Dying Breath

by J. A. Konrath

  “Sorry, Herb. Should have locked my door.”

  “They’re cops, for crissakes. We’re supposed to be a fraternal order. Who would take my damn coffee machine?”

  As far as I was concerned, everyone was a suspect. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was a Murder On The Orient Express thing, and every single cop in the place had a hand in it.

  “We can go around smelling everyone’s breath for Columbian dark roast,” I suggested.

  Benedict hmphed and began to read his copy of the autopsy report. I sat at my own desk, finished the little coffee left in my cup, and began to read mine.

  I hadn’t gotten two minutes into it when the phone rang again. Maybe it was the Mr. Coffee thief, so overwhelmed by guilt that they wanted to confess.

  “Daniels.”

  “Hines down in Holding. Had a guy here on a reckless driving rap, screaming out your name. Got so annoyed I left him in your office. Wanted to make sure you got him okay.”

  The informers I had were few and far between, most going back to my patrol days. But it never hurt to talk to them when they were desperate. Desperate men had loose tongues, and maybe something would develop from what he had to tell me. Maybe he even knew who took the Mr. Coffee.

  “I don’t see anyone. Who was it?”

  At that exact moment my door swung open, and one of my least favorite people on earth walked in.

  “Hiya, Jackie. How have you been?”

  “Ah, hell,” I said. “And I didn’t think my day could get any worse.”

  It wasn’t an informer.

  It was Harry McGlade.

  Harry and I had a complicated, often contentious, past. Once upon a time, we were partners on the Job. He screwed that up, then went on to sell his life story to TV and they based a show on his exploits, and by unhappy extension-by-association, my exploits. It was called Fatal Autonomy, whatever the hell that meant, and the actress who played me was morbidly obese and wet her pants whenever she was in a dangerous situation. Which was all the time.

  Harry smiled when he saw me. “Ain’t life a peach?”

  “You keep coming back,” Herb said. “Like jock itch.”

  “Is that how you think of me?” Harry asked. “Softly clinging to your sweaty man bits? I’m flattered.”

  Herb and Harry had a mutual disparagement society. McGlade usually came out on top.

  “Why are you here?” Herb said.

  “Good question. Sagan said humanity exists so the universe can know itself. But I think we exist because our parents had sex. Were your parents as large as you are? How’d they get their parts to fit with their fat bellies in the way? Was there some sort of pulley system?”

  Herb stood up. “I’m outta here, Jack. Try not to let the stupid rub off on you.”

  Harry grinned. “Great burn there, Jabba the Butt. Still have to butter your hips to get through doorways? Or are you just eating the butter?”

  Herb walked past, shoulder-bumping Harry on his way out.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Harry said. “I think it’s because I’m not covered in ham.”

  “What do you want, McGlade?” I could tolerate him in small doses, and I was already reaching my daily limit.

  Harry parked one ass cheek on the corner of my desk. “One of your least finest, some meter maid about the size of Herb’s last meal, arrested me on a trumped up hit-and-run warrant.”

  “There’s nothing I can do,” I said, pleased that there was nothing I could do.

  Well, maybe I could do something, but I wasn’t what you’d call motivated.

  “Jackie, you’re like a sister to me. A sister I sometimes think about while I’m showering.”

  “Ick.”

  “I’m kidding. Probably. But we go way back. You were at my wedding.”

  “The one where we all almost died.”

  “Yeah. Good times. I don’t ask you for a lot of favors—”

  “You’re constantly asking me for favors.”

  “—but I really need you to make this one go away. The charge is bullshit. I’d beat it in court. Why waste taxpayer money?”

  “So considerate of you, to be worried about the taxpayer.”

  He didn’t catch my sarcasm. “Yeah. Well, I’m one of them. I think. I know I pay my accountant a lot. He should be paying my taxes out of that. Right?”

  “Sure.”

  “But this really isn’t about me. I have to get back home. To Rover.”

  “You bought a dog?” I asked.

  “Rover’s a horse.”

  “You bought a horse?” I asked.

