Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  “The big four haven’t come up yet,” Rick answered.

  Roxy, who had been worrying a hangnail, perked up. “Big four?”

  Rick turned to her. “VX gas, anthrax, smallpox, and plague. These would indicate a hostile foreign source.”

  “Or a domestic one.” I faux-smiled at the major. “Doesn’t the U.S. have smallpox in a freezer somewhere?”

  Major Murdoch gave me a look that left no doubt I hated my country, then said, “Has there been any evidence that these compounds have been weaponized, or made more lethal?”

  Rick snorted. “How can you make cyanide more lethal?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  Rick’s leg rubbed against mine under the table. I didn’t know if it was intentional or not. My heart rate bumped up a bit, but I blamed that on Roxy’s energy drink.

  “No, Major. All evidence points to a single extortionist, not a sleeper al-Qaeda cell waiting to pop out of a cake and squirt you with Variant U.”

  “What is Variant U, Mr. Reilly?”

  “It’s Special Agent Reilly. Or Dr. Reilly. Variant U is a weaponized form o. Marburg. And no, I haven’t found any evidence of that either.”

  O’Loughlin focused on me.

  “What have your teams uncovered, Lieutenant?”

  I looked at the file before me, which I hadn’t opened yet. Now seemed like a good time.

  Herb, ever the professional, had written a condensed version of what he’d discovered so far.

  “We’ve deployed eleven teams to each of the known sources of the BT outbreaks. They’ve already collected several hundred prints, hundreds of food products, have interviewed dozens of potential witnesses, and have the names and contact information for over one hundred more. Background checks are in the pro cess of being done on all known botulism victims, and the store owners and employees at each outbreak nexus.”

  Major Murdoch leafed through the folder in front of him, and I noticed it actually had Top Secret stamped in red on the front. “How about the background of that cop Alger?”

  “He’s come up clean. Two Internal Affairs inquiries. Both shootings, both times he was cleared. We’re looking at his arrest record for anyone who might have a grudge, which is just about everyone he’d arrested in thirty years on the force. The severed fingers in the refrigerator have been confirmed as belonging to Alger, and we suspect he’s been killed.”

  “Maybe he cut off his own fingers to fool us,” Roxy said.

  No one said anything, but the stares she received made her shrink down in her chair.

  “We’ve located the deli on Irving Park that the Chemist mentioned in his letter.” I thought of Latham, and my voice caught. I coughed into my hand to cover it. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit there, gathering evidence, questioning the staff. It’s going to take some time to sort through everything.”

  “We don’t have time,” the super said. “This nut wants an answer in tomorrow’s paper. To make the early edition, I need to get the personal ad in today by noon.”

  “Are we paying him?” I asked.

  “I have received authorization to meet the Chemist’s demands. It should go without saying that mum is the word on this.” The super zeroed in on me. “We can say the city is under attack, we can name the businesses that have been hit, we can tie in Alger, but no word about the extortion.”

  I mulled this over. That was probably why the city hadn’t outed the Chemist yesterday—they had been considering paying him off. If that got out, every loony with a Saturday Night Special would be moving to Chicago, trying to extort a few bucks.

  “Who’s in charge of setting the trap to catch him if we decide to pay?” I asked.

  “We are, Lieutenant. You can start figuring out how right after the press conference. Plan on it at ten a.m.”

  The super adjourned the meeting, and both Roxy and Rick stuck to my shoulders, accompanying me to my office.

  “You’re cute for a Fed,” Roxy said to him.

  “I believe that looks are superficial, and it’s what’s inside that counts.”

  Roxy batted fake eyelashes. “Are you saying you’d like to get inside of me?”

  “Sorry. I don’t date women younger than the scotch I drink.”

  Score points for Special Agent Rick.

  “You should date Jack. She’s like in her fifties.”

  And points lost for the new partner.

  “Have you ever done a press conference before, Roxy?” I asked, making my voice conversational.

