Jack Daniels Stories

by J. A. Konrath

  Jack Daniels Stories

  Jack Daniels Stories

  JACK DANIELS STORIES

  JA KONRATH?

  Copyright © 2010 Joe Konrath

  Cover copyright © 2010 Carl Graves

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Joe Konrath.

  INTRODUCTION

  There have been seven Jack Daniels novels so far (Whiskey Sour, Bloody Mary, Rusty Nail, Dirty Martini, Fuzzy Navel, Cherry Bomb, and Shaken—coming in 2010.)

  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 normally 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.

  And for the completists who want to make sure they have every story in the Jack Daniels universe, there are four novellas (Suckers, Truck Stop, Planter's Punch, Floaters) that aren't in this collection, but are available separately on Amazon Kindle and on my website, www.JAKonrath.com. I've included excerpts at the back of this ebook. Jack is also a supporting character in my thriller novel Shot of Tequila, which takes place in the 1990s when she's still a rookie detective, still married, and her partner Herb was thin. She also appears in a cameo in my upcoming sci-fi book Timecaster Super Symmetry under my pen name Joe Kimball. Jack's grandson, a 2054 Chicago cop named Talon Avalon, is the hero of that series. His best friend is Harry McGlade the Third.

  I may very well write about these characters forever...

  Joe Konrath, February 2010

  ?CONTENTS

  On the Rocks - Suicide or murder? Lt. Jack Daniels solves a locked room mystery.

  Whelp Wanted - P.I. Harry McGlade becomes a dognapper in order to stop a dognapper, or something like that.

  Street Music - Phineas Troutt hunts a prostitute through the dangerous streets of Chicago. Are his intentions pure?

  The One That Got Away - The Gingerbread Man (the villain from WHISKEY SOUR) hunts one final victim.

  With a Twist - It looked like the man fell from a great height, but the body is in his living room. Jack Daniels solves another impossible crime.

  Epitaph - Phin Troutt takes on a Chicago street gang with vengeance on his mind.

  Taken to the Cleaners - Harry McGlade tries to solve a difficult mystery, but mostly just goofs off.

  Body Shots - Jack Daniels faces her most challenging case yet; a school shooting. But does she know more about the perp than she realizes?

  Suffer - Phineas Troutt has taken some questionable jobs, but will he murder a man's wife?

  School Daze - P.I. Harry McGlade investigates a private school, but he's not entirely sure why.

  Overproof - While shopping on the Gold Coast, Jack Daniels notices traffic has come to a stand-still. When she realizes what the problem is, she's confronted with her own mortality, and the possible deaths of hundreds.

  Bereavement - How badly does Phineas Troutt need a fix? What is he willing to do?

  Pot Shot - Detective Herb Benedict just wants a home cooked meal. But his plans get interrupted by a very determined sniper.

  Last Request - Phineas Troutt picks up a hitchhiker, with deadly results.

  The Necro File - Harry McGlade investigates some bizarre murders in this hilarious, gore-filled mini-epic. (Author's note: This is easily the funniest thing I've ever written, but it's also very offensive. Let the reader beware...)

  On The Rocks

  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 wind
ow, 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.”

  I glanced over at Herb. He set a pink plastic case on the kitchen counter and opened it up. It was a woman's toolkit, the kind they sold at department stores for fifteen bucks. Each tool had a cute pink handle and a corresponding compartment that it snugged into. This kit contained a hammer, four screwdrivers, a measuring tape, and eight wrenches. There were also two empty slots; one for needle nose pliers, and one for something five inches long and rectangular.

  “The utility knife,” I said.

  Herb nodded. “She owned the weapon. It's looking more and more like suicide, Jack. She has a fight with Hale. He dumps her. She kills herself.”

  “You find anything else?”

  “Nothing really. She liked to mountain climb, apparently. There's about forty miles of rope in her closet, lots of spikes and beaners, and a picture of her clinging to a cliff. She also has an extraordinary amount of teddy bears. There were so many piled on her bed, I don't know how she could sleep on it.”

  “Diary? Computer?”

  “Neither. Some photo albums, a few letters that we'll have to look through.”

  Someone knocked. We glanced across the breakfast bar and saw the door ease open.

  Mortimer Hughes entered. Hughes was a medical examiner. He worked for the city, and his job was to visit crime scenes and declare people dead. You'd never guess his profession if you met him on the street—he had the smiling eyes and infectious enthusiasm of a television chef.

  “Hello Jack, Herb, beautiful day out.” He nodded at us and set down a large tackle box that housed the many particular tools of his trade. Hughes opened it up and snugg
ed on some plastic gloves and booties. He also brandished knee pads.

  Herb and I paused in our search and watched him work. Hughes knelt beside the vic and spent ten minutes poking and prodding, humming tunelessly to himself. When he finally spoke, it was high-pitched and cheerful.

  “She's dead,” Hughes said.

  We waited for more.

  “At least four days, probably longer. I'm guessing from hypovolemic shock. Blood loss is more than forty percent. Her right zygomatic bone is shattered, pre-mortem or early post.”

  “Could she have broken her cheek falling down?” Herb asked.

  “On this thick carpet? Possible—yes. Likely—no. Look at the blood pool. No arcs. No trails.”

  “So she wasn't conscious when her wrist was cut?”

  “That would be my assumption, unless she laid down on the floor and stayed perfectly still while bleeding to death.”

  “Sexually assaulted?”

  “Can't tell. I'll do a swab.”

  I chose not to watch, and Herb and I went back into the kitchen. Herb pursed his lips.

  “It could still be suicide. She cuts her wrist, falls over, breaks her cheek bone, dies unconscious.”

  “You don't sound convinced.”

  “I'm not. I like the boyfriend. They're fighting, he bashes her one in the face. Maybe he can't wake her up, or he thinks he's killed her. Or he wants to kill her. He finds the toolbox, gets the utility knife, makes it look like a suicide.”

  “And then magically disappears.”

  Herb frowned. “That part I don't like.”

  “Maybe he flushed himself down the toilet, escaped through the plumbing.”

  “You can send Crouch out to get a plunger.”

  “Lieutenant?”

  Officer Crouch had returned. He stood by the kitchen counter, his face ashen.

  “What is it, Officer?”

  "I was doing the door-to-door. No one answered at the apartment right across the hall. The superintendent thought that was strange– an old lady named Mrs. Flagstone lives there, and she never leaves her home. She even sends out for groceries. So the super opens up her door and...you'd better come look.

  #

  Mrs. Flagstone stared up at me with milky eyes. Her tongue protruded from her lips like a hunk of raw liver. She was naked in the bathtub, her face and upper body submerged in foul water, one chubby leg hanging over the edge. The bloating was extensive. Her white hair floated around her head like a halo.