Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  “Focus on work, Jack. Keep your mind on the matter at hand. Everything else can wait until later.”

  That proved it. Latham was an alien pod person. No man could be this perfect.

  “I love you,” I said, and meant it.

  “Love you too. Stay safe.”

  Stryker rallied his troops, and my leadership role was relegated to the sidelines to impotently watch his “two by two surgical entry.” I stood alongside Herb, who’d been on the phone for over an hour organizing the task force teams, and snagged a headset from the SRT member monitoring the infrared. Beta Team marched around back, Stryker gave the radio command, and they rushed the front door. His partner did a knock-and-announce, Stryker hit the door with a handheld Thunderbolt battering ram, and they both stormed inside, weapons drawn.

  “Team Alpha in,” the radio squawked. “Hallway clear.”

  A similar banging came from the rear of the house.

  “Team Beta in. Kitchen clear.”

  The headsets were so sensitive, I could make out four different breathing rates, four different footfalls. They had gone in under the assumption that anyone inside would have looked out the window and noticed the police carnival camped on the street, so this arrest was about speed rather than stealth.

  “First bedroom clear.”

  Shuffling sounds. Some clicks.

  “Hallway clear.”

  Then came a gunshot.

  And screaming.

  “Beta Team leader down! Repeat, Beta Team leader down! We have gunfire!”

  A horrible gurgling came through my earpiece, like someone choking in a shallow pool of water.

  “Alpha Team has been hit! Possible IED! Alpha—”

  There was a popping noise, another gunshot, and static.

  “Team Alpha, do you read,” I said into the comlink. “Team Alpha, do you read.”

  Moaning, but no coherent response.

  “Team Beta, do you read. Beta, are you there, goddammit.”

  More gurgling, weaker this time.

  Herb closed his cell phone and said, “Jesus.”

  I looked at the laptop monitor and could spot the heat signatures of all four SRT members. None were moving.

  “Stryker, are you there.”

  The moaning became a keening cry, like a sick dog. It made the fillings in my teeth vibrate.

  “Gamma Team going in!”

  Two more SRT members, a man and the woman working the cartoid mike, rushed the house.

  “Hold it!” I yelled.

  They didn’t listen, quickly disappearing through the front door.

  “Gamma Team, stand down,” I said into the radio. “Repeat, stand down. I’m OIC. I want your asses back here now.”

  White noise. A groan.

  “They’re dead. They’re all dead.”

  I gripped the headgear so tight, my fingers shook. “Get the hell out of there!”

  “Jesus, what happened to his eyes—”

  “This place is rigged. It’s all rigged. Oh my—”

  A snapping sound, then coughing.

  “Gamma Team, do you read? Gamma Team, come in, over.”

  More coughing, and then the horrifying screech of someone screaming while throwing up. My skin got prickly all over.

  “Gamma Team, come in.”

  The silence was suffocating. Then, after almost thirty seconds: “Please . . . someone help me . . .”

  The final two SRT members made a try for the door. Herb tackled one. I used both hands to grab the other by the wrist.

  “No,” I told him.

  “That’s my team!”

  “We’ll get them out.”

  His name tag said James, Joshua. A kid, early twenties, barely old enough to shave. His eyes were wide, panicked, and he looked like he desperately wanted to believe me.

  “How?” he asked.

  I turned to the super, who appeared shaken, but not nearly as shaken as everyone on the line.

  “I need a HazMat team, and the bomb squad, and that robot they have, the remote control one with the cameras.”

  “Bomb squad is at the Twenty-first District, the other side of town,” she said.

  “Tell them to drive fast.”

  Rick took my arm. “Make sure the HazMat uses self-contained breathers. I think something got through the NATO filters.”

  “I thought the NATO filters were safe.”

  “For BT, yes.” Rick glanced at the radio unit, painful gurgling coming through the speaker. “That doesn’t sound like BT.”

  “Do you have . . . what are those protective suits called?”

  “Space suits. Back at Quantico. Not with me.”