  “You know how sometimes, when you get blackout drunk, you can wake up in Cozumel with a ninety-two year old woman who isn’t wearing pants? Well this is the same thing, except I bought a dwarf miniature horse.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Herb said. He’d left the room, but was obviously hovering nearby.

  “I can actually hear your pancreas secrete insulin,” Harry called out after him. “It sounds like a toilet flushing.”

  I got up, closed my door, then pulled up Harry’s file on my computer. Other than an extraordinary amount of parking tickets, thirty-four to be exact, he wasn’t wanted for anything other than the reckless driving charge.

  “You fix it, Jackie? I also need you to get my car out of impound. Super Cop towed it for parking in a handicapped spot, which wasn’t my fault, because the sign was partially obscured by the shade of some surrounding trees. Besides, I’m handicapped. Literally. My hand is gone. So I’m like nohand-icapped. Hand-missing-icapped. Something like that. Now you’ve got me paranoid about my accountant.”

  I read up on Harry’s charges. “You were caught on a traffic light camera.”

  “Police state. Like living in North Korea.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Harry, I can’t just make this go away. If there’s video evidence, only the State’s Attorney can drop charges.”

  “So call him up. Flirt a little.”

  “She’s a woman.”

  “Want me to call her?”

  “I don’t think I can do anything here.”

  “If I have to kill someone, just point me in the right direction. I promise it won’t get back to you.”

  “Sorry. You’re on your own here.”

  “But Rover? Who’s going to change his horse litter if I’m stuck in the hoosegow waiting to make bail?”

  “Hoosegow? People still say that?”

  “This is completely unfair. It’s been a real shitty couple of days. Yesterday I got my tire stolen, and this morning some jackass tries to tow it away, and then the world’s shortest cop busts me for parking in a handicapped spot, when I’m obviously handicapped, and for hit-and-run when it was the same son of a bitch who took my tire.”

  Wait a sec…

  “Rewind,” I said. “What was that second thing you said?”

  “The world’s shortest cop. Isn’t there still a height requirement to get on the force? The guy was a meter reader. He’d need a step ladder to see the meters.”

  “Before that.”

  “Some dick came into my condo’s private parking spot and tried to tow my Vette.”

  We were looking for car thieves that used tow trucks. It would be a helluva coincidence, but stranger things have led to cases being cracked.

  “Think they were trying to steal your car?” I asked, trying very hard not to appear at all interested. If Harry knew he had information I needed, he’d be insufferable.

  “I never thought of that. Why so interested, Jack?”

  Shit.

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  “If I reported this incident as a car theft, could you drop that stupid charge?”

  “We’re always receptive to citizens reporting crimes,” I evaded.

  Harry squinted at me. I didn’t think he had any mind-reading abilities, but I tried to keep my head blank.

  “What case are you on now, Jack?” he asked.

  Double shit. Every so often I forgot th
at Harry wasn’t as stupid as he acted. In fact, no one could be as stupid as he acted.

  “The usual homicides,” I said.

  “The Motel Mauler.”

  Triple shit.

  “I want all my parking tickets cleared up,” Harry demanded, “the charges dropped, and that annoying little shit who took me in busted down to traffic duty. Plus I want a handicapped sticker.”

  “No way,” I tried to play disinterested. “You’ve got a pending felony for the hit and run, plus several thousand in parking tickets. Your information isn’t worth that to me.”

  Like hell it wasn’t.

  “What if I got a good look at the guy?” Harry asked. “And his truck?”

  “Tell me what you know, and maybe I can talk to some people.”

  “What if I got the truck’s plate number? And something even better?”

  “What’s better?”

  He grinned, lacing his fingers behind his head.

  “We can’t bust Officer Matthews down to Traffic,” I said. “He’s too short for Traffic.”

  “Good point. He might get run over by a kid on a Big Wheel. How about crosswalk detail? No. He could get stepped on. Well what’s a lousy job we can give him?”

  “I’m not going to reprimand one of my men for doing his job,” I said levelly.

  “He’s got an attitude Jack. He’s snotty.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  Harry considered this.

