since he was a puppy.”

  Jeanna spoke with the inflection of a proud mother. Since she was helping me, I made with the small talk.

  “How long have you worked for the Office of the State Fire Marshal?”

  “Seven years. I bring Kev in on maybe thirty investigations a year.”

  “Are there many deliberate cases?”

  “Last year the office investigated over a thousand. About four hundred confirmed arson. Usually we don’t need the dogs—the signs are obvious, like in here. See how this patch of carpet burned away hotter than that patch? Gas spill.”

  “So why bring Kevlar along if you already know it’s arson?”

  “He hates being left out.”

  Kevlar whined, and Jeanna focused the flashlight on the floor in front of him. I gave the dog a pat on the head and found what he’d been sniffing: a shell casing.

  “Good boy, Kevlar.”

  Jeanna hugged the bear, and I dug a plastic bag from my jeans and coaxed in the cartridge.

  “There might be others,” I said. “Do you mind if I borrow the flashlight?”

  Jeanna handed it over and pulled a smaller, slimmer model out of her jacket. Then she commanded the dog to find more bullets. Useful dog. Much more useful than a cat.

  I wandered back into the kitchen, tripping over the curtains that had almost been my shroud the night before. I played the Maglite over the entire room. Nothing jumped out at me.

  I crept into the living room, and then the dining room, my Nikes quickly becoming waterlogged. The house had gone from Dante’s Inferno to the Addams family, dark and damp and creepy, filled with long shadows and unpleasant odors. Near the wall in the dining room stood a strange-looking pile, and I nudged it with a wet toe and saw part of a handle.

  A suitcase.

  I squatted and picked through the cinders. Everything was burned pretty good, but two things stood out. The first was a five-inch flat wire, curved into a half-moon shape. The second was a congealed knot that I recognized immediately by its distinctive smell.

  Human hair.

  “Did you find something?”

  “Maybe. Can you check the cabinets in the kitchen, see if any garbage bags survived the fire?”

  “Sure. Watch Kevlar for me.”

  More poking produced nothing but ash and melted globs. I’d take it back for the lab guys to interpret.

  Jeanna found a bag, Kevlar didn’t find any more shells, and I spent another half an hour bumping around in the dark before calling it quits and heading out into the fresh air.

  I placed the wet bag in my trunk and called Mason.

  “How’s the search for the car going?”

  “Narrowed it down to six gray Mitsubishi Eclipses with Illinois plates beginning with D one. Ran priors on five of the registered owners, came up clean except for traffic violations.”

  “Send out some squads to visually check the cars for missing mirrors. What about the sixth?”

  “Owned by a car rental place.”

  She gave me the address, on Irving Park. It wasn’t too far, so I decided to check it out.

  The office was typical for Chicago; a tiny building next to a cramped parking lot crammed with vehicles. The lobby was the size of my closet. A stained coffeemaker with a quarter-full carafe sat next to the unoccupied counter. A floor plant, brown and shriveled up, sat in an oversized plastic pot, next to a magazine rack that contained a single copy of Car and Driver and nothing else. I rang the bell.

  “Just a second.”

  He took his time. I stared at the coffee, cooking away on the warmer, probably since the morning. Against my better judgment I poured myself a Styrofoam cupful. It had the consistency of mud, which was pretty much how it tasted.

  Should have trusted my better judgment.

  I dumped it on the dead plant. Probably wasn’t the first to do it. Probably was the reason the plant had died.

  “Help you?”

  The guy was older, several days’ growth of beard on his face, grease embedded in his wrinkles and fingernails. He wore equally stained overalls, and a sewn-on name tag that said Al.

  I flashed my star.

  “Have you rented out a gray Mitsubishi Eclipse lately?”

  He stared, then shook his head.

  “Nope.” Then he said, “I did rent out a Titanium Pearl Eclipse, though.”

  I bit back my first response.

  “We have reason to believe it was involved in an accident. Can you show me who rented it?”

  “Lemme get the book.”

  Al plodded off, and eventually plodded back, nose pressed into a cracked binder. This time he had on a pair of bifocals thicker than ice cubes.

  “Rented it out last week to a fella named Mayer. Mike Mayer.”

  “You get a copy of his driver’s license?”

  He handed me the book. “That’s the law, ain’t it?”

  I checked out the info on Mr. Mayer. White, thirty-seven years old, had an Indiana license that said he lived in Indianapolis. The car was rented for the next two weeks. There wasn’t a credit card receipt. I wondered why.

  “Paid cash. I’ve got the card number, though. In case of damage.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Al frowned, and disappeared again. I spent the time counting the cigarette butts in the dead plant. Nine, plus a cigar stub, a lottery ticket, and something that looked like a Tootsie Roll. I hoped it was a Tootsie Roll.

