Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  Just his luck, the place is so full there’s a ten-minute wait for tables.

  The Chemist studies the crowd. Lots of twenty-somethings. A few loners. Old people. Yuppies. And some off-duty cops, waiting to be served.

  Perfect. This is going to be exciting. Really exciting.

  He buys a newspaper from one of the coin machines in the restaurant lobby, leans against the wall, and waits.

  A few minutes later, he’s given a table for one. He makes small talk with the fat waitress, and eventually orders the all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet that Sammy’s is famous for.

  He approaches the salad bar like a sinner approaches an altar, reverent and nervous. The owners of Sammy’s have installed a clear plastic sneeze shield at eye level, so germs don’t contaminate the food.

  How thoughtful of them, the Chemist muses. So concerned for their customers’ health.

  The Muzak can barely be heard above the loud conversations, so he knows no one will hear the hiss of his gun. He picks up a plate from the stack, still warm from the dishwasher, and gets in line behind two blond girls with jeans that just barely cover their butt cracks.

  The big bowl of diced fruit, resting on a bed of crushed ice, gets his attention first.

  Psssssssssst. Pssssssssssssst.

  Then he moves to the pan of scrambled eggs. Then the bacon. The dry cereal. The obligatory red gelatin. Sausages. French toast. Waffles. And a large tray of Danish and bagels.

  The Chemist leaves the buffet spread with a large plate of food that he has no intention of eating. He surreptitiously detaches the jet injector and sticks it into his pocket. Then he returns to his table, opens the paper to a random page, and pretends to read.

  But he’s really watching the salad bar.

  The cops are the first ones there, and he has to bite his lower lip to stop from grinning. They pile their plates with enough poison to kill a large town.

  A yuppie couple next. Then some black guys. A father with a young son who demands Jell-O—he should have gone to school today, Dad. A single guy going for toast seconds. One of the blond girls, returning for more eggs. An old man who is filling two plates, one for his crone of a wife waiting back at their table. The Chemist loses count after a dozen people have come and gone.

  The first person begins to convulse less than five minutes later.

  It’s one of the cops. First he’s patting his forehead with a napkin. Then he’s clutching his stomach. Then he’s on the floor, shaking like he’s plugged into an electrical outlet.

  The Chemist can stare openly, because everyone else is as well. One of the other cops places a call on his radio, doubles over, then spews a lovely green vomit all over his fallen partner.

  People are on their feet now, their shocked expressions priceless. The Chemist stands as well, feigning horror.

  The little boy is next. His face plops right into his plate of gelatin, and Dad begins screaming for help.

  Soon many people are screaming.

  One of the yuppies, moaning nonsensically, runs full-tilt into another table, sending food and patrons flying.

  The old man has something spilling from his mouth that appears to be drool, and he’s shaking with palsy so badly that his false teeth pop out.

  More vomiting. More moaning. A mad rush for the door, where a girl who didn’t even eat at the salad bar is trampled. The last cop, apparently hallucinating, fires his gun into the crowd, then begins aiming out the window at people on the sidewalk.

  It is absolutely glorious. Truly a scene from hell. Seeing the immediate fruits of his labors is so much more rewarding than watching the victims on hospital ventilators on the news.

  He yearns to be closer to the action, to become a part of it.

  No one is looking at him, so he doesn’t even try to conceal the jet injector anymore. He reattaches the hose, arms the unit, and then pushes his way into the throng of people.

  Psssssssst. He gets a man in the neck.

  Psssssssst. A woman’s arm.

  Pssssssssst. A stray hand that got too close.

  These first three he injects are so anxious to flee the restaurant that they don’t even turn to look at him. The Chemist knows the jet injector doesn’t hurt much. It’s more of a mild discomfort, like having a small rubber band snapped against your skin. In the panic of the moment, none of them feel a thing.

  He locates his waitress, the only person in the restaurant who got a good look at him, and gives her two trigger pulls under the chin.

