Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  “No time for girl talk? I understand. You’re on a tight schedule. Another man you love is going to die. Tough to concentrate on idle chitchat.”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “No you’re not. You’ll listen for as long as I want you to, hoping for a precious clue. Well, here it is, Lieutenant. I’m sure you’re heading to Iowa now, but you probably don’t know where I’ve got your husband stashed. There are a few dozen hotels in Dubuque, and trust me, I’ve made it hard for you. So if you need a little hint, ask Jim Hardy. And here’s some good advice, woman to woman. If you find Alan, and he’s all lit up like a Christmas tree, keep your hands to yourself.”

  Alex hangs up, pleased. The hint is obscure—a lot harder than the “Stairway to Heaven” clue. But it’s just cute enough that when Jack figures it out, she’ll kick herself.

  Having enemies is so much fun.

  Alex pulls off the main highway, into the nearest town, looking for a coffee shop, bookstore, or Internet café. Something with WiFi access.

  The next show is about to start.

  CHAPTER 39

  AS SOON AS I GOT off the phone with Alex I called Harry.

  “How are you doing with Alan’s credit cards?”

  Phin, talking about his past while we were in the motel, reminded me that the easiest way to find someone is to track their latest credit card purchases. If Alan listened to my warning and checked into a hotel, he probably made the reservation using a card. Harry, given the nature of his business, had sources with all the big banks.

  “It’s not good, sis. Ah, Christ!”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Slappy just puked beer all over the place. He can puke farther than he can piss. This is even messier than a brass clown. Good fucking suggestion, Phin.”

  “Focus, McGlade! Can you get his usage history?”

  “I’ve got his complete history. But Alex must have known we’d do this. I’ve got hotel charges for eight hotels in Dubuque, Iowa, all made within the last twenty-four hours. She must have made the reservations using his card.”

  Shit.

  “Can’t you tell which one came first? Or which is the most active? Maybe he had room ser vice, or watched a movie.”

  “Negativo. All I’ve got are pings, not actual charges. Billing doesn’t happen until hours, sometimes days, after a card gets authorized. That’s why it doesn’t appear on your statement right away.”

  “Give them to me.”

  Harry read the list. I wrote the names and addresses down on the back of the donut bag.

  “How far are we?” I asked Phin.

  He had the accelerator pinned, and we were flying so fast that even seat belts and air bags wouldn’t save our lives if he made a mistake.

  “Ten minutes from Dubuque. What’s the destination?”

  Alan had eight minutes left. “We don’t know yet.”

  “We’re going to hit traffic when we reach the city. There will only be time to try one hotel.”

  “How about Jim Hardy?” I asked Harry. “Anything?”

  “The main Google hits are for a pro golfer, an old-time newspaper comic, an NFL quarterback from the fifties. But the golfer gets the most.”

  “Those eight hotels. Do any of them have a golf course nearby?”

  “I can check. Aw, Jesus!” Harry made a gagging noise. “Right in the mouth! Do I gotta buy a goddamn hockey mask to protect myself from flying monkey dung?”

  My call waiting beeped. Tom Mankowski. “Call me back,” I said, and clicked over to Tom. “Please give me some good news.”

  “The Dubuque cops are calling all the hotels, searching for an Alan Daniels, and so far they’ve found six reservations.”

  “Any check-ins?”

  “All six. They’re sending out teams, but they’re not a big department. The town only has sixty thousand people in it, and there was some big shoot-out at a department store, so they can’t spare many men.”

  “How about Jim Hardy?”

  “I’ve been poring through Alex’s files. So far, nothing. Lieut…there’s something else you need to know.”

  “Spill it, Detective.”

  “The Feds have a warrant. Dubuque PD was ordered to arrest you on sight. They believe you’re harboring a fugitive. Are you?”

  “He’s a bank robber. You want to talk to him?”

  “Tell him I said hi,” Phin said.

  “Be careful, Lieutenant. I’ll call when I hear something.”

  I hung up. Phin tapped the brakes, causing me to lurch forward in my seat.

