65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  Introduction

  Jack and Friends

  On The Rocks

  Whelp Wanted

  Street Music

  The One That Got Away

  With a Twist

  Epitaph

  Taken to the Cleaners

  Body Shots

  Suffer

  Overproof

  Bereavement

  Pot Shot

  Last Request

  Planter's Punch, by J.A. Konrath and Tom Schreck

  Truck Stop

  Crime Stories

  The Big Guys

  The Agreement

  A Fistful of Cozy

  Cleansing

  Lying Eyes

  Perfect Plan

  Piece Of Cake

  Animal Attraction

  Urgent Reply Needed

  Blaine's Deal

  The Confession

  Horror Stories

  Finicky Eater

  The Screaming

  Mr. Pull-Ups

  The Shed

  Them's Good Eats

  First Time

  Forgiveness

  Redux

  The Bag

  Careful, He Bites

  Symbios

  A Matter of Taste

  Embrace

  Trailer Sucks

  Markey

  Punishment Room

  S.A.

  Serial, by Blake Crouch and Jack Kilborn

  Dear Diary

  The Eagle

  A Sound of Blunder

  Funny Stuff

  Light Drizzle

  Mr. Spaceman

  Don't Press That Button!: A Practical Buyer's Guide to James Bond's Gadgets

  Piranha Pool

  Well Balanced Meal

  A Newbie's Guide to Thrillerfest

  Inspector Oxnard

  Appalachian Lullaby

  ONE NIgHT ONLy

  Treatment

  An Archaeologist's Story

  Could Stephanie Plum Really Get Car Insurance?

  Cozy or Hardboiled? How to Tell the Difference

  Addiction

  Weigh to Go: A Personal Essay on Health Clubs

  Cub Scout Gore Feast, A Bonus Short Story by J.A. Konrath and Jeff Strand

  Hint Fiction

  The Days

  Exclusive Ebooks by JA Konrath

  I’ve been writing stories for as long as I’ve been able to hold a pen.

  I love writing.

  My love of writing stems from a love of reading, and my favorite things to read have always been short stories. Maybe because they don’t demand a hefty time commitment. Maybe because, like a buffet, they offer variety and allow you to sample new things. Or maybe because some of the greatest ideas are best presented in 5000 words or less.

  In my younger days I’d devour Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, visit the library to check out Alfred Hitchcock anthologies, and buy Charles Grant’s Shadows anthologies and Year’s Best Horror Stories paperbacks. I discovered many new writers by reading shorts, including Anthony Boucher, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, Lawrence Block, Richard Matheson, Woody Allen, Bill Pronzini, Dave Barry, and John D. MacDonald, masters all.

  I learned my craft by studying and imitating these authors, and did so much writing as a kid that my parents bought me a word processor as a birthday gift.

  By the time I was out of college I had written over two hundred short stories, and deemed myself ready to write a novel.

  From that moment until my first sale took twelve years.

  Whiskey Sour, my debut Jack Daniels novel, was published in 2003. I’ve done six more books in the series since then (Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Dirty Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, and Shaken.)

  Though Whiskey Sour was the first thing I ever sold, it was actually my tenth book. The previous nine never found a publisher. Neither did any of my early short stories. Between 1990 and 2002 I wrote over a million words, without earning a single dime. All I earned were rejection letters. Over five hundred of them.

  My early work apparently sucked.

  Luckily, my new book contract allowed me to write full time. Since writing became my main source of income, and that income depended on people buying my books, I spent every waking hour trying to think up ways to enlarge my audience. It took me years to reach that point, and I intended to do everything I could to make sure my books didn’t flop.

  In sales vernacular, that meant immersing myself in self-promotional marketing to spread name-recognition through increased brand awareness.

  In layman’s terms, I had to find readers.

  One of the main things I did to promote myself was write and sell short stories. Magazines, websites, and anthologies can reach thousands, hundreds of thousands, even millions of people. And as I learned from my youthful reading experiences, there’s no better advertisement for an author than a sample of his writing.

  So I looked through my stack of old shorts, rewrote a select few, and sent them out. I also began to write new stories, many of them featuring characters from my novels.

  In order to reach as many markets as possible, I wrote about a wide variety of subjects. Some stories were geared toward mystery and crime readers. Others, since my novels have scary parts, were aimed at horror fans. I also penned some straight comedy stories and essays, because the Jack Daniels books contain a lot of humor.

  Since 2003, I’ve sold and/or published over fifty stories and articles. Many new readers have found me by reading my short stuff, and have gone on to become fans of my books.

  Which leads us to 65 Proof.

  Over the years, a lot people have contacted me, asking where they could get copies of old magazines or anthologies I’ve been in. Unfortunately, some of my published stories are out-of-print, foreign, defunct, sold-out, or otherwise difficult to find.

  Not anymore.

  This collection brings all of my published works together in one package, and it’s a lot cheaper than spending hundreds of dollars buying every single magazine and anthology that features a JA Konrath story, though bless you folks who have tried to do just that.

  For reading convenience, I’ve divided 65 Proof into four sections.

