Bloody Mary

by J. A. Konrath

  I shushed him.

  “Actually, I’m not very good with women.”

  “You’re kidding, right? With a face like that, I bet you get laid all the time. When was the last piece of ass you tagged? Come on, don’t be shy. When was it? Last week? Yesterday?”

  Seconds of silence went by.

  “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. So when was the last time you got some?”

  “This morning.”

  “I knew it! I knew it the moment I saw you. I bet you like that kinky shit too. Little rope action, little spanky-spanky. Am I right?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Look at you, smiling like that. What’s your kink?”

  “It’s . . . private.”

  Hand-clapping sounds, and McGlade laughing.

  “I bet it’s real private. I can see it in your eyes. Well, your one eye. Your other eye is all screwed up. I bet you have a hard time watching 3-D movies.”

  Herb sighed again.

  “So what’s your kink, man? Kids? Animals? Getting pooped on?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I don’t really talk about it.”

  “Got it. Secret stuff. I’m cool with that. What’s you’re name, man?”

  “Derrick.”

  “Hi, Derrick. My name’s Barnum. Call me P.T.”

  “Unbelievable,” Herb said.

  “What do you do, Derrick?”

  “I own a funeral home.”

  “Funeral home, huh? How’s business?”

  “Business is dying.”

  They both chuckled. Herb and I managed to restrain ourselves.

  “Hey, wait a second! A funeral home! Is that your kink, man? You boning the stiffs? That’s freaking great, man! I bet you get a lot of tail working in a funeral home, and none of it ever says no. Am I right?”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “Why not? Nothing wrong with grabbing a little afternoon delight at work. I always wanted to nail a corpse.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Don’t have to buy her dinner, don’t have to bother with foreplay, and she wouldn’t want to talk afterward. Sounds like the perfect woman. Tell me the truth: How is it?”

  Another long pause.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Not cold?”

  “I use a heating pad to warm them up.”

  “That’s genius, man! When we get out of here, maybe you’d let me stop by some time? I’d, you know, pay for the privilege. As soon as we both get out . . . hey, what’s wrong, man?”

  “I’m never going to get out of here.” Rushlo’s voice was cracking.

  “Why not? What are you in for?”

  “Murder.”

  “No shit! You killed somebody?”

  “No. I didn’t kill anybody. They think I did.”

  “Well, if you didn’t do it, they’ll let you out. Do you know who did it?”

  Sniffling. “Yes.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “No. He’ll kill me if I tell.”

  “Won’t the cops protect you?”

  “He is a cop.”

  “No shit? Man, that sucks. You wanna tell me his name?”

  “No. Why?”

  “I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

  Herb slapped himself on the forehead.

  “Why do you want to know his name? Are you a cop?”

  “Sure, I’m a cop. I’m even wearing a wire. They sent me in here to see if I could make you talk.”

  Herb nudged me. “When this is over, let’s leave McGlade in there. He’s too stupid to be allowed in society.”

  “You’re not a cop.” Rushlo talking.

  “Of course I’m not a cop. I hate cops. Hey . . . you wanna hear a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “I killed a cop once.” Harry was whispering. I turned up the volume.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No shit, man. I was on a street corner, talking to this cute little girl, and this cop starts hassling me. I didn’t need that kind of hassle, know what I mean? He wants to pat me down, and I’m carrying.”

  “You had a gun?”

  “Hell yeah, I had a gun. So before he gets a chance to take it away from me, I put him down. Bam Bam! Two in the face. Maybe you read about it, happened a few weeks ago. You wanna hear the cool part?”

  “Sure.”

  “I liked it.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I’m a stone-cold demon, man. I’m the real deal. Hey . . . you rich? I heard funeral homes make a lot of money.”

  “I have money.”

  “Maybe I can help you out.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe I could take care of this cop for you. Sneak up on his pig ass and give him a little Bam Bam.”

  Nice, Harry. I was actually a little impressed.