  “Exit, Jack. We have to make a decision.”

  I stared at the list of hotels. We had a one in six chance of picking the right one. And even if we did pick correctly, we might not make it in time. I hated these odds, almost as much as I hated my job, my life, myself. And Alex. God, did I hate Alex. For what she did to Latham, and now to Alan. Harry figured out from the picture that she’d hooked him up to a defibrillator. Which explained her “light him up like a Christmas tree” comment.

  Or did it?

  Alan wouldn’t actually light up. He’d be electrocuted. She could have easily made a snide comment about him being shocked, or fried, or something to do with his heart. Why’d she mention Christmas?

  I redialed Harry.

  “Google Jim Hardy plus Christmas.”

  “Hold on, I’m brushing my teeth.”

  “Now, McGlade!”

  “Fine! Aw, God. There are chunks of monkey chow on my keyboard. It smells awful. I’m starting to think this pet thing wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Harry!”

  “Okay! Jeez! First hit is…Holiday Inn. How about that? Jim Hardy is the character Bing Crosby played, sang ‘White Christmas’ in it. Slappy, no! One beer is enough!”

  “Holiday Inn,” I told Phin, squinting at the directions on my GPS-enabled cell phone.

  Phin gave me a quick sideways glance.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to use your cell. Feds could track it.”

  “No choice. Turn on Fourth Street, right on Main.”

  I called 911, told them there was a murder being committed at the hotel, just as we pulled into the parking lot, squealing tires.

  “The cops know about you,” I said to Phin. “You should stay in the car.”

  “Like hell.”

  We both got out and ran for the lobby.

  “Alan Daniels,” I yelled at the front desk, flashing my badge. “What room number?”

  Wrong approach. The girl was flustered, scared, and kept screwing up her typing. Finally, after an eternity, she said, “Room 212.”

  We stormed up the stairs, less than two minutes to spare, and found Alan’s room, a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from the lock. Phin unleashed a vicious kick. The door was strong, and held firm. But it couldn’t hold up against three shots from a forty-caliber Beretta.

  “Alan!” I cried, barreling into the room, eyes and gun swinging over to the bed.

  Empty. The room was empty. The bed was empty. Sitting on top of the sheets was one of those tiny bottles of liquor from the hotel minibar.

  A bottle of Jack Daniels.

  I thought of Alan, of our wedding day, our vows to love, honor, and protect.

  “Alex was here,” I said. “Alan is still at the hotel. He has to be close. Check all the doors on this floor with Do Not Disturb signs on them. She wouldn’t want the maid coming in.”

  In the hall Phin went left, I went right. I found a door with the sign, banged on it, got an annoyed response from inside. Not Alan. Moved farther down the hall, but there were no other signs.

  Gunshots. Phin, bursting through a door.

  I ran to him, praying to a God I didn’t believe in.

  Another empty room.

  Think, Jack, think. Alex brought him somewhere. It had to be close, had to be on this floor, because she took him with force, dragging him or pointing a gun at him, not wanting to be seen, not wanting the maid to find him…

  The m
aid.

  I picked up the room phone, punched the button for House keeping.

  “’Allo?”

  A woman, foreign.

  “Listen very carefully,” I said. “I’m a police officer. I want to know what rooms on the second floor haven’t been cleaned yet.”

  “I dunno. I ask Maria. She do second floor.”

  And she put me on hold. I felt like screaming. According to my watch, we were already a minute late.

  “This is Maria.”

  “What rooms weren’t cleaned on the second floor?”

  “Lemme see. Room 212, I think. Room 203. And room 208. I knocked, no answer, but they had lock on.”

  “Two oh eight,” I said to Phin, and we were flying out the door.

  Found the room.

  I shot the lock.

  He put his shoulder to it, and then we were inside.

  Alan was taped to the bed, jerking and twitching, eyes rolled up in his head, a terrifying buzzing noise filling the room. I launched myself at him, reaching for the pads on his chest, and as soon as I touched him my arms locked up and pain flared through my body, like being dropped in scalding oil, so hot I felt it in my muscles and bones. I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t move. I would have screamed, but my throat slammed shut.