  “. . . help me . . . please God help . . .”

  I racked my brain. Who would have a space suit? Fire stations? Nearby laboratories? I just saw a suit like that a little while ago. Where the hell was it?

  Then I remembered what neighborhood I was in, and who lived nearby.

  “Goddammit,” I said, yanking out my cell phone, wondering if I’d ever bothered to erase his number.

  It was still there. I hesitated two full seconds, then pressed the dial button.

  “Harry’s House of Love Juice, one hundred percent natural with zero carbohydrates, stop by for a free sample.”

  “McGlade,” I said, swallowing my pride. “It’s Jack. I need your help.”

  CHAPTER 6

  MCGLADE BEAT THE BOMB SQUAD and the HazMat team to the scene, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good because we desperately needed his help, bad because being around McGlade was slightly less enjoyable than pulling out your own toenails with pliers.

  “Hiya, Jackie,” he said through the driver’s-side window, pulling his Corvette alongside the curb. “You want me to park this big boy here, or shall I use your rear entrance?”

  I briefly wondered what happened to his trademark 1968 Mustang, then realized he couldn’t drive stick shift with his newly acquired prosthesis. McGlade had been a player in a homicide investigation of mine not too long ago, and he hadn’t come out of the debacle entirely intact.

  “Got the space suit?”

  “I got it. You’re lucky too—I just had it cleaned. There were stains, Jack. Lots of stains.”

  I put the thought from my mind. An eternity ago, Harry McGlade and I were partners. Since his dismissal, he’d been earning his living as a full-time private eye and part-time television producer. Along with boasting the IQ of a tire iron, McGlade also had the unwelcome distinction of being one of the biggest perverts I know, and I’d met quite an assortment of them working Vice. Whatever he was using this space suit for had nothing to do with science.

  “Where is it?” I asked.

  “In back.”

  He popped the trunk, and I stared at a big pile of Day-Glo orange. I grabbed a sleeve and pulled the suit out of the car. The material felt like a combination of rubber and nylon.

  “I should be the one going in,” Rick said, coming up behind me.

  “Those are my people in there, Agent Reilly. I’m going.”

  Herb ran over, looking even shittier than he had earlier.

  “They’re not responding anymore,” he said. “Radio is silent.”

  “Can you hear anything? Moaning? Breathing?” Rick asked.

  Herb shook his head. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my skirt. Rick and Herb averted their eyes. McGlade whistled.

  “This is a police matter, McGlade,” I said, struggling into the suit. “You can leave.”

  “Ease up, Lieutenant. We still haven’t worked out what you’re giving me because I’m letting you use my suit.”

  I fought the material. The inside clung to my bare legs like plastic wrap. “It can wait.”

  “I want a liquor license.”

  Unbelievable. Herb must have thought so as well. He grabbed McGlade’s shoulder.

  “You need to leave. Now.”

  McGlade waved his artificial hand. It wasn’t a primitive pirate claw, but it didn�
��t look entirely realistic either. The flesh color was too light, and shiny like rubber.

  “Don’t shoot me, Sergeant,” he said. “I’m unarmed.”

  Herb gave McGlade a push backward.

  McGlade smiled and shook his head, raising both hands in apparent supplication. Then he placed his fake one on Herb’s shoulder. There was a faint mechanical sound, like gears turning, and Herb yelped and fell to his knees.

  “Modern technology,” Harry said. “Six hundred pounds of pressure per square inch.”

  I got in his face. “Dammit, McGlade! People are dying! Stop screwing around!”

  Harry shrugged. The mechanical hand whirred open. Herb had lost all color.

  “Sorry, Jackie. I didn’t know we were in such a rush.”

  I managed to snug the suit on over my shoulders. McGlade leaned close to me and whispered, “So . . . if I let you use the space suit, can you talk the mayor into letting me have a liquor license for the bar I’m open—IIIIEEEEEE!”