  “Who? Me? No. I was on TV once, at the MTV spring break bash in Fort Lauderdale. I never saw it, though. My friends told me about it. I was pretty trashed.”

  “I think you should sit this one out.”

  “Why? Are you afraid I’ll steal your thunder?”

  “No. I’m afraid you’ll say something stupid that will get me fired.”

  Roxy tugged my elbow and stared me in the eye, petulant.

  “I’m a detective third grade. I didn’t get this promotion by giving blow jobs. I busted my ass. You, of all people, should know how hard it is for a woman to be taken seriously in this sausage fest.”

  I considered all the things I could say, about professionalism, and attitude, and image. Instead I said, “Chances are this lunatic watches the news. If we put an attractive woman up there, he could become fixated on you.”

  “Really?” Roxy grinned. “Cool.”

  “No. It’s not cool. It’s the opposite of cool.”

  “You think because I’m young I can’t handle myself?”

  “No. I think because you’re young you can’t handle yourself as well as you think you can.”

  Her grin disappeared.

  “You know, you’re an inspiration to a lot of women in the department, Jack. It’s a shame that in person you’re such a bitch.”

  I looked to Rick for support, but he’d taken an inordinate amount of interest in the bulletin board on the wall. The. I met Roxy’s glare. I wondered if I disliked her so much because she reminded me of me at that age.

  No. I would have gotten along with me just fine. This girl was a Gen-X car accident waiting to happen. But we all have to learn sometime.

  I took a deep breath. “Fine. You can do the press conference with me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious. But I’ll do most of the talking. And we need to go over everything beforehand. Rule one, think before you speak. Don’t repeat yourself or say um or uh a lot. Rule two, if you can’t answer a question, say no comment. Rule three, always appear in control. Reporters can sense fear, and they pounce on it.”

  “I can do all that. How do I look?”

  I gave her a once-over. “Do you have anything else to wear? That outfit is...cute, but it doesn’t look very professional.”

  “Let me check my locker,” she said, and hurried off down the hall.

  Rick nudged me. “Is this a good idea?”

  “We’ve all got to learn sometime.”

  “After this conference, how about lunch? I want to go over some points about the case.”

  “Lunch? I’m going to need a few drinks.”

  “We can do that. I need to check in with Washington and Quantico. I’ll probably miss the conference. Can I meet you someplace?”

  What is it about physical beauty? If Rick were average looking, I would immediately take him up on lunch. But because he was handsome, I didn’t think I should spend any time with him outside of the office. It seemed like betraying Latham, even though we might be able to make some headway on the case.

  It’s only lunch, I convinced myself.

  So I named the place and the time.

  What was the worst that could happen?

  Chapter 16

  THE CHEMIST WATCHES the press conference with a frown on his face. He hadn’t expected them to go public. Though this doesn’t alter the Plan in the least; the city has followed his trail of bread crumbs quicker than he’s expected.

  The
y aren’t showing his letters. They admitted that they did receive letters, but say they’re keeping them under wraps to rule out bogus confessions. They also neglected to mention anything about his demands. Which means they’re planning on paying him.

  This is disappointing. He expected the city to stall for at least a few days, or to take a hard-line stance and refuse to deal with terrorists. That would have given him a chance to indulge in a few more surprises before the big bang.

  Still, maybe he can fit one or two more in before crunch time.

  He sets his TiVo to record, and then wanders over to his closet to pick a disguise. He decides on business formal. A Jack Victor suit, wool, three-button, vented, dark blue with dark gray pinstripes. A white shirt. A power tie. He slicks his hair back with mousse, applies a liberal dose of Lagerfeld, and then puts on the distraction—an eye patch.

  A check in the mirror shows him to be roguish, mysterious. And all the witnesses will remember is a well-dressed man with an eye patch.

