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

by J. A. Konrath

  I ran the other prints, didn’t get any hits, and tried again on the NCIC.

  Garrett McConnroy, out of Briarpatch, Minnesota. According to his National Crime Information Center rap sheet, Garrett liked assaulting women. I didn’t know the guy, and none of my old cases intersected with his.

  So why did he want to kill me? And what was I supposed to do about it?

  The smart thing, the legal thing, was to turn it over to the cops. Let them deal with this asshole.

  But I’d already contaminated the chain of evidence by sneaking into a crime scene. And the CPD had already shown how much it cared about my case.

  Besides, I didn’t depend on others to solve my problems. I took care of everything myself.

  “Mr. McGlade,” said one of the cleaning team. “This couch is full of holes. Should we throw it away?”

  Okay, I mostly took care of everything myself, except when it came to cleaning my condo.

  “Keep it,” I said.

  That was another one of my virtues. Undying loyalty. You take a bullet for me, I’ll stick by you forever.

  “It has blood on it,” she said.

  “Garbage. Throw it away.”

  I didn’t want to ever be reminded of that dick condo manager, bleeding all over without any regard at all for my not-very-hard-earned possessions. When he was well enough to come back to work, he was getting the cleaning bill.

  I used my cell phone to call a special contact of mine, who got me special equipment when I needed it, and made an appointment for after lunch.

  It was time for me to take out the trash.

  Figuratively, I mean. Literally, I had a cleaning service to do that.

  Being rich was awesome.

  PHIN

  I found my gun and crawled out of the closet and into a bedroom, so shaky I felt like I was on a carnival ride.

  Listened.

  Didn’t hear anything.

  Made it across the floor and to a door.

  Bathroom.

  I drank out of the toilet like a dog, still too weak to stand. The water was cool, sweet. I got my throat working again. Stuck my entire head in the toilet and let it bathe my face.

  Still tired, delirious, hungry, and in pain.

  But getting better by the second.

  I held the sink and pulled myself up to my feet.

  Lifted my gun and pointed it at the psycho in the room.

  I didn’t shoot. It was a psycho, for sure. But a slightly familiar one.

  Me, in the vanity mirror.

  I looked like a zombie. Covered in blood and dust, ten pounds thinner, whole face droopy.

  I tried to smile, revealing dried blood in my teeth, and I was positively terrifying.

  “Hi there, handsome,” I croaked.

  And I laughed.

  The cabinet produced a bottle of Advil, of which I took five. There was a bottle of Tums antacid, and I popped a handful in my mouth and started chewing.

  Time to explore.

  I needed food, more water, and to clean my wounds. But first I had to make sure I was all alone in the house.

  I left the bathroom and crept through the bedroom on rubbery legs, my AMT leading the way.

  The bedroom closet I escaped from was adjacent to a living room. I recognized it as the place Shears shot me. The soft leather couch whispered to me, begging to be napped on, but I controlled the urge and kept prowling.

  I was almost to the next room when instinct made me return to the couch. I felt between the cushions, got myself a dart pistol. Up close it looked like a paintball gun, stainless steel with a long barrel, plastic grip, and a bolt handle.

  There was a screw at the base near the clip, which I took to be the CO2 port. I pulled back the bolt handle, saw a dart inside.

  I hoped Shears walked in.

  You just escaped with your life, and rather than embrace this precious gift, you’re dwelling on thoughts of revenge.

  “He’s first,” I told Earl. “You’re next.”

  That shut him up.

  I crept from the living room into the foyer, and up some stairs. I moved slowly, stopping every few steps to listen. Upstairs there were two empty bedrooms, a bathroom, and a den.

  I went back down the stairs and checked the first floor again, looking for a basement door. There wasn’t one.

  A patio door let me out into the backyard, and I walked cautiously over to the garage, confident the trees hid me from nosy neighbors.

  The garage door was locked, and so was the side door.