  “Fine. My story for fixing my parking tickets and dropping the charge.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  “Better be quick about it. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Did the guy have a mustache? I think he did. Wait, did he? Things… getting… hazy…”

  “I could beat the information out of you.”

  “Probably. But then I’d be all black and blue during my TV interviews.”

  He had a point. If McGlade had info that could lead to the capture of the Motel Mauler, he’d be hailed as a hero. Yet again.

  I picked up the phone and told Captain Bains the story.

  He was initially reluctant, having remembered McGlade from his days on the force. I had to vouch for Harry, my ego dying a little bit while I did so, but Bains was still iffy.

  “He wants to know what you know,” I told McGlade.

  “Once I get the paperwork saying I’m free and clear, and my car out of the pound, I’ll tell him.”

  “And what if your information is worthless?”

  “What happened to trusting in your fellow man, Jack?”

  I passed this along to Bains, who then agreed to call the State’s Attorney.

  “Do I smell coffee?” Harry asked.

  I ignored him while waiting on hold. Two minutes later, Bains called me back.

  “Deal. But the info better pay off.”

  I hung up, then told McGlade he had his deal.

  “I want the paperwork, and my car.”

  “You can pick up your car. The paperwork will take a little time.”

  He stood up. “Fine. I’ll be at home with Rover. We’ll talk when my lawyer looks over the papers.”

  “I said you’ve got a deal. What happened to trusting in your fellow woman, Harry?”

  He stared at me, then nodded. “Eleven this morning, went to the parking garage of my building, saw a guy trying to hook a tow bar up to the front of my Vette.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “White. Between five nine and six feet. Medium build.”

  “Keep going.”

  “That’s all I remember.”

  “McGlade…” I warned him, using my cop voice.

  “He was an average looking white dude. Could have been three million different guys. Kinda looked like you, in fact. Did you know that you have some distinctively mannish features?”

  “You said you got a good look.”

  “No. I asked, what if I got a good look?”

  I picked up the phone to call Bains back. “You can go back to jail. I’m sure you’ll make a lot of friends.”

  “Easy, Jackie. I’ve got something.”

  I held the phone. “The truck? The plate number?”

  “Better.”

  “What’s better?”

  “You’ve seen my Vette. I keep her shiny, shiny. Running like a dream.”

  “Point. Quickly.”

  “Always washed. Always waxed.”

  “So?”

  “So… the guy touched the hood of my car.” He winked at me. “Full palm print. If he’s the car thief you say he is, he’ll be in the database.”

  I snatched up the phone, calling the Crime Scene Team, telling them to get to the impound lot to dust Harry’s car.

  “Hey! I’m supposed to get the car back!”

  “You’ll get it back.”

  “After the CST is done with it? They’re so slow they collect cob webs.”

  “Two hours. Four tops.”

  “So how am I supposed to get home to my horse?”

  “You’re rich,” I said. “Take a cab.”

  HARRY

  So thanks to my good friend Jack Daniels—we were as close as a brother and sister—I had the charges against me dropped. Jack was also sweet enough to take care of my outstanding parking tickets. Then I graciously allowed the Chicago Police Department to search for fingerprints on my Corvette in connection with a car theft ring and some at-large serial killers.

  My detention and subsequent generosity meant I missed meeting Kahdem at the Big Stinky Onion, so I called him to schedule an early dinner at the Hard Rock Café, a veritable Chicago historical landmark that dated back all the way to 1986.

