“Hold on.” I held up my hand. Phin knew I’d vowed to never get married again. I’d been engaged not long ago, and it had ended badly. My previous marriage had also ended badly. For him to ask me, especially like this…
My fax machine chirped.
Phin took the opportunity to break eye contact and walk over to the printer. I watched him read the cover sheet and frown.
“Andrew Z. Thomas, Jack? I thought you promised to give this up.”
“I promised to go to Geneva. Not drop this case.”
He shook his head and spread his hands out. “It’s not just this case. It’s everything. You were supposed to retire from police work altogether. But ever since you quit the force, you’ve been doing the same damn thing. It’s like you never even left.”
“Excuse me if I’ve got some psycho chasing me.”
“Excuse me for caring about you.”
He walked to the door, but stopped before leaving.
“Is this ever going to end, Jack? Even if Luther gets caught or killed, there’s always going to be one more case that the famous Lieutenant Jack Daniels needs to solve.”
“That’s what I’m paid to do, Phin. I work with Harry now. I’m a private eye. I’m very good at it.”
“It’s going to get you killed one of these days. I don’t want to see that.”
“No one’s forcing you to stay.”
Probably a mean thing to say to someone who just asked for my hand in marriage.
“Wow. How’s it feel to be the President of the United States of Super Bitch?”
Ouch.
“I thought we had boundaries, Phin. You don’t ask me to stop being me. I don’t ask you to stop doing whatever dumbass criminal activities you do…”
“Nice. Real nice.”
“…and you don’t ask me to marry you. Those were the rules.”
“Enjoy your sandwich,” Phin said.
Then he left. Duffy gave me a sad, backward glance, and went with him.
I hated myself for a few seconds and then rolled my chair over to the printer and quickly read the letters the agent had faxed over. They didn’t reveal anything new, but Violet King apparently lived in Peoria, about a three-hour drive from me.
I was eating my sandwich and weighing my options, deciding if a personal visit would be better than a phone call, when I found the biggest diamond ring I’d ever seen hidden under the pork rinds.
Oh…shit.
I immediately got up, realizing what a jerk I’d been, and padded into the living room in time to see Harry McGlade pull into the driveway and Phin drive off in his Bronco, right over my lawn.
I called him on my cell, but he didn’t pick up.
The tears came fast and hard.
I was still sobbing when McGlade pressed the security code and strolled in.
Duffy—who apparently hadn’t been let into the Bronco—was all over him, jumping up and down, wagging his tail.
“What’s up with Phin? He looked pissed. You do something?”
I sniffled. “I’m…I’m the…I’m the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”
“No shit. You have been a bit bitchier than normal. But I wouldn’t call you the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”
“Thanks, Harry.”
“You’re more like the Master of the Bitchiverse.”
I waddled into the kitchen and grabbed the box of tissue. Empty.
“Or Bitchzilla. You’re such a giant bitch that you stomp through cities, crushing smaller bitches.”
I looked around for another box of tissue and spotted Mr. Friskers on the counter. He hissed at me.
I wiped my nose on my sleeve and turned to face McGlade. “Do you want to go to Peoria?”
“Can’t. The Tesla can only go about two hundred miles per charge.”
“We can take my car.”
“What’s going on in Peoria? Some kind of Bitch Convention? Are they voting to make you Queen?”
“Goddamn it, McGlade! Enough already!”
Mr. Friskers was apparently tuned into my feelings, because he launched himself at Harry with a terrible screech and attached himself to my partner’s chest. McGlade tried to pull him off, but that was the wrong move, as it just made the cat dig his claws in deeper.
Duffy the dog, excited by—well, all the excitement—ran up and bit McGlade on the leg.
I yelled at Duffy and then looked for my squirt bottle that I used when Mr. Friskers got nasty. It was next to the sink, empty. Mr. Friskers got nasty a lot.
“I’M SORRY I SAID YOU WERE A BITCH!” McGlade cried out. “CALL FOR HELP!”
I reached over to swat Duffy. He gave me sad eyes and peed all over McGlade’s leg.
“THAT’S EVEN WORSE THAN THE BITING!”
I grabbed Mr. Friskers by the scruff of his neck and twisted. He detached from McGlade and took a swipe at me, but I released him.
He landed on the dog.
What happened next could best be described as basset hound rodeo.
The dog howled, running around the kitchen, the cat clinging to his back like a jockey.
“I’m bleeding,” McGlade wailed. “This was a new shirt. Do you have stain remover?”
As Harry unbuttoned his shirt, Duffy began to buck, but his stunted little hound dog legs weren’t suited to the task. Mr. Friskers hissed and spat, clinging to Duffy in a wholly unnatural way, his cat eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop out. Eventually, Duffy’s floppy ears blocked his vision, and he ran full force into the refrigerator with a thud.
