Phineas Troutt Series - Three Thriller Novels (Dead On My Feet #1, Dying Breath #2, Everybody Dies #3)

by J. A. Konrath

  Phil?

  That really didn’t work on any level. But my brain was tired, so I dropped it for the time being.

  After parking, I decided to take the stairs rather than enter the lobby and risk running into that asshole condo manager again. I managed to avoid him, and when I got to my door my trusty steed greeted me with a whinny. Or maybe it was a neigh. Or a nicker. I’d only had him for less than a day, so I didn’t speak horse yet.

  My place was still a mess. And even worse, my new pet had eaten a good section of my carpet. I was about to call the maids and give them some constructive feedback, when I noticed a card from them on my desk.

  You’re a pig. We quit. Don’t call us ever again.

  That was the third cleaning service who’d fired me.

  “Want to go for a walk?”

  The horse didn’t answer. I found his leather and metal mouth leash thing, stuck it between his teeth, and led him out into the hallway—

  —where the dick condo manager was lying in wait.

  “Seriously? Do you just stand out here, hoping I show up?”

  “I knew you had a horse!” He pointed, accusingly, at the horse. “This violates your condo owner association agreement, Mr. McGlade.”

  “It’s not a horse,” I said. “It’s a dog.”

  “That’s not a dog.”

  “Good boy, Rover.” I patted the horse’s head. “Sit.”

  The horse didn’t sit.

  “I’m still training him,” I said.

  “That’s not a dog, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Yeah it is.”

  The manager crossed his arms over his chest. “What kind of dog is it?”

  “He’s one of those designed mixer breeds.”

  “A designer mixed breed?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Which one?”

  “A labramaltipoo sheepadoo.”

  “You made that up.”

  I put my hands over the horse’s ears. “Shhh! He’s sensitive about his parents. It was an arranged marriage. They weren’t really in love.”

  “This is unacceptable, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Dogs are allowed. You said it yourself.”

  “He has hooves!”

  “All labradoody cockerpoos have hooves. Look it up on Google.”

  I paraded Rover past him, and headed for the elevator before he could get his cell phone out.

  After taking Rover to a pet store within walking distance (and, no, they weren’t the ones that sold him to me), I had them deliver two large bowls for feeding and watering, a fifty pound bag of pony chow (yes, they actually made pony chow), a leash, and a collar with a big bone medallion on it that said ROVER THE DOG.

  I had no delusions that the dog ruse would work longer than a week, two at most, possibly three because that idiot condo manager whose name I couldn’t remember was a real idiot. But my subterfuge would work until I figured out something better.

  In the meantime, I enjoyed my pet.

  Every child I walked past wanted to sit on Rover, and being the nice guy that I am I was happy to accommodate every request, as long as their parents had twenty bucks.

  The condo manager was gone when I got back home, and I cleaned up all the horse poo, ordered a pizza, gave Rover the box when it arrived, and then spent twenty minutes on the Internet figuring out how to housetrain horses.

  Apparently, it was possible. Though big horses had to go to the bathroom every hour or so, small ones could hold it in for up to six hours.

  Cool, but I thought I had a better solution.

  I kept researching, and by researching I meant typing words into Google, and I found a website that showed how to housebreak a miniature horse using kitty litter.

  Cleaning the litter box would be extreme, but it was easier than walking the horse every six hours when I had a full work schedule and my binge drinking meant I often passed out for fourteen hours at a time.

  I called up the pet store, ordered ten bags of kitty litter and six litter trays, and they delivered them with my earlier order.

  Then I made margaritas, which was a challenge because I didn’t have sour mix or limes or sugar or ice, which meant I just poured straight tequila into a margarita glass. Then I stood Rover on the litter boxes, and when he peed, I gave him an apple and praised him. When he pooed, I did the same thing.

  Sometime during the feeding him apples and drinking straight tequila, I bonded with my horse in a big way. He had such big, brown eyes, and long silky hair, and he licked my face like a dog.

  “I have a good feeling about this, Rover. You and me, we’re going to be pals. I don’t think I’ll ever need another pet, for as long as I live.”

  The phone woke me up. I was having a dream where I was naked, and several dozen angry women were running after me with scissors. For some reason that was a reoccurring theme in my dreams.

  I forced my crusty eyes open.

  How did vomit get on the ceiling?

  The phone rang.

  I smacked my lips, unhappy about the taste in my mouth. It tasted like someone came in during the night and took a crap on my tongue. I pulled myself up into a sitting position, wondering if it was Rover.

  Nope. Just morning breath.

  The phone rang.

  I was sore from all that running around last night. The sweat had also stayed with me, and the gym outfit I still wore didn’t smell very pleasant. But there wasn’t any puke on my clothes, making the ceiling vomit even more mysterious.

  The phone rang.

  “Harry McGlade, private investigator,” I croaked. My throat was dry.

  “Mr. McGlued, when was the last time you considered your personal relationship with Christ?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Jesus.”

  “One and the same.”

  I coughed and tried to work up enough spit to swallow.

  My throat was too dry.

  “Mr. McGlued, as part of the Holy Sacrament Church, I’m prepared to help you get closer to God.”