  She opens her mouth to scream, then falls over, convulsing.

  The restaurant is almost empty now, except for the dead and dying. He hurries back to his table, drops the note, then picks up his plate and takes it along, dumping the contents on the floor. Ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks are starting to arrive. He crosses the street, tosses his plate into a Dumpster, and stands there for ten minutes, watching the commotion.

  The news crews arrive next.

  This will get more than a ten-second sound bite, he says to himself. Then he catches the bus for home, anxious to turn on the TV.

  CHAPTER 14

  I SPENT ALL DAY in the hospital, by Latham’s side. I held his hand, cried, and listened to the doctors tell me there was nothing else they could do but hope the toxin’s progression was stopped in time.

  Latham didn’t regain consciousness.

  Since I wasn’t a relative I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight, even though I flashed my badge and made threats. They kicked me out when visiting hours ended.

  Not having any other options, I went home.

  Sleep wasn’t going to happen. When all went well in Jack’s world, getting to sleep was difficult. With everything currently going on, sleep would be impossible.

  Instead, I worked out my frustration the way my mother always did. I cleaned the house.

  I began by just tidying up, but that progressed to knee pads and rubber gloves and Lysol and Pine-Sol and ammonia. Everywhere I looked I saw germs, poisons, toxins. I individually bagged all the food Latham had bought at the deli and set it outside on the porch, and then threw away every other piece of food in the refrigerator and scrubbed it out with bleach.

  Then I scoured the sink, disinfected the garbage can, mopped the floors, hosed down the bathroom, washed the bedsheets and pillowcases, and then the pillows themselves and the comforter. And, dressed in my Kevlar vest, safety goggles, and two oven mitts, I gave Mr. Friskers a bath.

  He didn’t like it.

  After applying hydrogen peroxide to the gashes on my arm and cheek, I broke out the vacuum and wondered if I had time to do a room or two before I needed to get ready for work. My mother’s bedroom was the smallest, so I figured I could at least get that one done.

  I plugged the vacuum cleaner in, pushed Mom’s twin bed over to the far wall, and bent down to pick up a shoe box she had under the bed.

  Mr. Friskers, apparently still angry about the bath, launched a surprise attack, bounding into the room and leaping onto my back. I twirled around, feeling one of his claws dig into my shoulder, and the shoe box opened up and spewed paper everywhere like a snowblower.

  The cat howled. So did I. Luckily, within reach was something he hated even more than the squirt gun—the vacuum.

  I pressed the on pedal with my toe, and the sound alone was enough to make him disengage and haul ass out of the room.

  All of those people who crow about how pets enrich our lives are full of shit.

  I kicked off the vacuum, looked at the mess of paper around the room, and sighed as I began to pick stuff up.

  It was mail, mostly. Some letters from one of my mother’s old boyfriends. I inadvertently saw the phrase nibble your luscious wet and had to turn away before I saw any more.

  One envelope, however, stood out because it was still sealed. Written on the front was the word Jacqueline in my mother’s florid script.

  I stared at it for a moment. On one hand, it was sealed and hidden in a box under my mother’s bed. On a
nother hand, it had my name on it.

  On any other day, I would have put it back unopened. But I was exhausted, emotionally frazzled, and I didn’t need anything else hanging over my head at the moment.

  I opened the envelope and read the letter:

  My Darling Daughter,

  If you’re reading this, it is because you’ve been going through my things after I’ve died. I hope my passing hasn’t caused you too much distress.

  I take that back. I hope you’re completely devastated. I loved you more than life itself, and know you felt the same way about me. You’re the one good thing I did with my life.

  There’s something you should know, something I’ve never had the courage to tell you when I was alive. You see, I can’t forgive the man, and I knew if you learned the truth I’d have to deal with my buried feelings all over again. It was wrong, and you have every right to be mad at me, but now that I’m dead, I don’t have to hear you condemn me for my decision.