  I’d never been to the Hard Rock Cafés in London, Stockholm, Dallas, Toronto, Acapulco, DC, Singapore, Maui, Las Vegas, Montreal, Puerto Vallarta, Bangkok, Kuala Lumpur, Paris, San Juan, Grand Cayman, Miami, Mexico City, Beijing, Nashville, Madrid, Hong Kong, San Antonio, Myrtle Beach, Copenhagen, Buenos Aires, Makati, Universal City, Ottawa, Niagara Falls, Key West, Atlantic City, Seoul, Beirut, Nagoya, Baltimore, Yokohama, Sacramento, Manama, Barcelona, Memphis, Philadelphia, Edinburgh, Guam, Lake Tahoe, Cleveland, Salt Lake City, Kona, Sharm el-Sheikh, San Diego, Saipan, St. Louis, Denver, Guadalajara, Rome, Orlando, Amsterdam, Indianapolis, Gatlinburg, Fukuoka, Houston, Rio de Janeiro, Manchester, Malta, Cairo, Osaka, Bogota, Pattaya, Phoenix, Munich, Pittsburgh, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Cologne, Lisbon, Moscow, Nassau, Detroit, Malta, Hollywood Florida, Louisville, Dublin, Destin, Jakarta, Foxwoods, MultiCentro, Athens, Kuwait, Gothenburg, Caracas, New York, Playa de Ingles, Oslo, Nova Lima, Malta (did I say Malta?), Santa Domingo, Mumbai, Margarita, Warsaw, Biloxi, Ocho Rios, Boston, Punta Cana, Fiji, Cartagena, Bengaluru, Bucharest, or Mallorca, to name a few.

  But I was sure Chicago’s was the best.

  Hard Rock Café Chicago boasted a guitar signed by the original members of Van Halen, Ozzy Osbourne’s fangs, a pair of Kiss boots, an Elvis autographed teddy bear, and the mummified corpse of Jimi Hendrix.

  Just kidding about the corpse. It was a joke.

  If you don’t like jokes, there are still over a hundred Hard Rock Café locations I could name. Which do you prefer?

  I thought so.

  Like all hot Chicago restaurants, even if it served burgers, it had a maître d’. This one was young, balding prematurely, and way too cheerful.

  “Hi! Welcome to the Hard Rock Café Chicago! Do you have a reservation?”

  “I have plenty of reservations. But I came anyway.”

  That’s a bit I always do. Maître d’s think I’m hysterical.

  “I’m sorry but it’s a twenty minute wait for lunch! Would you like to give me your name and have a drink at the bar while we find a table for you?”

  “You seem awfully happy for someone working in the service industry.”

  He grinned so wide I thought his mouth would split. “I am very happy.”

  I decided not to pursue it. Mostly because I didn’t care.

  “I’m meeti
ng someone. Last name Kahdem.”

  He looked on his sheet and grinned even wider, if that were possible. Maybe he was on drugs.

  “Mr. Kahdem has already arrived! Let me show you to your table!”

  “Thanks!” I yelled, matching his tone. We both bounced merrily on our toes through the crowd of people and up some stairs where Kahdem was waiting.

  “Have a nice lunch!” said our merry host before prancing off.

  Maybe it wasn’t drugs. Maybe his underwear was full of pudding. I know that would make me giddy.

  Kahdem looked slightly irritated when I sat down.

  “Is she okay?” he asked.

  “Can I order first?”

  “No. I’m paying you, and I want to know if she’s okay.”

  “I found her, she’s okay. I’m fast, but worth every penny of your non-refundable deposit.”

  He slumped in his chair, seemingly relieved. “You could have called and told me. I spent two hours waiting for you at that awful Stinky Onion place yesterday, and I’m not a patient man by nature.”

  “Did you eat there?”

  “Yes. I had the boiled steak.”

  “A bold and brave choice. Did it have onions?”

  “It did.”

  “Were they big? And stinky?”

  “It was repulsive.”

  “Yeah. The Big Stinky Onion isn’t known for its good food. I think it’s a mob laundering scheme. And it keeps getting shut down by the Board of Health. I’m surprised it was even still open, since that black mold salmonella rat feces story got out.”

  “Why did you pick that place?”

  “I like saying Big Stinky Onion. It’s fun to say, isn’t it? You try it. Big Stinky Onion.”

  “Mr. McGlade, I don’t pay you for your amusing asides, and I doubt anyone would.”

  “Cruel, but fair.”

  “But I have paid you to find my employee. What Cherry does is not my business, but I want to make sure she’s okay.”

  They say a picture is worth a thousand words, even though I’ve never figured out who they actually are. In that spirit, I took out my iPhone and showed Kahdem the pics of Cherry I took at the trailer park.

  He flipped through them, then went too far back and started looking at my selfies of me riding Rover. I snatched my phone back.