  “I don’t think I want to kill him.”

  “He’s a pig, man. All pigs should die.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would he kill you, if he had the chance?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got to take this guy out.”

  “But he’s my friend.”

  Harry’s laughter made the speakers shake.

  “Do all your friends want to kill you?”

  “No. Most of my friends are dead.”

  Benedict snorted. “There’s a shock.”

  “Well, maybe you and me can make this one dead too, Derrick.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your call, man. I’ll tell you something, though — if this guy’s a cop, and you think you’re safe in here, you’re crazy.”

  “He’s not from this station.”

  “Don’t matter. He can still get to you. Sneak in when you’re sleeping, stick you a few times, and then blame it on one of the convicts. Or put something in your food. Or pay one of the other cons to do it. There’s a million ways.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You could maybe ask to go into protective custody, but that’s even worse. Then he’d have a shot at you when you’re alone. You should let me take the porker out.”

  Another long pause.

  “I can’t.”

  “I could do it for twenty grand. You got twenty grand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Groovy. Let me whack the guy. Tell the cops he forced you to help him, and they’ll let you go. You could be back at work and getting it on with dear, departed Aunt Sally in a day or two.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Whatever, man. You’re the one who’s gonna get iced.”

  There was no talking for over a minute. Only Rushlo’s off-key humming.

  “What if . . . what if I said yes?”

  “Half the money up front, the other half when it’s over.”

  “How?”

  “Cash. You talk to your lawyer, have him deliver it to me.”

  “And what if you can’t do it?”

  “I can do it. Trust me.”

  “He’s a big guy.”

  “Size don’t matter if you aim for the head. What’s the pig’s name?”

  I noticed I was holding my breath.

  “Hey man, if you want me to kill the guy, I got to know his name.”

  “It’s Barry.”

  Herb and I looked at each other. There was only one Barry we knew on the job. I tried to make it fit, to picture the cop on my team as the one responsible for these atrocities.

  “Barry what? Barry Houdini? Barry Flintstone? Barry Manilow? You gotta give me more than that.”

  Fuller had access to my office, and to Colin Andrews’s phone. Fuller was angry I passed him over for promotion. Fuller kept butting into this investigation, offering to help.

  “I don’t want to say any more. I can’t say any more. I’m sorry.”

  “You already said too much, you little squealer.” McGlade’s tone had become harsh,
menacing. “Barry knew you’d try something. He sent me to take care of you.”

  Rushlo made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a yelp.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Barry can’t afford to keep you around.”

  “I’m sorry! Tell him I’m sorry!”

  “Tell who you’re sorry?”

  “Fuller! Tell him I’d never betray him.”

  “Get him out of there,” I told Herb, the phone already in my hand. We needed to find Barry Fuller, fast.

  Before anyone else died.

  CHAPTER 18

  Barry Fuller cruises Irving Park Road. He’s off duty, dressed in civvies and driving his SUV.

  His headache is explosive.

  The morning began on a bad note. Holly, his bitch of a wife, had some stupid complaint about the living room curtains. He told her, several times, to buy new curtains if she hated these, but she couldn’t shut her goddamn mouth and kept yapping and yapping and finally he had to leave because if he didn’t he would have gutted her right there.

  He needs a substitute, fast. Normally, he’d drop in the station and use the computer to locate a neighborhood hooker. But the pain is so bad he’s practically blind with it, and he needs relief ASAP.

  Luckily, the streets are littered with disposables.

  He tails a jogger for a block. Blonde, nice ass. She blends into the crowd, and he loses her.

  Another woman. Business suit. High heels. He idles alongside, visualizing how to grab her. She walks into a coffee shop.

  Fuller fidgets in his seat, sweating even though the air is cranked to the max. He turns down an alley, searching, scanning . . .

  Finding.

  She’s walking out the rear door to her apartment building. Twenty-something, wearing flip-flops and a large T-shirt over bikini bottoms, a towel on her shoulder. Planning on walking to Oak Street Beach, just a few blocks away.