  Along with the jet injector, he brings along a tiny contact lens case, containing a few drops of extract of Tanghin. The Chemist doesn’t know if he’ll get close enough to use either, but he’s got the entire day free to try. Should be fun.

  He considers taking the bus because parking will be terrible downtown, but with all the stops the bus makes, it will take twice as long. So he risks it and takes a car, one that can’t be traced to him anyway.

  The television told him the press conference was live at the 26th District police station, and that’s where he heads. Traffic isn’t too bad for lunchtime, and he manages to snag a parking meter spot from someone pulling out, only three blocks from the precinct house. Even luckier, the meter still has an hour left on it.

  Fate apparently wants him to kill a cop today.

  He decides to leave the jet injector in the car. Getting this close to the police, he doesn’t want to be caught with it on him. That leaves only the Tanghin, but that should be more than enough.

  He walks briskly, hoping to get there before everyone has left. There are still news vans parked in front, so that’s a good sign. A hot dog vendor is set up on the corner. He approaches the forlorn figure and orders one with the works.

  “Thanks, buddy. Business has been terrible.”

  The Chemist takes a bite of the red hot, smothering his grin with pickle relish. He considers poisoning this man’s stand. It’s the perfect location for it, right outside the police station. Cops probably eat here all the time.

  Maybe later, when he comes back.

  There’s a bench on the sidewalk with a good view of the front of the station. He sits down and eats leaning forward, so nothing drips on his suit. Ten minutes pass, and he orders another dog, to the eternal gratitude of the vendor.

  “Bless you, guy. I got two kids. Wish this city wasn’t so chickenshit.”

  “You’re not worried?” asks the Chemist.

  “Hell, no. My food is fresh. No one will get sick off my dogs, that’s for sure.”

  “Didn’t you hear the latest?” The Chemist feels ripples of excitement, talking about this topic. “One man is doing all of this. They call him the Chemist.”

  “And if I ever met this Chemist, I’d bust him in the ass.”

  “What if he snuck up on you, poisoned your food while you were talking with another customer?”

  “You got a sick mind, you know that?”

  “I’ve been told.”

  The Chemist returns to his bench. After twenty minutes, he begins to wonder if he had gotten there too late and missed the mark, but like magic she walks out of the building. Alone. It’s almost a hundred yards away, but he recognizes the hair, and the gray jacket she wore on TV.

  He takes some extra napkins from the hot dog vendor. Then he trails the cop from the opposite side of the street, staying parallel to her.

  She walks two blocks, turns onto Michigan Avenue, and enters a well-known grill pub, a chain place where kitschy things are stuck to the walls and the bartenders dress in sports jerseys. If it’s like the others of its ilk, the interior will be crowded, smoky, with low lighting. Which is perfect.

  Traffic is against him, so he has to wait for the light to change before he can cross the street. When he walks into the restaurant, it’s exactly as he expected. The cheerful hostess tells him it will be a half-hour wait for a table. He declines, heading for the bar.

  The bar is packed too, but he sees the cop standing between several men, trying to get the bartender’s attention.

  He moves in closer, getting to within a few feet. Up close, she seems smaller, less substantial, than she appeared on tele vision.

  “Dirty martini, up,” she orders.

  My, my, my. Our city’s finest, drinking while on the clock. Still, who can blame her? It’s been a tough morning.

  A stool opens up, and she goes to it, and then does something that proves to th. Chemist that fate is truly on his side: She takes off her gray jacket, places it over the stool, and asks the bartender where the ladies’ room is.

  He points over his shoulder, and she heads in that direction. A moment later, the bartender sets down her drink by her stool.

  The Chemist doesn’t hesitate. He opens the lens case, palms it in his right hand, and approaches the bar. With his left hand he reaches over, snagging some cocktail napkins from the bartender’s side of the bar, and with his right he dumps the toxin into the drink.

  Now it’s a really dirty martini, he muses.

  He shoves the napkins into his pocket, backs away from the bar, and finds a vantage point from several yards away. No one gives him a second glance.