  “We keep the card numbers on file in here.” He set a metal lock box down on the counter and fumbled with the combination.

  Three eternities later, squinting through his glasses, Al had found the slip.

  “Were you here when Mr. Mayer rented the car?”

  “I’m the only one works the counter.”

  “A testament to your efficiency. Can you describe Mr. Mayer?”

  “Looked like his driver’s license picture, I reckon.”

  “I’d like to hear it from your own mouth.”

  “Thin. My height. Blond beard. Sunglasses, those kind that look like mirrors. Curly hair.”

  He sounded like a dead ringer for the guy who dropped off the videotape
at the station. I had a Xerox in the car, and asked Al to wait for a moment. He grunted.

  When I returned with the picture, Al was gone. I rang the bell. He took his time.

  “Busy day,” he said. “Lots of work.”

  I made a show of looking around. “Yeah. They’re lining up out the door for rentals.”

  “Rentals are just a side business. We’re part of Manny’s Car Repair Shop. Mostly use the rentals for loaners. Insurance reimburses us.”

  “Is Mr. Mayer getting his car repaired here?”

  “Nope. Just the rental.”

  “Do you get a lot of people who rent cars without leaving one to be fixed?”

  “Some. Not a lot.”

  I handed Al a copy of the Identikit picture, the one that looked like the Unabomber.

  “Looks like the Unabomber,” Al said.

  “Is that Mr. Mayer?”

  “I thought Ted Kaczynski was the Unabomber.”

  He had to be putting me on. No one was this slow outside of HEE HAW.

  “Does this resemble Mr. Mayer?”

  He squinted. “Yeah. Could be.”

  “Anything else you remember about Mr. Mayer?”

  “He had a cold. Talked quiet. Did some coughing.”

  I thought about it. I could have called in a Crime Scene Unit, dusted the place, but a hundred people have probably left their prints in the last week.

  “I’ll need copies of all these papers.”

  Al grunted. “I figured.”

  While Sling Blade loped off to figure out the copy machine, I called Mason back and gave her Mayer’s info. She put me on hold and called Indianapolis PD.

  Mason got back to me before Al did.

  “No record. Guy’s clean.”

  “How about the phone number he left?”

  “Disconnected. Didn’t pay his bill.”

  I waited another five minutes, and Al finally returned with my copies. I gave him my card.

  “Thanks. When Mr. Mayer comes back, please try to detain him and give me a call.”

  “Detain him how? Like tie him up?”

  “Tell him there was a problem with his credit card. Then call me.”

  “Might not stop in. Might just park the car in the lot and drop the keys in the slot.”

  “If he does that, call me as well.”

  “Might drop it off when I’m not here.”

  “You said you’re always here.”

  “Might get sick.”

  “Do you get sick a lot, Al?”

  “Might have caught Mr. Mayer’s cold.”

  I drilled Al with a cop stare.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Al?”

  He smiled, revealing three missing teeth. “Gotta have fun where you can get it, Lieutenant.”

  After leaving Al, I really needed a beer.

  And I knew just the place to get one.

  Chapter 17

  ALEX OPENS THE bottled water, takes a greedy sip, then pours some on the pliers. The handles are supposed to have no-slip grips, but Alex’s gloved hands have already slipped off them half a dozen times.

  It’s hard. Much harder than expected.

  “Want some water? I’ve got an extra bottle.”

  No answer.

  Alex takes another deep gulp, picks up the pliers, and gets back to work.

  Again, it’s a strain. Teeth clenching. Muscles bunching. But Alex manages to pull an unbroken fifteen-inch strip of skin from Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s bare chest. The longest one yet.

  Mulrooney screams his approval.

  Almost done with the front, Alex thinks. Have to start on the back next.

  Lots of skin there.

  Chapter 18

  BEFORE I ALLOWED myself any alcohol, I dropped off the bag and the shell casing at the Illinois Forensic Science Center. It used to be called the Chicago Crime Lab, up until it merged with the Staties in ’96. One of the officers who worked there, Scott Hajek, had helped me on a few cases, and promised he’d do a rush job on the ballistics and burn analysis.

  A rush job meant at least a week. More than enough time to have a beer.

  Joe’s Pool Hall was kitty-corner to my apartment in Wrigleyville. The after-work crowd hadn’t converged yet, and I managed to snag a table near the rear and a cue that still had a tip.

  I drank a Sam Adams and settled in, running a rack and trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. I had a lot on my mind, plus shooting stick with a burned hand threw me off my game.

  A waitress brought me another beer, and when I pulled out a buck to tip her, I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

  “Asshole customer,” she said without me asking.

  I tipped her an extra buck.

  Halfway through the next set, a guy I knew came over and stood by the table, watching.

  “Came to watch a pro?” I asked.

  “No. Came to watch you.”