  He guns the engine and hits her from behind.

  She bounces off the front bumper, skids along the pavement face-first. Fuller jams the truck into park, jumps out.

  “My God! Are you okay?” In case anyone is watching. There doesn’t seem to be.

  The woman is crying. Bloody. Scrapes on her palms and her face.

  “We have to get you to a hospital.”

  He half helps/half yanks her into his truck, and then they’re pulling out into traffic.

  “What happened?” she moans.

  Fuller hits her. Again. And again.

  She slumps over in the seat.

  He makes a left onto Clark Street, turns into Graceland Cemetery. It’s one of Chicago’s oldest, and largest, taking up an entire city block. Because of the heat, there are few visitors inside the gates.

  “We’re in luck,” Fuller says. “It’s dead.”

  The cemetery is green, sprawling, carefully kept. Winding roads, obscured by clusters of bushes and hundred-year-old oak trees, make sections of it seem like a forest preserve.

  Plenty of room for privacy.

  He pulls into an enclave and parks next to the large stone monument marking the grave of millionaire Marshall Field. Drags the woman out of the car, behind the tomb, rage building and head pounding and teeth grinding teeth so hard the enamel flakes off.

  Fuller unleashes himself upon her, without a weapon, without checking for witnesses, without putting on the gloves he has in the front pocket of his jeans for this purpose. Punching, kicking, squeezing, grunting, sweating.

  Fireworks go off behind his eyes, erasing the pain, wiping his brain clean.

  When the fugue ends, Fuller is surprised to see he somehow pulled off the woman’s arm.

  Impressive. That takes a lot of strength.

  He blinks, looks around. All clear. The only witness is the green, delicately robed statue, sitting high atop Field’s monument. A copper smell taints the hot, woodsy air.

  The grass, and his clothes, are soaked with blood and connective tissue. Fuller wonders if the woman might be still alive, goes to check her pulse, and stops himself when he realizes her head is turned completely backward.

  He returns to his truck, opens up the hatch. Takes out a large sheet of plastic, a roll of duct tape, a gallon of blue windshield wiper fluid, and his gym bag.

  It takes the whole bottle of cleaning fluid to get the red stuff off his skin, and he uses his socks to wipe himself clean. These get rolled up in the tarp, along with the girl, her arm, and his shirt, shoes, and pants.

  His workout clothes are in the bag. They stink of sweat, but he puts them on.

  Fuller loads the bundle into the back of the truck, gets behind the wheel, and leaves the cemetery.

  Pain-free.

  On Halsted Street he calls Rushlo.

  The mortician doesn’t pick up.

  Alarms go off in Fuller’s head. Rushlo always picks up. That’s part of their deal. He turns the truck around, heading for Grand Avenue, for Rushlo’s Funeral Home.

  Another call.

  No answer.

  Fuller worries his thumbnail, tasting the sour bite of windshield washer fluid. Could they have found Rushlo already? What if they did?

  Rushlo won’t talk. He’s sure of that. The guy is too scared of him.

  But that might not matter. If Rushlo got picked up before disposing of the body, there might be trace evidence. Hair. Saliva.

  Jack’s earrings.

  He told Rushlo to wipe off the prints. Had he done it?

  Worry creeps up Barry’s shoulders and crouches there.

  He calls Rushlo again.

  No answer.

  He hangs a right onto Grand. Cops are everywhere.

  Fuller does a U-turn, hitting the gas and making the tires squeal. In the rear of the truck, the body rolls and bumps against the hatch.

  It’s over. Time to leave the country.

  Fuller’s bank is ten minutes away. He parks at the curb, jogs inside the lobby. The security guard stops him.

  “You need shoes to enter, sir.”

  Fuller looks down at his bare feet, sees some blood caked on his toenails. He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flashes tin.

  “Police business. Get your rent-a-dick face outta mine or I’ll beat your ass right here.”

