Bloody Mary

by J. A. Konrath

  He takes what he can get.

  He scrubs his nails with a toothbrush and a lot of soap, cleaning out all of the gore and little bits. He notices similar bits in his mouth, spits something bloody onto the shower floor.

  Must have really gotten crazy there.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, he sees how crazy he’s actually been.

  It’s a mess. Worse than he’s ever done.

  He sits on the bed, naked, in a Thinker pose, staring at the body. He doesn’t even remember doing half of these things to her. And using only a one-inch blade and pure strength. Impressive.

  “I am one scary son of a bitch,” he says to himself.

  Careful to avoid the blood pool, he pads over to the closet and quickly dresses. On his cell phone, he presses 3 on speed dial.

  “I’ve got another one.”

  Chuckles on the other end. “Busy little bee, aren’t you?”

  “Come get her.”

  “I’m already out the door.”

  He stands in the corner. Staring at the mess. Memorizing it.

  Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock.

  “Who the hell is it?”

  “The password is psycho. Open up.”

  He grins, letting Derrick inside. The man is short, compact, with acne scars on his chubby cheeks and a lazy eye that always looks to the left.

  Derrick views the room and whistles.

  “Damn! This is some piece of work. I’m going to need a shovel to clean this up.”

  “So?” He hands Derrick fifty dollars. “Go buy a shovel.”

  “Be right back, tiger.”

  In half an hour, Derrick returns. He wheels in the cart, the body bag resting on top.

  “I thought you went to get a shovel.”

  “It’s in the bag.”

  Derrick gets to work, rolling up the body and the mess in the plastic tarps lining the floor.

  “Boy, you really did a number on her,” Derrick says. “Where’s her heart?”

  The killer belches, pounds his chest.

  Derrick laughs. “Talk about having heartburn.”

  The joke is lost on him. He’s becoming anxious. Now that the rage has passed, he has to make sure everything goes according to plan.

  “How are you going to dispose of her?”

  “This one I think I’ll cremate. I can’t risk one of my famous two-for-one specials. The casket would leak.”

  “I want these to be found at the morgue, same as before.”

  The killer hands him a plastic bag.

  “Ears? That’s a riot.” Derrick brings the bag to his mouth and yells, “Hello! Can you hear me?”

  Idiot. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  “Leave the earrings on. They’re important.”

  “No problem. These will be easier to sneak in than those arms. Hell, I could keep them in my pocket.”

  “Her things are in the bathroom. Take what you want. There’s a grand in her purse.”

  “Righto, chief.”

  The cleanup continues for another fifteen minutes. The body and bloody tarps are zipped up in the bag.

  “I’ll line the room with new plastic sometime next week.”

  “Sooner.”

  “Sooner? You got the itch again already?”

  “Not yet. But it could come back.”

  Derrick didn’t know about the headaches. He thought he was dealing with a run-of-the-mill sex killer.

  “Damn. I’m glad I’m not a good-looking chick with you loose in this city.”

  That won’t save you. When the time comes, I’ll gut you as well.

  They leave the room, Derrick pushing the cart, the killer walking alongside. A few liquor-stained eyes peek at them, then quickly turn away. Derrick’s van is parked in the alley, behind the killer’s car. He pushes the cart into the rear, spring-loaded legs collapsing as he eases it in.

  “Hey, you think, maybe, next time you do one of these women . . .”

  “You want to watch?”

  Derrick’s face lights up. “Yeah! I mean, I’m no stranger to this shit. I’m not as, uh, extreme, as you are. But I’ve done things.”

  You pimple-faced freak. I know about the things you’ve done. You make my stomach turn.

  “We’ll see. A tag-team match might be fun.”

  “A tag-team. Yeah, I like that.”

  He claps Derrick on the shoulder, forces a grin. He knows the hardest thing about getting away with murder is disposing of the body, and having a mortician under his thumb makes things a lot easier. Still, there’s no way he’ll ever let Derrick see him in action. He might have to get rid of him sooner than expected.

  “Hey, I’ll call you when I drop the ears off at County.”

  “Make sure you wash them, first. I don’t want to leave trace.”

  “Got it. See you, man.”

  Derrick climbs into his van and pulls away. The killer takes a deep breath, sucking in foul alley air that reeks of garbage.

  It doesn’t bother him at all.

  Nothing does.

  CHAPTER 9

  “That cat’s driving me crazy.”

  Herb pushed away from the computer and shot Mr. Friskers a look. Mr. Friskers howled his reply.

  “He probably wants to be let out of the carrier.”

  “I’d sooner let Manson out. What are you going to do with him, anyway?”

  I rubbed my temples, trying to work out the tension. We’d gotten back to the station two hours ago, and the cat hadn’t shut up for any longer than it took to catch his breath.

  “I’ve called all of Davi’s model friends, her ex-boyfriend, and her mom. No one wants the cat.”

  “What a surprise. He’s such a lovable bundle of joy.”

  “I also called a few pet stores. Apparently the heat wave doesn’t affect a cat’s promiscuity — the stray population is the highest it’s ever been, and no one is accepting any more cats.”

  Herb stroked his mustache, an indication he was lost in thought.

  “Stray . . . that’s not a bad idea. Just let the little monster free to prowl the city. That’s what he’s howling about anyway.”

  I considered it. On one hand, a cat that wore diapers probably wouldn’t last too long on the street. On the other hand, Mr. Friskers was so damn mean he might do fine. I wouldn’t even put it past him to join a gang and start robbing banks.

  “Fine. We’ll release the cat into the wild. You coming?”

  “I’m staying. Kiss him good-bye for me.”

  I picked up the carrier, which caused Mr. Friskers to increase the pitch of his howling. A brief, chilly elevator ride later, we were in the back parking lot.

  “Okay, my loud friend. This is where we go our separate ways.” I unlatched the door on the cat carrier and opened it up. “Go. Be free.”

  Mr. Friskers stayed where he was.

  “Go on. You got your wish.”

  The cat howled again, but didn’t move.

  Figuring he just needed a little help, I lifted up the cat carrier and tilted it forward. The cat spread out all four paws and clung to the sides, refusing to be dumped out.

  I knelt down and peered into the carrier. “What’s the problem, cat?”

  He stared back, as if asking me the same question.

  I thought about leaving him there. He’d get the hint eventually. Chances are he’d run off as soon as I was out of sight.

  Then I thought about my mother.

  Sometimes the ones who need help the most are the ones who refuse to accept it.

  “Fine,” I said, latching the carrier door. “You’re stuck with me, then.”

  He yowled his reply.

  Herb wasn’t impressed to see his nemesis still hanging around.

  “I thought you were going to let the cat out of the bag.”

  “I did. He wouldn’t go.”

  “Did you try poking him with a stick?”

  “No, I didn’t. Maybe I should check a taser out of the armory and zap him a few
times.”

  “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 f
ood.

  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.