  McGlade fell over, clutching himself between his legs. Herb unclenched the fist he’d used to induce McGlade’s aria, then got up off of his knees, his other hand rubbing his shoulder.

  “I hate that guy,” he said.

  Rick helped me strap on the SCBA tank. The gloves were thin, but not thin enough to get my finger inside of a trigger guard. Herb noted this and promised he’d be right back. The headpiece went on over the radio headset, a large hood with a Plexiglas faceplate.

  It was hot in the suit. Steam-bath hot. And it smelled bad, like chili dogs. Sweat beads popped out onto my forehead, and my silk blouse clung to me at my armpits.

  “Let me know when you feel the air.”

  Rick turned the dials on my self-contained breathing apparatus, and a wave of cool air bathed my face and circulated throughout the suit. The chest and legs began to puff out, like a balloon.

  “I’ll be with you on the radio,” Rick said through the comlink. “Keep the chatter going, describe everything you see, maybe I can help.”

  Herb jogged back, cradling a Remington 870MCS shotgun with a pistol grip. He stepped over McGlade and passed it to me. My gloved finger easily fit into the oversized trigger guard.

  “Bomb squad is still ten minutes away,” Herb said. “Robby took a bad hit last week and is out of commission.”

  Robby was their remote-controlled robot.

  “Give my respects to his family,” I said, starting for the house.

  “We could still wait for them. They’ve got better protective gear.”

  “No time.”

  “Dammit, Jack.” Herb came up after me. “You’re not even wearing a vest.”

  “Armor didn’t seem to help the SRT.”

  I jogged toward the house. Herb and Rick flanked me.

  “Her suit is leaking,” Herb said. “I can feel the air.”

  “Positive pressure. It’s supposed to do that. With air blowing out, nothing can get in.”

  Herb appeared ready to burst into tears.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jack.”

  “Me too.”

  I paused for just a moment, and stared at my partner through the Plexiglas face shield, wondering why this moment seemed so final.

  “Okay.” I took a big gulp of canned air. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE CHEMIST WATCHES the cop in her space suit approach the front door. The suit offers more protection than the previous batch of cops had, but it still isn’t enough.

  She has seconds left to live. Minutes, if she’s extremely lucky.

  The Chemist has spent a very long time getting things ready. There are enough traps to kill at least a dozen cops. Even careful ones in protective biohazard suits.

  He hadn’t expected that the next death would be Jack Daniels, however. She’s a celebrity. Now this will be national news for sure. He should have set the TiVo after all.

  He wonders which one will get her. The modified M44? The rattraps? The pull-loop switch? The metal ball? So many terrible things await her.

  And which toxin will it be? BT is perfect for food contamination, and the slower onset of symptoms has the desired effect of overburdening the hospitals and spreading panic and paranoia. But situations like this one called for something more immediate. More dramatic. Convallaria majalis. Ricin. Rhododendron ponticum. Ornithogalum umbellatum. Thevetia peruviana. Strychnos toxifera. Each of these induces instantaneous, messy death.

  Of course, nothing is quite as cinematic as good old homemade napalm. Or potassium cyanide gas. He’s covered those bases too.

  The Chemist spent several months researching this particular phase of the Plan. Booby trap diagrams are easily found on the Internet, but he’s taken them to the next level. They’ve become works of art. Fatal works of art. The slightest scrape of skin, the tiniest tear of fabric, the smallest misstep, and you’re dead.

  So exciting. So amusing. And he has the perfect view of everything.

  He wishes he had a bag of popcorn.

  A television news truck pulls up. It’s about damn time.

  The money will be nice. But what will really keep him company in his old age are the memories of moments like this.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SPACE SUIT WAS claustrophobic, hot, and cumbersome. I found it extremely hard to focus. The jog up to the front door had a surreal quality, as if I were indeed stepping foot onto another planet.

  “Keep your eyes moving.” Rick, through the comlink. “Not only side to side, but up and down. Pay attention to where you’re placing your feet, and what’s overhead. You’re looking for IEDs.”