  “How? Got a big ladder?”

  “By signing you up for a subscription to The Good News, a newspaper specializing in Christian issues. We are all the lambs of God, Mr. McGlued. Can I sign you up for a subscription?”

  “No. How’d you get my number? I’m unlisted.”

  “The Lord knows all, Mr. McGlued.”

  “Then ask him for the Powerball numbers and stop trying to sell me magazines.”

  “God doesn’t love assertive people, Mr. McGlued. To quote the good book, the meek shall inherit the earth.”

  “They can have it. It sucks.”

  “For only thirty dollars a month, you can—”

  “Can’t talk, me and Satan are sacrificing babies.”

  I hung up the phone and waddled over to the bathroom. Rover was standing in the hot tub, and wearing my fedora.

  Must have been some party last night. Next time I made margaritas, I should use some kind of mix.

  There was a message on my machine. Must have missed it yesterday, because of the blackout drunkenness.

  “Are you scared, McGlade? You should be. You will be.”

  It was my voice modulated fan. His threat sounded like the tagline to a bad horror novel.

  I still had three hours to kill before lunch with Kahdem. I didn’t know if he wanted me to continue the investigation and figure out who was in the Jeep, but I had nothing better to do so I got on the Internet and figured out the address to the trailer home I’d visited yesterday by using Google Maps. Then I used www.whitepages.com to do a reverse address lookup.

  The owner of the trailer was named Chuck Gardiner. I looked him up, and the top listing was for a Chicago Blackhawks goalie who died years ago. Further searches didn’t get me anywhere productive.

  I wished I’d taken a pic of the Jeep and gotten the license plate.

  But did I actually need a pic? I followed that vehicle all the way from Chicago to Maple Hills. I’d seen the tag number. It was probably hidden in my subcons
cious. Maybe, if I thought really hard, it would come to me.

  I thought really hard.

  It didn’t come to me.

  I did remember that the Jeep had Illinois plates. That was a start. How many black Jeeps could there be in the state?

  I called the one woman I knew who could tell me.

  “A lot,” she said.

  Gina Morris, a clerk at the Illinois Department of Motor Vehicles, was an overweight girl with crossed eyes and a lisp. I tapped that anyway. Gina wasn’t the ideal bedroom partner. All I remembered about the experience was her repeatedly saying, “Move your head, I can’t see the T.V.”

  Though we never went on a second date, I kept in touch because I knew her occupation would come in handy. And every once in a while she would come through for me. That’s the one thing I’ve always liked about her. She was always willing to go that extra mile for a friend in need.

  “How much is a lot?” I asked.

  “Fifty.”

  “That’s not very much.”

  “Fifty dollarth.”

  “That’s way too much.”

  “Then get your info thomwhere elth.”

  Gina would go that extra mile, but she didn’t come cheap.

  “Fine. Fifty bucks. How many are there.”

  “There’th twenty-thix thousand two hundred and three black Jeepth in Illinois.”

  I asked her about the lisp once, and she told me she had a nervous condition where at night she sometimes chewed off parts of her tongue. Better hers than mine.

  “Any of the owners named Chuck Gardiner?”

  I heard a keyboard being tapped. “No.”

  I closed my eyes, tried to picture the vehicle. “It’s a Cherokee.”

  More tapping. “Nineteen hundred fifty-thix. Know the year?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a parthial plate?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re thit out of luck. Bye, Harry. Thend the fifty to my Paypal.”

  I wracked my brain for something else to ask, to get my fifty buck’s worth. I couldn’t think of anything, so I went with, “Thanks for trying, babe. Doing anything on Thursday?”

  “No way. You’re bad at thex and thmell like thalami.”

  “How about Friday?”

  She hung up.

  I sent her the Paypal, because I knew I’d need her again, but I didn’t enjoy the digital transaction. Not one bit.

  Then my stomach made a hungry noise, and I realized I needed some grease to soak up the tequila still in my system.

  I dressed, took my fedora back from Rover, and then snuck out of my condo, unseen by the dick condo manager. But in the parking lot I saw something I despised even more.

  A tow truck.

  I was in possession of more than a few unpaid parking tickets, thanks to Chicago’s finest. The normal procedure was to attach a boot; one of those yellow metal clamps that locks onto the car tire to prevent the vehicle from being driven until the fines were paid. I was a cop once, and one of my going-away presents to myself when I left the force was a universal boot key. I had a collection of three or four boots, one of them currently in my trunk.

  But there was no protection against getting towed. The best you could do is make sure you parked legally, or in private parking lots.

  My condo parking lot was private. So what the hell was this pinhead doing there?

  I yelled, “Hey!” just as he put his meaty palm on my baby’s hood, reaching down to attach the tow bar.

  Then the screaming started.

  The tow truck driver, a non-descript white guy in a gray garage jumpsuit, fell onto his ass as the Vette’s alarm went off.

  “It’s a private parking lot!” I shouted over the screams. “You can’t tow me!”

  He looked at me, at my car, at me, and at the .44 Magnum that may have appeared in my hand because, hey, this was private property and I’m allowed to protect my property. For all I knew, he was stealing my car.