  I found a concrete block alongside the house, brought it around to the side garage door, and banged it against the door knob three times. On the third time the door frame splintered and the door swung in.

  No Land Rover, standard garage stuff, nothing of immediate interest.

  I needed a shower, and food, and first aid. Sticking around wasn’t a good idea. This was the point in the movie where everyone in the theater was yelling “get out of there!” at the screen.

  But I wasn’t quite ready to go yet. Something was itching my brain.

  I could call the police. Shears was facing a handful of charges; aggravated kidnapping, unlawful confinement, assault, attempted murder. But he was a bad guy who’d done worse than what he’d done to me. He deserved more than ten years in prison.

  So, against the advice of all the screaming moviegoers, I went back into the house.

  The first thing I did was open all the windows, so I would hear it if a car pulled up.

  Then, the refrigerator. I scarfed down a brick of Swiss cheese, and half a gallon of milk, in about thirty seconds.

  I washed my hands in the kitchen sink, using dish soap on all my cuts and scrapes.

  Back in the upstairs bathroom, I found a first aid kit. I used gauze and tape to wrap up my arms, mummy-style, while I used the toilet.

  AMT in my hand, dart gun in the back of my jeans, I went upstairs to his bedroom. His nightstand bore the usual bedside crap, along with a cigar box that held an assortment of lighters, matches, razor blades, needles, condoms, and a salt shaker. Some of the razor blades had blood on them.

  Under the bed were two pairs of handcuffs, a pair of old fashioned leg irons, and a long, dirty Rambo knife.

  There was only one picture hanging in the room, a framed print by H.R. Giger featuring a naked woman in some sort of sex/torture machine, which was putting needles into her skin.

  I looked behind it, and found a wall safe.

  My experience with safecracking was nonexistent. But I did know that some people hated the hassle of dialing the whole combination every time they wanted to get inside, so when they locked it they just turned the dial slightly. Because the first two numbers were already dialed, and the pins had already dropped, it was just a question of dialing that last number and the safe would open.

  The dial was set on 22. I tried to open it.

  Locked.

  I turned the dial and tried 23. Nothing. 24. Nothing. 25. Nada. I went the opposite way. 21. Nothing. 20. Zip.

  I hit pay dirt at number 19. The safe made a pleasant clicking sound and opened up like an old friend. I peered inside.

  The first thing I saw was a dime bag of weed. Next to it, a big manila envelope. Inside were twenty-six Driver’s Licenses, all of different women.

  Amy’s was among them.

  Also in the safe were—surprise surprise—my 9mm, keys, switchblade, and brass knuckles. Behind my stuff was twenty-three hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and a Llama Super Comanche .357 Magnum with a four inch barrel. It was well oiled and loaded.

  I also found a checkbook in the name of Charles Gardiner, and an address book.

  In the back of the safe was a brown vinyl case. It held two dozen cassette tapes. I pulled one of them out and it had a label that read March/April ’08 Others were similarly labeled, going back several years.

  I did one final check of the safe, and saw a small baggie shoved in the back of the top shelf.

  A small baggie fi
lled with white powder.

  I picked it up. Some of the powder was on the baggie’s top seal. I touched my finger to it and had a taste.

  Like kicking a live wire. Cocaine. Good stuff, too, from the way it numbed my tongue.

  I wanted more.

  But if I wanted to stay with Pasha, I had to be off cocaine.

  I wanted to stay with Pasha. Earl made me realize that.

  I did?

  “Yeah, asshole. When I die, I don’t want the last voice I hear to be yours.”

  I closed the safe, leaving the coke, but taking everything else.

  I found a duffle bag in the closet, ignoring the wooden box, and put everything inside except my Smith & Wesson, which I kept in my hand. I also took a blue polo shirt and pulled it on.

  Downstairs, I hunted through the kitchen and living room. I discovered a bagel, which I ate, and an answering machine. I took the tape, and the brand matched the ones that I’d found in the safe.