  JACK AND FRIENDS. These are stories that directly tie into my series novels. They stand alone, and don’t need to be read in any particular order, nor do they fit into any specific timeline in the Jack Daniels universe.

  CRIME STORIES. These are mystery and thriller yarns that don’t have anything to do with Jack and company. They range in tone from extremely hardboiled noir, to light-hearted satire, to solve-it-yourself mini mysteries.

  HORROR STORIES. Scary tales, some funny, some extremely dark. This is where you’ll find monsters, vampires, ghosts, aliens, and assorted things that go bump in the night.

  FUNNY STUFF. Shorts and essays in various genres, intended to provoke smiles.

  While I enjoy writing the Jack books, I have even more fun writing shorts. The short form is liberating. It allows me to experiment, to be goofy, to take risks. I believe within these fifty-five stories is some of my best work.

  I encourage you to skip around these pages and sample the different tones and styles. Think of it as a buffet where you can pick and choose.

  And thank you for reading. Thank you more than you’ll ever know…

  There have been seven Jack Daniels novels so far (Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Drity Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, and Shaken.)

  The continuing cast of characters in the Jack Daniels books are one of the reasons I enjoy writing them so much. Having established early on that the series is a mixture of humor, scares, mystery, and thrills, I have complete freedom to write short stories in any and all of these sub-genres.

  I use shorts to take my characters in places they wouldn’t normall
y go in the novels. Jack can function as a traditional sleuth, solving crimes like Sherlock Holmes or Miss Marple. But she can also star in nail-biting thrillers without any element of mystery. She can even be delegated to sidekick role, letting someone else take center stage.

  Harry McGlade can be even goofier in short stories than he is in the books. When I write a McGlade short, I play it for laughs and cross over into parody, which would never work in the novels.

  Phineas Troutt is ideal for hardboiled tales. Because he’s a criminal, I can walk on the dark side with him, and have him do things that Jack, with her moral compass, would never do.

  Plus, I can get away with things in short stories that I can’t in my books. I don’t have to worry about having lines cut, or having my characters’ motivations questioned. For a writer, it’s the ultimate indulgence, and the ultimate freedom.

  It also allows me to do some pretty fun shit.

  After landing my first three-book deal, I started writing short stories like crazy, trying to get my name out there. I always liked locked-room mysteries, and decided to do one featuring my newly published detective, Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels of the Chicago Police Department. Here, Jack takes a break from serial killers to solve a classic whodunnit. This sold to Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, and was placed in their Department of First Stories, which thrilled me because I’ve been a fan of EQMM since childhood.

  “She sure bled a lot.”

  I ignored Officer Crouch, my attention focused on the dead woman’s arm. The cut had almost severed her left wrist, a flash of pink bone peeking through. Her right hand was curled around the handle of a utility knife.

  I’d been in Homicide for more than ten years, and still felt an emotional punch whenever I saw a body. The day I wasn’t affected was the day I hung up my badge.

  I wore disposable plastic booties over my flats because the shag carpet oozed blood like a sponge wherever I stepped. The apartment’s air conditioning was set on freeze, so the decomposition wasn’t as bad as it might have been after a week—but it was still pretty bad. I got down on my haunches and swatted away some blowflies.

  On her upper arm, six inches above the wound, was a bruise.

  “What’s so interesting, Lieut? It’s just a suicide.”

  In my blazer pocket I had some latex gloves. I snapped them on.

  The victim’s name was Janet Hellerman, a real estate lawyer with a private practice. She was brunette, mid thirties, Caucasian. Her satin slip was mottled with drying brown stains, and she wore nothing underneath. I put my hand on her chin, gently turned her head.

  There was another bruise on her cheek.

  “Johnson’s getting a statement from the super.”

  I stood up, smoothed down my skirt, and nodded at Herb, who had just entered the room. Detective First Class Herb Benedict was my partner. He had a gray mustache, Basset hound jowls, and a Santa Claus belly. Herb kept on the perimeter of the blood puddle; those little plastic booties were too hard for him to get on.

  “Johnson’s story corroborates?”

  Herb nodded. “Why? You see something?”

  I did, but wasn’t sure how it fit. Herb had questioned both Officer Crouch and Officer Johnson, and their stories were apparently identical.

  Forty minutes ago they’d arrived at apartment 3008 at the request of the victim’s mother, who lived out of state. She had been unable to get in touch with her daughter for more than a week. The building superintendent unlocked the door for them, but the safety chain was on, and a sofa had been pushed in front of the door to prevent anyone from getting inside. Crouch put his shoulder to it, broke in, and they discovered the body.

  Herb squinted at the corpse. “How many marks on the wrist?”

  “Just one cut, deep.”

  I took off the blood-soaked booties, put them in one of the many plastic baggies I keep in my pockets, and went over to the picture window, which covered most of the far wall. The view was expensive, overlooking Lake Shore Drive from forty stories up. Boaters swarmed over the surface of Lake Michigan like little white ants, and the street was a gridlock of toy cars. Summer was a busy time for Chicagoans—criminals included.

  I motioned for Crouch, and he heeled like a chastened puppy. Beat cops were getting younger every year; this one barely needed to shave. He had the cop stare, though—hard eyes and a perpetual scowl, always expecting to be lied to.