The ride finally over, Mr. Friskers bounded off, straight at McGlade.
The cat leapt up just as Harry took off his shirt and clung to his bare chest, claws sinking in.
“BOTH NIPPLES!” McGlade screamed. “HE’S GOT BOTH NIPPLES!”
Duffy, excited by the commotion, trotted over and bit McGlade’s leg.
“HE BIT ME IN THE SAME EXACT SPOT! THE PISSING WAS BETTER!”
I grabbed another bottle from under the sink and squirted all three of them until they parted ways.
“IT STINGS! GODDAMN IT, JACK, IT STINGS!”
That’s when I realized I’d accidentally grabbed the bottle of vinegar I used to polish windows.
Both Duffy and Mr. Friskers seemed fine, but McGlade was pounding on his bleeding chest like it had caught fire.
“Why don’t you just rub salt on me?” he accused. “Or squeeze on some lemon juice?”
“Sorry,” I managed. But it had improved my mood. A lot. Seeing McGlade in pain appealed to my baser instincts.
“JESUS HOLY MOTHER LOVING EVERLASTING CHRIST IT BURNS LIKE ACID! WHAT THE…AW, SHIT! MY NIPPLE IS GONE!”
I looked at Mr. Friskers to see if he was chewing on anything. Or playing with it. He once batted around a Skittle for two hours, and nipples didn’t seem that different.
Luckily, McGlade hadn’t lost a nipple. It was just covered with blood so he couldn’t see it. I offered him a kitchen towel and then sent him to the bathroom to clean up. Then I locked Duffy in my office and mopped up his pee.
“I may need stitches,” McGlade called from the bathroom.
“Do you want to go to a doctor?”
“No. But what if I get an infection?”
“The vinegar probably cleaned the wounds out,” I said, not knowing if that was true or not. But it sounded plausible. If something stung that badly, it was probably killing germs.
“Your pets suck. You got an extra shirt?”
“Bedroom closet. Use one of Phin’s.”
I went back to my office to check on Duffy and found him happily polishing off my beef sandwich and pork rinds.
My beef sandwich and pork rinds…
“Down! Bad dog!”
I raced for the plate, not concerned for the food, but for what was under the food.
What had been under the food.
It was too late. The food, and my engagement ring, were in the dog.
“You call
him a bad dog for eating your food, but not for biting your guest?” McGlade had come into the office pulling on a white T-shirt. “You need to get your priorities in order.”
I collapsed onto my chair, which groaned in protest. “I really need to go to Peoria.”
“I’ll go with you, on one condition.”
“What?”
“You euthanize both animals.”
“McGlade…”
“Euthanize them with the cleansing fire of a 450-degree oven. And some gasoline. And a gun.”
“My car’s in the garage,” I said.
“They have to die, Jack. Especially that cat. It’s like a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper. I swear the little bastard was smiling at me the whole time.”
I wrote Phin a note saying I was sorry and not to let Duffy out until I returned.
Then McGlade and I headed off to Peoria to see Violet King.
March 31, 1:45 P.M.
He’s sliding a copy of The Killer and His Weapon into a clear plastic bag already bearing a note to Jack—black Magic Marker prewritten on plastic—when his iPhone buzzes like an angry yellow jacket.
Luther glances at the caller ID. Swears.
Unfortunate timing for someone to be calling, with Marquette wide open, and Luther sitting in the back of his van. He can see people passing by on the sidewalk through the one-way glass—at least several a minute. He hadn’t expected there to be so many out on a rainy spring day. Hopes choosing this location hasn’t been a critical mistake.
The phone is still ringing.
He sets the bag down and wipes the blood off his arms, answers on speaker, “Hello?”
“Yes, I’m trying to reach Rob Siders.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Peter Roe’s secretary.” The patent attorney. Spectacularly bad timing. “Mr. Roe asked that I call you to reschedule your appointment.”
Alarm bells go off in Luther’s head. “Reschedule?”
“Yes, he has a conflict tomorrow afternoon, but I could slide you in the day after at ten A.M.”
Luther’s mind works feverishly. No. No, no, no, no, no. This will ruin everything. Must remain calm.
“But I’m only in town for a limited time,” Luther says, trying to keep his voice under control. “It’s mandatory that I see him tomorrow.”
“Well, if I switch some things around, maybe I could fit you in at noon.”
“Listen to me very carefully. Noon will not work. One thirty is the only acceptable time.”
“Hang on. Let me put you on hold for just a second.”