  Then I was on the floor, Phin’s arm around my waist. I gasped for air, managed to get some in, while Phin tugged at an electrical cord plugged into the wall. I crawled back up to Alan, pulled those horrible pads from his chest, pulled up burned skin from where they were attached.

  Touched the raw flesh, feeling his heart.

  Nothing. No beat.

  Hands shaking, I tore at his tape gag, trying not to look at his eyes, his dead eyes, wide open in agony and showing only the whites.

  Put my ear to his mouth.

  No breath. He wasn’t breathing.

  CPR. He needed CPR. I put my lips to his—when was the last time I kissed him?—then pulled away in horror.

  He tasted…cooked.

  I did it again, not hesitating, pinching his nose, blowing life into his lungs.

  There was a wet, rumbling sound, and then brown blood frothed out of his mouth.

  I straddled him, put my hands on his chest, began doing compressions.

  Blood foamed out of his nose. Out of the corners of his eyes.

  “Jack…”

  Phin, touching my shoulder.

  “The defibrillator,” I said. “We can shock him again. Get his heart started.”

  Phin gave me a gentle tug. I shoved his hands away, went back to heart compressions.

  “Jack, he’s lost too much blood.”

  “Give me the goddamn defibrillator!”

  Phin wrapped his arms around me, pulled me off Alan. I brought my heel down on his instep and he released me, then I spun around and punched him in the jaw, staggering him back. I scanned the floor for the defibrillator, found it, saw the button was glued down. No matter. I could put the pads on, plug it back in, it should work.

  It had to work.

  I picked up the pads, shakily placed them on Alan’s chest, and then noticed that the mattress was soaked in blood.

  Too much blood. Much too much.

  I gasped, brought a hand to my mouth. Then I placed my palm on his chest, pressed down. More blood sluiced out from under him, between his legs.

  “No. Oh no no no no…”

  Phin put his arms around me again. I heard sirens in the distance.

  “We should go, Jack.”

  I reached for Alan’s face, touched his cheek. Then I used two fingers to close his tortured eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

  The sirens got louder. Phin half pulled/half carried me away from the bed, past the bathroom, where I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A person, hiding under the sink.

  Alex.

  I shoved Phin back, reaching for the gun in my belt. Except I didn’t have a gun in my belt. It had somehow gotten in Phin’s belt. I yanked it free, aimed, and fired three times as fast as I could pull the trigger.

  Alex didn’t move.

  Phin wrestled the gun away from me. I let him, reaching for the bathroom light.

  Blood, everywhere. From the woman on the ground. A woman who had a knife stuck in her chest, and who definitely wasn’t Alex.

  I crumpled to the floor. Again Phin supported me, holding me around my back with his hand under my armpit, maneuvering me down the hallway, to the stairwell, down the stairs, through the lobby, into the parking lot, while tears streaked down my face.

  By the time I was in the truck I was wailing louder than the police cars that were surrounding us.

  CHAPTER 40

  NOW THAT WAS GREAT. The only thing missing was sound. It would have been wonderful to hear Jack’s cries of anguish, Alan’s muffled screams, the zap of electricity. But then, the other patrons in the coffee shop might have complained.

  Alex closes her laptop, then closes her eyes, reliving the scene in her head. Her favorite part had to be when Jack began CPR, not knowing that each time she pressed Alan’s chest, blood squirted out his ass. When she socked Phin—that was priceless too. The girl can hit hard. Jack was too self-absorbed to see Phin probe the inside of his mouth, pull out a tooth.

  Yes, it worked much better than Alex could have hoped.

  Now to concentrate on the next victim, the next phase of the plan.

  Alex finishes her coffee, then gets back on the road. An hour later, she’s standing on the street corner in Chicago, hood up, sunglasses on, hands jammed into her pockets.

  Winter will be here soon. Alex won’t miss it. Growing up in the Midwest, she has long outlived her fondness for snow and ice.