  “I need you to do a door-to-door. Get statements from everyone on this floor. Find out who knew the victim, who might have seen anything.”

  Crouch frowned. “But she killed herself. The only way in the apartment is the one door, and it was locked from the inside, with the safety chain on. Plus there was a sofa pushed in front of it.”

  “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that suicides are treated as homicides in this town, Officer.”

  He rolled his eyes. I could practically read his thoughts. How did this dumb broad get to be Homicide Lieutenant? She sleep with the PC?

  “Lieut, the weapon is still in her hand. Don’t you think…”

  I sighed. Time to school the rookie.

  “How many cuts are on her wrist, Crouch?”

  “One.”

  “Didn’t they teach you about hesitation cuts at the Academy? A suicidal person usually has to work up the courage. Where was she found?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Why not her bed? Or the bathtub? Or a comfy chair? If you were ending your life, would you do it standing in the middle of the living room?”

  He became visibly flustered, but I wasn’t through yet.

  “How would you describe the temperature in this room?”

  “It’s freezing.”

  “And all she’s wearing is a slip. Little cold for that, don’t you think? Did you read the suicide note?”

  “She didn’t leave a note.”

  “They all leave notes. I’ve worked these streets for twenty years, and never saw a suicide where the vic didn’t leave a note. But for some strange reason, there’s no note here. Which is a shame because maybe her note would explain how she got the multiple contusions on her face and arm.”

  Crouch was cowed, but he managed to mumble, “The door—”

  “Speaking of doors,” I interrupted, “why are you still here when you were given an order to start the door-to-door? Move your ass.”

  Crouch looked at his shoes and then left the apartment. Herb raised an eyebrow.

  “Kinda hard on the newbie, Jack.”

  “He wouldn’t have questioned me if I had a penis.”

  “I think you have one now. You took his.”

  “If he does a good job, I’ll give it back.”

  Herb turned to look at the body. He rubbed his mustache.

  “It could still play as suicide,” he said. “If she was hit by a sudden urge to die. Maybe she got some terrible news. She gets out of the shower, puts on a slip, cranks up the air conditioning, gets a phone call, immediately grabs the knife and with one quick slice…”

  He made a cutting motion over his wrist.

  “Do you buy it?” I asked.

  Herb made a show of mulling it over.

  “No,” he consented. “I think someone knocked her out, sliced her wrist, turned up the air so the smell wouldn’t get too bad, and then…”

  “Managed to escape from a locked room.”

  I sighed, my shoulders sagging.

  Herb’s eyes scanned the view. “A window washer?”

  I checked the window, but as expected it didn’t open. Winds this high up weren’t friendly.

  “There’s no other way in?” Herb asked.

  “Just the one entryway.”

  I walked up to it. The safety chain hung on the door at eye level, its wall mounting and three screws dangling from it. The doorframe where it had been attached was splintered and cracked from Crouch’s entrance. There were three screw holes in the frame that matched the mounting, and a fourth screw still remained, sticking out of the
frame about an inch.

  The hinges on the door were dusty and showed no signs of tampering. A black leather sofa was pushed off to the side, near the doorway. I followed the tracks that its feet had made in the carpet. The sofa had been placed in front of the door and then shoved aside.

  I opened the door, holding the knob with two fingers. It moved easily, even though it was heavy and solid. I closed it, stumped.

  “How did the killer get out?” I said, mostly to myself.

  “Maybe he didn’t get out. Maybe the killer is still in the apartment.” Herb’s eyes widened and his hand shot up, pointing over my shoulder. “Jack! Behind you!”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Funny, Herb. I already searched the place.”

  I peeled off the gloves and stuck them back in my pocket.

  “Well, then there are only three possibilities.” Herb held up his hand, ticking off fingers. “One, Crouch and Johnson and the superintendent are all lying. Two, the killer was skinny enough to slip out of the apartment by going under the door. Or three, it was Houdini.”

  “Houdini’s dead.”

  “Did you check? Get an alibi?”

  “I’ll send a team to the cemetery.”

  While we waited for the ME to arrive, Herb and I busied ourselves with tossing the place. Bank statements told us Janet Hellerman made a comfortable living and paid her bills on time. She was financing a late model Lexus, which we confirmed was parked in the lot below. Her credit card debt was minimal, with a recent charge for plane tickets. A call to Delta confirmed two seats to Montana for next week, one in her name and one in the name of Glenn Hale.

  Herb called the precinct, requesting a sheet on Hale.

  I checked the answering machine and listened to thirty-eight messages. Twenty were from Janet’s distraught mother, wondering where she was. Two were telemarketers. One was from a friend named Sheila who wanted to get together for dinner, and the rest were real estate related.

  Nothing from Hale. He wasn’t on the caller ID either.

  I checked her cell phone next, and listened to forty more messages; ten from mom, and thirty from home buyers. Hale hadn’t left any messages, but there was a ‘Glenn’ listed on speed dial. The phone’s call log showed that Glenn’s number had called over a dozen times, but not once since last week.

  “Look at this, Jack.”