Muzak kicks in. If this doesn’t work out, there are no other options. He’ll have to show up at one thirty regardless. Wing it. That will be trickier, and more people will have to die, but he’s up to the task.
The secretary comes back on the line. “Good news, Mr. Siders. Mr. Roe has agreed to squeeze you in at one thirty, but it will have to be an abbreviated meeting. He has something at two—”
He cuts her off. “Fifteen minutes is all I need.”
Luther ends the call.
He seals the plastic bag containing the book and slips it into Marquette’s abdominal cavity. Peeling off his latex gloves, Luther reaches for the Handi Wipes. Then he puts on his special gloves, noting they’re due for an oiling. He undoes the bungee cord on the side panel, freeing a much larger plastic bag and a gigantic cardboard box.
The next part will be fun, Luther muses.
Better than wrapping presents at Christmas.
He goes to work.
March 31, 2:00 P.M.
Clutching his father’s hand, Hector Ramirez fought the urge to run to the steps looming ahead of him, steps that climbed toward the pillars of his favorite place in the city. He loved the Shedd Aquarium. He loved the dolphins. Loved the turtles. Loved the sharks. He loved all marine life, even barnacles. The season pass was the best gift he’d ever received. When Hector grew up, he wanted to be a marine biologist.
“Hey buddy, can you give me a hand here?”
Hector was pulled to a stop. He stared at the man talking to his father. A pale, dark-haired man dressed in overalls, standing at the top of a ramp extending down out of a big white van.
The man had an enormous cardboard box on a handcart.
“I just don’t want this box to break open and spill everywhere,” the man said.
“Wait here, hijo,” his father ordered Hector, and then released his hand and started walking toward the van.
Hector watched the two men wrestle the big box down the ramp, noticing with great delight that it said FISH FOOD on the side.
This drew him over.
“What kind of fish is it for, Mister?”
The pale man winked at him.
“A jackfish.”
Hector’s brow furrowed. “What’s a jackfish?”
“It’s one of nature’s greatest predators.”
“And they have it here at the aquarium?”
“Yeah, one will be here very soon.”
The man pushed the hand truck back up into the van, hopped down onto the pavement, and raised the ramp.
“You’re just leaving it here?” Hector asked.
“Someone will come get it.” The pale man winked. “Trust me, the jackfish will be here soon. It can smell the blood, you see.”
Hector watched the man climb back into the van and pull away.
“Hijo! Zapatos!”
Hector looked down at his shoes and saw that he was standing in a widening pool of blood.
March 31, 4:30 P.M.
After half a lifetime of driving a Chevy Nova, I’d traded up and purchased a Nissan Juke. It was an odd-looking vehicle that resembled a cicada, but it contained a turbo engine and all-wheel-drive, and because it was an SUV, it would accommodate family vacations.
That is, if Phin ever forgave me.
McGlade drove to Peoria, since neither of us wanted to risk me having a seizure while behind the wheel. He spent most of the time complaining about the pain in his chest. A few years back, McGlade had been captured by a serial killer, had his fingers sliced off one by one, and I didn’t recall him complaining about that half as much as he was complaining now.
But then, vinegar in an open wound probably stung like a bastard.
I didn’t bring my Kindle along, but using the Kindle app on my iPhone, I’d downloaded the Andrew Z. Thomas e-book, The Scorcher, and read a good chunk of it before we arrived. While I wouldn’t qualify Thomas as a psychopath based solely on his writing, the guy had a creepy imagination. He certainly wrote realistic villains. Sizzle, the book’s antagonist, read like an amalgamation of several murderers I’d known. All bad guys thought they were the good guys and were able to justify their warped crimes in their own minds. Thomas nailed it.
“How about Goldschlager,” Harry said, interrupting my reading.
“Huh?”
“As a name for the baby.”
“Goldschlager?”
“It’s cinnamon schnapps.”
“I know what it is. And no.”
“You sure? Goldschlager is hot.” His smile was as wide as a zebra’s ass.
“I’m not naming her after alcohol, McGlade. That’s my final say on the subject.”
I went back to the e-book.
“Kahlua.”
“No.”
“Baileys.”
“Is she plural? No.”
“Budweiser.”
“Hell, no.”
“Wild Turkey.”
I stared at McGlade. “You’re not even trying.”
“What guy wouldn’t want to nail a chick named Wild Turkey?”
“That’s what I want for my daughter. Guys trying to nail her based on her name.”
“You sure she’s a girl?”
“No penis on the ultrasound. That’s usually the giveaway.”
“Penis could have been hidden. Or really tiny. Terrible thing to be born with a small penis. So I’ve heard.”
“It’s a girl,” I sai
d again, wondering why I felt so strongly about it.
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