  A few minutes later she returns from the bathroom and sits atop her jacket. Grabbing the martini in one quick motion she brings it up to her lips—

  —and drinks the whole thing.

  He ticks off the seconds in his head.

  One...

  Two...

  Three...

  Four...

  Five...

  She touches her head.

  Six...

  Seven...

  She wobbles slightly on the bar stool.

  Eight...

  Nine...

  She rubs her eyes, then stands up.

  Ten...

  Eleven...

  He cranes his neck up for a better look.

  Twelve...

  Thirteen...

  She’s bent over now, a line of drool escaping her mouth. It’s followed by a flood of vomit.

  Too late. Vomiting won’t help.

  At fourteen seconds, she falls over.

  People give her a wide berth. Several say the word drunk.

  It takes almost thirty seconds for an employee to approach and kneel next to her.

  “Call an ambulance!” he yells. “She’s not breathing!”

  Of course she’s not breathing. She’s dead.

  As the curious gather, he slips out the door, calm and casual. He has no doubt that several people are now frantically dialing 911. But according to statistics, a 911 response will take a minimum of ten minutes. Chances are it will take much longer. He knows this from experience. There is zero chance she’ll be revived.

  The Chemist uses the napkins to wipe out the contact lens case, then deposits them into a garbage can. It’s a gloriously lovely day, and he takes off his blazer and uses one hand to carry it over his shoulder, Frank Sinatra style. Someone is bound to recognize the cop shortly. And when they do, it’s going to be a media frenzy. He wants to be home in time to see it, but TiVo is taking care of that for him, and it has been so long since he’s actually enjoyed a walk downtown.

  In fact, it’s been a while since he’s actually enjoyed anything. A long while. Six years, three months, and thirteen days.

  Revenge is a dish best served cold.

  He considers heading to the lakefront, or walking through Grant Park. Then he remembers walking through the park with Tracey, and a foul mood overtakes him.

  Who could have ever known tha
t wonderful memories would someday prove painful?

  He heads back to the car and climbs in, considering his next move. The satisfaction of watching the cop die is gone, replaced by a cold, dead feeling.

  He wonders if this is why people become killers. That emptiness deep down that nothing—not drinking, not drugs, not therapy, not sex—can fill. Perhaps some people are born like that. Soulless. That’s how he feels most of the time.

  Before, he was a normal guy. Decent friends. Decent job. A hardworking, tax-paying, red-blooded American who voted for the current mayor because he promised to be tougher on crime.

  It seems like it was someone else’s life. But it wasn’t. It was his.

  And now, there’s only cold.

  He thinks about the hot dog stand, and that warms him a bit.

  The Chemist snakes the jet injector tube up his sleeve and arms the spring. He’s wrestling to put on his blazer in the cramped front seat when he hears a car horn, right next to him.

  Startled, he looks up.

  A man in a rusty, older model Chevy stares at him, the rage on his face an indicator he’s been waiting there for a while.

  The Chemist shrugs at him and shakes his head, indicating he isn’t moving.

  The man honks again.

  “I’m staying,” he says.

  The man leans on the horn now, screaming, “Move your car!”

  The Chemist ignores him, pockets the jet injector, and exits the vehicle. Some people just don’t take a hint. He’s actually doing this city a favor, reducing the population of idiots like—

  “Hey, asshole! I’ve been waiting five fucking minutes for that space!”

  The man has an unkempt beard and crazy eyes. In the passenger seat is an equally unkempt woman, obviously seething.

  The Chemist shrugs. “This is my spot. Find another one.”

  “We’re fucking late for court and we need that fucking space!”

  No surprise there. The Chemist wondered what white-trash crime these two had committed. Set fire to their trailer to get the hundred dollars in insurance money? Or maybe sex with some sort of animal? His wife was so ugly, she’d qualify. He smiles at the thought.

  And then the bearded guy is out of his car, walking right at him.