  Improvised explosive devices. Traps that released chemical or biological weapons. The things that decimated the SRT.

  I stopped before entering the doorway and poked my hooded head inside, twisting my shoulders to get peripheral views. I could see the living room to my immediate left; the sofa and entertainment center looked completely normal. Beyond it, a hallway. To my right, several doors. No signs of Alger, or any of the fallen cops.

  “Where’s the first heat signature?” I said into my headset.

  “To your right.” Herb’s voice. “Second door.”

  “Watch the thermals. If you see any signs of movement, let me know.”

  “Roger that. Take it slow in there, Jack.”

  I lifted up my right foot and crossed the threshold. The floor was dark wood, scratched, in need of refinishing. I noted some splinters and a screw; leftovers from the battering ram. I shifted my weight to my foot slowly, cautiously, as if I were on thin ice. It held.

  “Attention, Special Response Team, this is Lieutenant Daniels, Homicide.” I’d almost said Violent Crimes, but recently the suits had changed division names. “I’m coming into the house to find you. If you see someone in a big orange suit, hold your fire.”

  My words echoed in my earpiece, but had another added echo after bouncing off of my faceplate. I moved with care, as if every step counted, but the boots attached to the suit were too big for my feet and it was like walking around in clown shoes. Four steps into the hallway, my toe snagged on the base of a coatrack and I almost fell on top of my shotgun.

  I was going to kill myself before I even got to the booby traps.

  “What do you see, Jack?”

  “It’s a house. A normal, average house.”

  “It’s not normal. Don’t think that way. The IEDs will be hidden, or camouflaged. They might look like a child’s toy, or a framed photograph, or a pair of slippers. Assume that everything is deadly.”

  I took a deep breath, let it out slow. Passed through the hallway without further incident, and stopped at the second door.

  “How far into the room is the thermal reading?”

  Herb said, “It’s about two yards in front of you. Not moving.”

  Some sweat had beaded up on my forehead, and I didn’t have a way to wipe it off.

  “I’m going in.”

  My right hand kept the Remington at waist le
vel. My left turned the knob and eased the door open.

  I let out a nervous laugh when I saw the familiar rectangular object.

  “It’s a space heater.”

  “How many cords?” Rick asked.

  That was a curious question. I lowered my line of vision to floor level and saw two.

  “Thermal levels increasing.” Herb sounded as edgy as I felt.

  “Two plugs, leading to the same outlet.”

  “One is probably a motion detector, which activates a switch to increase the temperature. Certain poisons, like arsenic, become gaseous when heated.”

  “Good thing I’m wearing a mask. I can see some fumes coming off of—”

  Because I had no peripheral vision, I didn’t see the baseball until it was practically in my face. I jerked to the right, and it bounced off my faceplate. My finger reflexively squeezed the trigger, and I sprayed buckshot along the far wall, the boom of the shotgun rattling my teeth.

  “Jack! Jack, are you okay?”

  “I’m okay. Something hit me in the face. It’s some kind of spiked thing.”

  It spun crazily in front of me, a baseball on a string. Sticking out of it on all sides, like prickles on a cactus, were nails.

  “Did it penetrate your suit?”

  “I don’t think so.” I eyed the deep scratch in my faceplate, saw some sort of liquid dripping down the outside. I shuddered, wondering what those nails were coated in.

  “You have to make sure, Jack.”

  “How?”

  “Find a piece of paper. Hold it in front of your mask. If there’s a hole, the positive pressure will blow the paper.”

  I looked around the room, found a paperback copy of The Tomb by F. Paul Wilson, and waved a page a few inches before the scratch.

  “It’s okay. No air coming out.”

  “Check above you, look for more projectiles.”

  I had to bend backward to see the ceiling. “There’s a wire on top of the door. When I opened it, this thing was rigged to fall. Doesn’t look like there’s anything else up there.”

  “Remember to keep looking above you.”

  “Message received.”

  I racked another shell into the chamber.

  “. . . help . . .”