  The guard gives him steely eyes, but backs down. Fuller uses his star to get to the front of the line.

  “I need to open my security box. Now.”

  The clerk gets him some assistance, and Fuller is ushered off into the vault. They turn their keys in unison.

  “I’ll need a bag.”

  The clerk returns a few moments later with a paper sack, then leaves him alone. Fuller empties out the contents of the box: a 9mm Beretta and three extra clips, six grand in cash — shakedowns from his patrolman days — a forged passport in the name of Barry Eisler. He stuffs everything into the bag and exits the bank.

  A meter maid is writing him a ticket.

  “Sorry, sister. I’m on the job.”

  She eyes his feet, skeptical. He shows her his star, climbs into the truck, and peels away.

  Mexico has tougher extradition laws, so Mexico it is. He spends a few minutes on the phone with an airline, reserves a seat on the next flight to Cancún. It leaves in three hours.

  Just enough time to pack and take care of some important business.

  Fuller doesn’t want to get caught. He knows what happens to cops in prison. If they’re on to him, they’ll be staking out his house.

  But he can’t leave the country without killing that bitch he married. That just wouldn’t do.

  He dials home, rehearsing the lines in his head.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Holly. It’s me.”

  “What do you want?”

  No fear in her tone. No nervousness or hesitation.

  “Everything okay, babe? You sound strange.”

  “Everything is not okay. These damn curtains are driving me insane. How could we have lived with them for so long, Barry? They’re hideous.”

 
So far, she seems normal.

  “Hon, I’m expecting some guys from the office to drop by later. Are they there yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Maybe parked out front?”

  “Why would they be parked out front?”

  “Can you check for me, babe? It’s important.”

  “Just a second.” Rustling, footsteps. “I’m looking at the street. No one out front.”

  Fuller considers this. Maybe they haven’t found out about him yet. Maybe he can go home, do the bitch, and be able to pack his bags and some things.

  He instantly rejects the idea as too dangerous.

  “Baby, do you remember where we bought our bedroom set?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Meet me there in an hour.”

  “What for?”

  Fuller smiles. “We’re shopping for curtains.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Oh, and bring me a change of clothes and some shoes.”

  “Why? What are you talking about?”

  “Long story. Some street lunatic threw up on me, and I’m wearing my workout sweats. Just bring me shorts, a T-shirt, and my Nikes. Meet me in Home Furnishings.”

  “Okay, Barry. See you in an hour.”

  Fuller puts the cell phone away and turns right, heading for State Street. He’ll kill her inside Marshall Field’s. She’s a clotheshorse, and it won’t take much to get her to try on an outfit. He’ll break her neck in one of the dressing rooms. It’s not the fillet knife that he always wanted to use, but it should be satisfying enough.

  Hands-on treatment always is.

  CHAPTER 19

  “She’s on the move.”

  Holly Fuller walked out of her apartment building and hailed a Yellow Cab.

  Herb pulled into traffic behind her. I removed the earpiece, shoved it in my blazer pocket. After McGlade made Rushlo sing, we secured a quick subpoena to tap Fuller’s home phone. A fake telemarketing call to the Fuller household proved Barry wasn’t there. Since it was his day off, we decided to keep vigil until we heard from him.

  The phone call disturbed me. Fuller seemed extra careful not to mention the name of the store where he wanted to meet his wife. And why would he need a change of clothes? Did he know we had Rushlo? I hoped not. Barry Fuller was not the kind of man who would be easy to subdue if forewarned.

  I picked up the receiver on Herb’s police band.

  “This is Two-Delta-Seven, tailing Yellow Cab number six-four-seven-niner Thomas X-ray. Passenger is Holly Fuller, thirty-two, blonde, five-eight, hundred and ten pounds. She’s wearing a red and orange summer dress, and carrying a red Nike gym bag. They’re turning south onto Michigan Avenue. Do not engage. Repeat, do not engage. Over.”