  It will be so nice to go someplace where the only ice comes in drinks.

  She stands there for twenty minutes before hearing a rumbling, up the street. Alex checks her watch as the truck passes by. Right on time. The first time she saw it, two weeks ago, was pure luck. Seeing it twice, same place, same time, isn’t luck. It’s a pattern.

  It motors past, turning where it did before, and Alex jams her hands back into her pockets and heads for her car, parked in an alley a block away. She climbs in and heads north.

  Ninety minutes later she’s back in her hotel room in Milwaukee, using the Internet to instruct her in the finer points of using cell phones as radio transmitters. Then she calls Samantha to plan their date.

  “Is your neighbor going to babysit?”

  “She said sure. Do you have a car?”

  Alex considers the Prius, the dead yuppie still in the backseat.

  “No. Do you?”

  “Sure. Want me to pick you up at your place?”

  Alex isn’t keen on letting Sam know where she’s staying.

  “I’m already downtown. Why don’t we meet at a mall? Isn’t there one called Bayshore?”

  “Yeah. I’ll meet you at J. Jill. Great store. You’ll love it. When?”

  “An hour?”

  “Excellent!”

  “Quick question. Have you ever done a bachelor party?”

  “You mean like go to the guy’s house, give them lap dances, pick up twenties out of the groom’s mouth with my hoo-ha?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Once. Didn’t pay too well, and the guys were assholes.”

  “Did you do it outlaw, no agency?”

  “No, I went through a local place, called Laugh-O-Grams. They also send birthday party clowns and stuff. You thinking of trying that?”

  “Just keeping my options open. Looking forward to seeing you.”

  And Alex is. Men are fine, but women have their own par tic u lar flavor, and in many ways are more fun. Alex can’t wait to get into Samantha’s pants. It will be the perfect end to a perfect day.

  CHAPTER 41

  “JACK! PUT ON YOUR DAMN SEAT BELT!”

  The Bronco jumped a curb, clipped a mailbox, and then fishtailed back onto the street. We had three or four squad cars behind us,
sirens blaring, hot pursuit. I had a bump on my forehead from whacking it against the dashboard. Not what I’d been hoping for. I wanted to get thrown through the front windshield and splattered on the pavement. Let it end already.

  Phin reached over, his hand seeking my seat belt. Not the easiest thing to do while cruising fifty miles an hour down a heavily populated side street. I shoved his arm away. We were in a residential area, single-family homes with carefully manicured front lawns. A place where you’d get married and settle down.

  Something I’d fucked up twice.

  He stopped trying to save my life and instead fiddled with his police band. I caught the word Staties.

  “They’re calling in the state cops. We’re screwed.”

  I didn’t care. Getting arrested was the least of my worries.

  “Come on, Jack. Give me a suggestion here.”

  “Ditch the car.”

  He made an aggressive lane change, my shoulder bouncing off the passenger door.

  “And try to make it on foot? We have to lose them first.”

  “You can’t lose them. Air support is next. They’ll plot your route, take out your tires, follow you until you run out of gas. It’s over.”

  “I say when it’s over.”

  Typical macho bullshit. I wasn’t surprised. But then Phin did do something that surprised me. He tapped the brakes, jerked the wheel, and cut across someone’s driveway, the four-wheel drive digging trenches in the sod.

  I flinched when we hit the backyard fence, popping onto someone else’s property. We bounced across their front lawn, back onto the street, and then Phin did the same thing all over again.

  “You’re going to kill someone.” I was clinging to the armrest.

  We narrowly missed a swing set, Phin overcompensated, and we spun out, crunching through a dog house that I sincerely hoped was empty. Phin hit the gas, the Bronco lurched forward, and we tore through another backyard, down an embankment, and into a cornfield. This was feed corn, beige and dry and standing over ten feet tall. Rows, acres, miles, an endless ocean.

  Driving through it was agonizing, because we couldn’t see any farther than the hood. At any moment it could have ended and we’d be in the middle of the street. Or in a school playground during recess.