  During the search, I’d had time to think about my next step. I’d already dismissed calling the police, and unless Shears found my parked truck, he had no idea who I was. But he would know I escaped. Chances were good he’d either go on the run, or wait around for my return.

  Neither option was good for me. Plus, having enjoyed the hospitality of his wooden box, I didn’t think it prudent to let some other poor soul endure a similar ordeal.

  So I went to the garage, picked up the gas cans I saw there, gave the interior a good soaking, and let the place burn.

  My Bronco was where I’d left it, in the drugstore parking lot. I climbed in, the relief so deep that I almost started sobbing. I managed to regain control, and opened the glove compartment and got my phone.

  Checked the date.

  I’d been in that closet for three days.

  No messages, because Pasha didn’t have the number. I called her at her clinic.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  Pasha began to shout questions at me, and I said “Shhhh” until she let me talk.

  “I was kidnapped. I’m in bad shape. Can I come over?”

  “I’ll meet you at my place.”

  My eyes would barely stay open as I drove to Flutesburg, and twice I actually fell asleep and jerked myself awake when my head hit the steering wheel. It took me an hour to get there.

  I don’t remember knocking on her door, or her worried questions upon seeing me.

  I don’t remember her putting me to bed.

  I just remembered dreaming that I was sleeping between two clouds, with an angel watching over me, and that I was safe.

  JACK

  I got home, ready to yell at my mother for having me, and she was gone.

  Mom left a note that said she went to Florida with Mr. Long, and would call me in a few days.

  How ungrateful and inconsiderate was that?

  Okay, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Stress. Frustration over the glacial pace of the Mauler investigation. Concerns about my personal relationships and living arrangements. Herb lying about what happened to the tie I bought him. Hormones, though I never put the blame on hormones because it made me feel weak and out of control.

  I tried to sleep, couldn’t, finished the Ed McBain book and liked it, but I was a bit irritated that it was realistic in so many ways, yet wrapped everything up in a convenient, neat package.

  Life wasn’t neat. Sometimes questions weren’t answered.

  Still unable to sleep, I wound up turning on the Home Shopping Network. I called to get in on the discount sale on designer dresses, and the friendly operator told me my credit card was declined.

  When I finally drifted off, around 4am, I had bad dreams.

  I woke up exhausted, setting the alarm early because I had to fight an hour of traffic to get to work.

  I skipped my exercises and my shower, went to feed my cat and saw that Mom had already left enough food and water in the dish to satisfy a tiger for a week, and then got on the road.

  I was ten minutes late. Unusual for me. Herb was waiting in my office with a tepid cup of vending machine coffee for me, which I was grateful for until I took a sip.

  “Is that coffee?” I asked, choking back the swallow.

  “I know, right? What does that taste like?”

  “Like they figured out how to burn water.”

  “I was going to say it was like drinking an old campfire, but I like yours better.”

  “Updates?” I asked, controlling my wince after taking another sip.

  “Still haven’t found my Mr. Coffee. I’ve begun doing interviews. Jerkins, over in reception, has no alibi for the hours it was taken. I’m thinking he’s hiding something.”

  “Everyone knows he’s sleeping with Sanchez.”

  “Sleeping with her?” Herb raised an eyebrow. “Or making hot, fresh coffee?”

  “I thought the whole office knew this. It’s the most repeated gossip in the District.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been so razor focused on this café thievery that I must has missed that.”

  “What’s going on with the Mauler case?”

  “We’ve got a deal on paper. Hellmann is in there with Lester and the lawyer.”

  “Let’s go see how they’re doing.”

  Conference Room C was technically the only conference room available in the building, because Room A was being used for records storage overflow and Room B had a water leak inside the walls and was being repaired. State’s Attorney Libby Hellmann was already seated with Lester, his defender Longquist hovering behind him like a falcon ready to dive for mice.