  His name was Phineas Troutt. Younger than me by a decade. Blue eyes set in a hard face. Tall, with the type of muscles one got from working rather than working out. Last I’d seen him, he was bald from the chemotherapy. I took the blond fuzz growing on his head to be a good sign.

  I ran the table, Phin racked the next set, and we lagged for the break. He won.

  “Hair looks nice.” Phin executed a sledgehammer break that sunk two solids and a stripe. He chose solids.

  “Thanks. It’s the shampoo. You should pick some up.”

  He touched his head.

  “Maybe when it grows out a little more.”

  “It’s called Vertex. Only seventy bucks a bottle.”

  “How big is the bottle? Two gallons?” “Thirty-two ounces.”

  Phin grinned. “For seventy bucks, it should clean my hair and then straighten up my apartment and make me dinner.”

  He pocketed the four ball. I took a pull from my Sammy and scanned the bar for the server. She was two tables over, her face shiny with tears. She tried to move forward, but the man standing next to her moved his body in her path, not letting her pass. The man was grinning.

  “Excuse me a second,” I told Phin. As I approached I heard the waitress saying, “Stop it, stop it,” as the guy pawed at her.

  “There a problem?” I used my best commanding tone, the one that scared suspects into confessing to crimes they didn’t commit.

  The man was young, early twenties, dressed in a golf shirt, shorts, and flipflops. He looked like he just came from the beach, though I couldn’t imagine which one, it being April.

  “This is a private conversation, skank.”

  He said it with a dismissive sneer, and then turned back to the waitress.

  “Are you okay?” I asked her.

  “She’s fine. Mind your own damn business, bitch.”

  With my left hand, I liberated my badge case from my back pocket. With my right hand, I set the tip of the pool cue down on his bare big toe and leaned on it.

  He yelped, jerking his chin left to face me, the perfect picture of fury and pain.

  Some of the fury disappeared when he saw my star. But the pain stayed.

  “Kind of early in the season for flip-flops, don’t you think so, Romeo?”

  I leaned harder on the stick. He squealed.

  “Let me see some ID.”

  I put my badge away and took the wallet he eagerly offered. I gave his license a quick glance.

  “Okay, Carl Johnson, here’s how I see it. Threatening a police officer is a felony. Plus, it pisses me off.”

  I twisted the cue to indicate my displeasure.

  “Shit! You’re hurting me.”

  “Oh, don’t be a baby, Carl. I’m not even pushing hard. See how much worse it could get?”

  I put some serious weight on the cue, for just a second, and he screamed like I was killing him. Now he had a teary face too, to match the one he gave the waitress.

  “Here’s the deal, Carl. This is my bar. I never want to see you in here again. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  “An
d this lady is a personal friend of mine. If she tells me you’ve been bothering her, I’m going to pay a visit to 3355 Summit Lane and break both of your knees because you resisted arrest. Are we clear?”

  I twisted hard. He moaned, “Yes.”

  “Now tip your waitress and leave.”

  Carl pulled out a twenty and handed it to the girl, his hand shaking. I lifted the pool cue and he ran out of there as fast as he could, bumping several customers on the way.

  The waitress grasped my hands.

  “Thanks so much. He’s been coming in here for a month, making comments, pinching my ass, not leaving me alone.”

  I gave her a card. “I don’t think he’ll come back. Call me if he does.”

  “Thanks. Really.”

  I smiled. “When you’ve got a chance, we need two beers.”

  “You got it. Thanks so much.”

  When I came back to the table, Phin was racking the balls. “What happened to the last game?” I asked.

  “I won. You owe me a beer. You better take this next break, or you might not have a chance to play.”

  I managed to sink a stripe on the break, and the waitress brought beer for me and Phin.

  “On me,” she told us.

  Being a hero had its perks.

  We played for two hours, Phin beating me five games to one. I blamed the losses on my burned hand, though the beer went a long way to easing the pain.

  I met Phin several years ago, before he had cancer. It was an odd friendship, because I was a cop, and Phin was a criminal, though I wasn’t entirely clear on what kind of criminal he was. I think he operated as some kind of unlicensed private investigator, and considered laws optional.

  Thinking of private eyes made me think of Harry, and the wedding rehearsal. McGlade had told me to bring a date, and I got the impression if I showed up solo our deal would be off and my fat alter ego would continue to embarrass the CPD on a new season of Fatal Autonomy.

  I wasn’t the type to call in markers, but desperate times and all that. Occasionally, Phin called me up, needing some bit of info that only cops were privy to, such as a plate trace or a criminal record search. Occasionally, I helped him. That put the karma debt in his corner.

  “I need a favor,” I said to Phin when he came back from the bathroom. “What are you doing on Saturday?”

  “Apparently, I’m doing you a favor.”