  I’ve lied to you, Jacqueline. When you were small, you were told your father died of a heart attack. In truth, he didn’t die. He left us. One day, after supper, he calmly told me that he hated being a husband, hated being a father, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us ever again. Then he walked out of our lives forever.

  I told you he died because, essentially, he was dead to us. It was easier to tell a child that her father wasn’t coming back because he was no longer with us, rather than he no longer wanted to be a father. I meant to tell you the truth, when you got older, but I feared you’d track him down and confront him.

  It took a very long time for me to move on, after he left. You were a wonderful girl to raise, but you know how difficult we had it. I cannot ever forgive him for what he did to us, and never want to see him again.

  I urge you to just let this go, but I know you won’t. It isn’t in your nature. You’ll track him down, and ask him why he did what he did.

  When that moment comes, dearest Jacqueline, give the bastard a swift kick in the family jewels from me.

  Love, Mom

  It took me a few seconds to process what I’d just read. Then it took me a few more seconds to get on the phone with Mom.

  “Good morning, Jacqueline. How’s my kitty cat? Is he eating?”

  “Mr. Friskers is fine. I—”

  “And how’s Latham? I really like that man. If I were a few years younger—”

  I didn’t think this was the time to hit her with that news, so I held it back.

  “Mom, I was cleaning up in your room, and I found the letter.”

  “Oh, don’t be upset. So I exchanged a few dirty letters with a few men. I find the written word much more erotic than pornographic movies. Though I did date this one gentleman who took me to a peep show once—”

  “Not that letter, Mom. The other one, with my name written on it.”

  My mother paused. “Oh. That letter. Did you read it? Of course you did, or you wouldn’t be calling. Unless you’re asking my permission to read the letter, to which I’ll politely answer no.”

  “Dad is alive?”

  Mom sighed, as if I was such a disappointment she couldn’t bear it. “I honestly don’t know. He might be. I really don’t care, one way or the other. Did you read the part when I wrote that you were the one good thing I did in my life? Did that make you cry? I cried when I wrote it. But, truth told, I’d been hitting the schnapps.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Mom, don’t you think this is something we should have discussed before you died?”

  “Well, I’m not dead, and we’re discussing it right now.”

  “Who is it?” A male voice said in the background.

  “My daughter, Charlie. Go back to sleep.”

  “Mom, are you in bed with someone?”

  “Don’t be shocked, Jacqueline. We were just sleeping.” I heard her peck him on the cheek. “The sex won’t happen until later, in the shower.”

  “Look, Mom, I’m upset right now.”

  “Well, don’t be upset with me. I’m not the one who left us.”

  I set my jaw. “He’s my father, and I should have known he was still alive.”

  “Why? So he could hurt you again? You don’t know what it’s like to have the man you married, the father of your child, look at you and tell you he wants no part of you. Believing he was dead was a much easier way to deal with the loss.”

  It was like wrestling with an octopus.

  “That should have been my decision to make, Mom.”

  “Well, now it is. But if you find him, I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to know if he’s dead or alive. I don’t want to discuss it. Ever.”

  “Fine.”

  “Also, since you’re obviously being very meticulous in your cleaning of my personal space, I suggest you stay out of my bedside cabinet, lest you find more things that upset you. Good-bye, Jacqueline.”

  She hung up. I marched into her bedroom, tugged open the drawer next to her bed, saw a variety of battery-controlled devices in different sizes and shapes, then closed the drawer and tried to get the images out of my head. Especially of the really long red one.

  Mom knew I’d open the drawer. She did that on purpose to rattle me. I became even more annoyed.

  Mr. Friskers appeared in the doorway and hissed in my direction.

  “Not now,” I warned him.

  He seemed to consider it, then trotted away. I glanced at the clock, saw I was running late, and hopped in the shower. I didn’t have time to condition, did a quick towel dry, dressed in a gray Tahari Mandarin collar jacket that I bought in a set with a beige cami and black slacks. God bless the Home Shopping Network. I eyed a pair of Emilio Pucci heels, which had so many different colors in their crazy design they looked like they were made of Care Bear skins, but ultimately went with some Taryn Rose “Stevie” flats, figuring I’d be running around all day.