  “Glad you could make it.” Libby glanced at me. She was smart, tough, a good dresser, and occasionally likeable. I thought she made a good SA.

  Longquist said, “This is unacceptable. My client will only agree to talk to you regarding the facts of his alleged encounter with the rental truck if guaranteed complete immunity from prosecution on all charges.”

  Hellmann wasn’t having it. “If he was involved with the murder, we’ll prosecute. We can give him immunity for activities related to larceny, but he has to name names.”

  “I ain’t ratting no one out. You can suck it, lady.”

  “That’s the State’s Attorney, Lester,” I said. “Show some respect.”

  “You can suck it too, cop.”

  Were mothers forgetting to teach their little boys respect for women? Or did they grow into misogyny, like they grew chest hair?

  I sighed. “Where’d you steal the truck, Lester?”

  “It has not yet been proven that the alleged truck was stolen by my client,” opined Longquist.

  “He’s got to play ball, Longquist. We can let him skate on the grand theft if he talks, but only if he can convince us he isn’t a willing accessory to murder.” I looked hard at Lester. “Or the actual murderer.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  I believed him, Lester’s record didn’t have a single violent offense. He was a thief, not a killer. But it was simple cop psychology. Accuse them of something big, they’ll admit to something smaller. If something smaller sticks, they’ll try to share the blame.

  “Where’d you find the truck?” I rephrased the question.

  “Suck it.”

  I stood up, pushing my chair back, towering over him. “Tell me to suck it again, little man.”

  “Jack…” Herb gave me a cool it stare. Then he looked at Lester, “You gotta give us something. Or you’re going to do some very major time.”

  Lester looked at his attorney, who nodded approval.

  “It was parked behind some stores. On Higgins road in Bankfield.”

  Back to the burbs again.

  “Address?” Herb asked.

  “I don’t know. It was behind a strip mall, on Higgins. There was a video rental store, and a locksmith, and a… uh…. and one of those places that sells trees.”

  “A nursery?” Hellmann asked.

  Lester nodded. “Yeah. I think. I dunno what they’re called.”

&
nbsp; “And when did you find the truck?” I said, resuming lead.

  “January, sometime.”

  “Which store was it parked behind?”

  “The tree store.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It was right next to a dumpster with a dead tree sticking out of it.”

  “Where’d you bring it?”

  “Straight to the shop.”

  “Where’s the shop.”

  He folded his arms over his chest and slunk back in his chair, like a little boy who wouldn’t eat his broccoli. “I ain’t ratting on my friends.”

  “You know how we got your name?” Herb said. “One of your so-called friends ratted you out. He thinks you’re a serial killer, Lester.”

  “Who does?”

  I sat down across from him, trying to look supportive. Which was tough for me, given the last few days, and his bullying attitude.

  “You’re the one who found the truck,” I said, managing to say found without rolling my eyes. “Did you dump it in Mount Cisco?”

  “Wasn’t me. Once I saw the body, I wouldn’t go near it.”

  “When was it taken to Mount Cisco?”

  “Next day. I wasn’t the one who took it. No way in hell I was gonna get in that truck again.”

  “Why did you wait until the next day?”

  “No one wanted to get stopped driving that thing.”

  “Who drove it there?”

  Lester didn’t say anything.

  “Lester, the driver who took it back; he could save you from a murder rap. I’ll be honest… I don’t think you killed anyone. But we’ve got you connected to this. The Mayor, and the Superintendent, want to hang this on somebody, and so far, you’re our only suspect. The way to get out of being charged with murder is to tell us what you know. And the way to prove that is to give up the shop where you took the truck, and give up your accomplices who can corroborate your story. Then you walk. Because I’ll guarantee you something right now; if you don’t talk, one of them will. And then you won’t walk away from this. You’ll go to jail.”

  “You think they’re your friends, Lester,” Herb said. “But they’ll say anything to make sure you do time, not them. Someone is gonna talk. Just a question of who talks first. That’s who gets the deal.”