  Rather than argue his right to tow me, he wisely got into his truck and took off.

  I had no way to know at the time that this incident would wind up saving my ass, and also saving countless lives.

  Cool, right? That’s called foreshadowing.

  And drawing attention to foreshadowing is called breaking the fourth wall.

  That’s the kind of rebel I am.

  I turned off the alarm, then drove to a nearby donut chain store, ordered one of those egg sandwiches, and ate a cruller and sipped coffee while it was being made.

  Heading back to my car, I saw a cop had parked next to me in one of those extremely uncool little blue motorized tricycles that meter readers ride around in. No one ever became a cop to ride around in those stupid things.

  “Everything okay?” As I approached, I saw he was writing me a ticket.

  What the hell? Was it Pick On Harry’s Car Day?

  “Are you the owner of this vehicle?” The cop was pudgy, red-faced, and extremely short. Lawn gnome short. He had an uncool little blue helmet on his head to match his toy tricycle.

  “Yeah. And I’m parked legally.”

  “I don’t see a handicapped sticker on your car, and this is a handicapped zone.”

  That would explain that big blue sign with the wheelchair painted on it.

  “I’ve been meaning to get a sticker,” I said. It actually was on my to-do list. “I just lost my hand recently.”

  I waved my prosthesis at him.

  “You can’t park here without a sticker.”

  “My hand is gone,” I said. “How much more disabled can I get?”

  “Do you have any outstanding parking violations, sir?”

  “Uh, maybe one or two.”

  His little toy CB belched and he picked it up and cop-talked for a few seconds. I was wondering if I’d have to offer this twerp a bribe, or maybe sexual favors, and then he put his hand on his holster and barked at me.

  “On your knees, hands behind your back!”

  “It’s just a handicapped spot! There aren’t even any cripples here who need it!”

  “Knees! Now!”

  “You can’t arrest me for parking tickets, dumb ass!”

  “Knees!”

  I obeyed and he patted me down, taking my Magnum.

  “I’m a private detective. Legally allowed to concealed carry.”

  “Harrison Harold McGlade, you’re under arrest for hit and run.”

  “The car is parked. Who did I hit?”

  “A traffic camera witnessed an altercation yesterday on Michigan Avenue.”

  I’m pretty sure I would have remembered any hit and run.

  Wait… was he talking about that homeless guy who stole my tire?

  “I didn’t hit him. He dove out of the way in time.”

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

  “The guy was a thief. He took one of my Vette’s wheels. Those things cost more than you make in a week.”

  “You have the right to an attorney. If you do not have an attorney, one will be appointed to you.”

  “You’re just mad at the world because you still need a booster seat when you go to McDonald’s. Don’t take it out on me.”

  “Do you understand these rights as they’ve been read to you?”

  “No. Go over that part about the silence again.”

  “You have the right to remain silent…”

  “Yeah, I got it. I may be under arrest, but you’ll never be tall. Ever. Short little prick.”

  He cuffed me. Then he subjected me to the ultimate indignity of riding in the back of his little clown bike, down the sidewalk, all the way to the police station.

  Maybe this is what I get for not subscribing to that damn Christian newspaper.

  I sat in the public holding cell and waited for the wheels of justice to turn far enough to allow me my phone call. That short little prick was taking his time. Probably because I called him a shor
t little prick.

  The hours ticked by, and I missed my Big Stinky Onion appointment with Kahdem, who would be doubly irritated not just because I was MIA, but because the Big Stinky Onion didn’t have what anyone would call elegant cuisine.

  I passed the time by going deep into my own head and playing a game that I called napping.

  I was no stranger to police stations. In fact, I believe I once puked in this very cell after being picked up for a Drunk and Disorderly. I’d had a few drinks and was hitting on a group of goth chicks wearing black and sporting big crucifixes.

  I later found out they were nuns.

  This caused a minor confrontation between me and the arresting officer, because I protested that nuns shouldn’t have been hanging out in a bar if they weren’t looking for a good time. He informed me that I wasn’t in a bar, I was in a church.

  No wonder the service had been so bad. I’d been trying to order a drink at the altar.

  That experience cost me five hundred bucks and a night in the slam. But I did wind up dating one of the nuns for a while.

  After my nap, I casually studied the motley crew who shared my cage with me. There were your average assortment of low-lifes, gang-bangers, drunks, and street trash. Also, trying to hide in a corner, was a guy in a suit who looked scared out of his gourd.

  A large man who could best be described as a mountain stuffed into a sweat suit approached the little suit guy and asked for a cigarette, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The little suit guy said he didn’t have one.

  The mountain said maybe he would rip off his pecker and smoke that instead.

  I immediately stood up and hurried over there.

  After all, I’ve never seen anyone’s pecker ripped off before.

  “McGlade.”

  Some cop drew my attention away from the unfolding drama and I was led out of my cell. I thought I heard the sound of a zipper follow me out, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I followed the cop through a hallway and to an elevator. Normal police procedure was to book an offender immediately after arriving at the station. But they put off doing that with me because I knew someone high up in the department and I name-dropped, demanding to talk to my buddy personally. Which was where I was being led. The elevator ejected us on the proper floor, and he left me.