  The long drive to work gave me time to apply my makeup in the car and for my hair to air dry, providing it wasn’t humid enough to give me the frizzies.

  An hour later I was pulling into my District parking lot. The day turned out to be rain-forest humid, and the only thing I could do with my brown curls was tie them in a ponytail.

  I took the stairs up to my office, hoping Herb had gotten there before me and was waiting with a big cup of coffee, because I needed caffeine.

  There was a person in my office, but it wasn’t Herb. And she didn’t have coffee.

  “That’s my desk,” I said, pointed to where she was sitting.

  The girl smiled. “I know. It’s your office.”

  She was in her early twenties. Blond hair with pink highlights, in a short bob. Enough makeup to shame a gypsy fortune-teller. Multiple earrings. And a multicolored blouse that clung so tight, it looked painted on.

  “I’m Roxanne.” She stood. Roughly my height, but slightly thinner in the waist and hips, and a cup size bigger. “Roxanne Waclawski. Call me Roxy.”

  She offered a hand, a zillion sterling silver wire bracelets jingling at me.

  I kept my hand at my side.

  “Why are you in my office.” I added, “Roxy.”

  She smiled big. “We’re partners!”

  “I have a partner.”

  “Captain Bains told me that I’m your new partner. Your old one died or retired or something.”

  I spun on my Stevies and walked across the hall to Herb’s office. He was packing stuff into boxes.

  “Herb? What’s going on?”

  My partner looked at me with an expression halfway between pain and remorse.

  “My transfer came through. I’m going to Burglary/Robbery/ Theft. No more Homicide.”

  I felt like I’d been hit, like all the important people in my life were deserting me.

  “Why?” I heard myself say.

  “The stress. I can’t take it. Too many years of people trying to kill me. Or you. I think it’s worse seeing you in danger.”

  “If it’s about yesterday—”
>
  Herb set down the box, hard. The noise made me flinch.

  “Yesterday was just an example. It’s been like this for a long time. I can’t take it anymore, Jack. I’ve seen too many dead bodies. Talked to too many crying relatives. I’m done.”

  He pulled out his desk drawer and dumped all of the contents into the box. Most of the contents were empty food wrappers.

  “Weren’t you going to tell me?” I asked.

  “Bernice told me not to. She said you’d talk me out of it.”

  “Of course I’d talk you out of it. You’re a Homicide cop. A damn good one. It’s in your blood. You can’t walk away from this.”

  “I got less than ten years left in the Job. I’m spending them in Robbery. No crazed maniacs. No psycho killers. No lunatics poisoning the whole goddamn city. The next decade will be like a paid vacation.”

  I walked around his desk and put my hand on his arm. Herb was practically family. I’d had partners before, but never one that I felt such a bond with.

  “You saved my life yesterday, pulling me out of that house. If you go to Robbery, who’s going to save my ass next time?”

  I said it half-joking, but his reply was so serious it stung.

  “You’ll have to find someone else to save you next time, Jack.”

  He gave me his back, pulling stuff off of shelves.

  “I put all the task force stuff on your desk, which team is doing what. I’m sure Bains will assign you a new partner, if he hasn’t already.”

  “He has. The paint on her isn’t even dry yet.”

  Herb turned and managed a weak grin. “A younger partner, huh? I’d never put up with that shit.”

  Maybe I was the one who reached for him. Maybe he was the one who reached for me. But the very next moment, two tough macho cops were hugging like relatives at a funeral.

  “You’re going to make a great Robbery cop,” I said to his chubby neck.

  “You can come with me. Think it over. No shooting. No dead kids. No serial creepos. And if the bad guy gets away, he won’t wipe out a preschool. The worst he’ll do is steal a BMW.”

  “Sounds tempting. I’ll think about it.” But we both knew I was lying.