Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  Herb broke the embrace, cleared his throat, and returned to the shelf. He came back with a cellophane package of Twinkies.

  “Look at this.” He squinted at the package. “Date says 1998. They look good as new.”

  “The best things in life never change,” I told him.

  “Actually, Jack, sometimes they do.”

  He tossed the package into his box. I didn’t think I had any tears left in me, but I felt them coming. I considered telling him about Latham, or about my father. Anything to make him stay.

  Instead I said, “Call me when you get settled in.”

  Then I turned around and walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 15

  MEANWHILE, BACK IN MY OFFICE, Roxy had once again appropriated my desk. She even had her feet up, her Skechers in the spot normally reserved for my morning coffee.

  “That’s my desk.” I tucked away all of my pain in a private, secret place, where it wouldn’t get out until I allowed it, and forced a pleasant smile. “The next time I see you sitting at it, I’m going to roll you up into a ball and shove you back inside Cyndi Lauper.”

  Roxy quickly removed her feet and stood up.

  “Who’s Cyndi Lauper?” she asked.

  “A girl who just wanted to have fun.”

  “She sounds cool. Hey, while you were gone, Captain Bains called. There’s some big meeting happening downstairs that we’re supposed to go to. Conference Room A.”

  “Are you really a cop, and not someone who just snuck in here?”

  Roxy smacked her gum and grinned.

  “I like you,” she said. “You’ve got attitude.”

  I took the task force folder from my in-box. Roxy picked up her backpack—of course she had a backpack; how else could she carry her skateboard?—and followed me down the hall.

  “I thought we were going to the conference room.”

  “I need coffee.”

  “Here.” She tugged at my arm to stop me, then reached into her pack and produced a twenty-two-ounce can of energy drink.

  “I don’t want that. I want coffee.”

  “This is sugar-free. And it has twice the recommended daily allowance of taurine.”

  “What’s taurine?”

  “I dunno. It kind of tastes like pee. But it has a real kick.”

  The station coffee also tasted like pee, so I accepted the energy drink. The flavor wasn’t pee so much as carbonated bile, with a hint of salt. But my body instantly reacted to the caffeine, and I perked up a little on the way downstairs.

  “Your outfit is so cool,” Roxy told me.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m so going to wear stuff like that, when I get older.”

  Captain Bains, Superintendent O’Loughlin, Special Agent from the Hazardous Materials Response Team Dr. Rick Reilly, the ubiquitous PR guy Davy Ellis, and several other people I didn’t know were seated around the boardroom table, in a heated discussion. Roxy grabbed the last empty seat. I was about to strangle her with her hemp necklace, but Rick stood up and offered me his chair, leaving the room to find another.

  “Jack,” the super said, “this is Dr. Abigail Van Hausen from the Center for Disease Control, Major Phillip Murdoch from the United States Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases, Dr. Sylvia Ng from the World Health Organization, and Dr. Wayne Astor, also from USAMRIID.”

  I shook hands all around. Roxy did the same.

  “I’m Roxy, Jack’s partner. Anyone need an energy drink? It’s got taurine.”

  Everyone declined. Roxy removed a can and popped the top, taking a loud slurp.

  “Has this become a DOD show?” I asked, eyeing the army guys.

  The major answered, in a tone that was obviously military. “The Department of Defense is here to ascertain if the situation in Chicago is a threat to national security. Also, one of the victims at the diner yesterday was a dignitary from Japan, and we’ve been asked to assist in the investigation.”

  I’d heard about the diner massacre while at the hospital with Latham.

  Bains appeared unhappier than usual. “Six dead, four more in critical condition. We’ve confirmed it’s a Chemist attack—note found at the scene.”

  He passed over a piece of paper in a large plastic bag and went into details about the time and place. The font was bigger this time, but matched the previous letter.

  Two million dollars or I tell CNN what’s going on. The Chemist

  “We need to go public with this,” I said.

  “Not necessarily.” This from Davy, of course. “If we went public—”

  I interrupted. “It would cost the city billions of dollars. Which we all know is more important than the lives of a few innocent people.”

  “That’s only part of it. The Chemist is bluffing. He doesn’t want the media to know, because then it would be harder for him to spread his poisons.”

  “Explain how that’s a bad thing.”

  “You need evidence to catch him. How will you find that evidence if he disappears?”

  “Who is the asshole?” Roxy whispered in my ear. I ignored her.

  “What will happen to the city’s approval rating when the public finds out there’s a lunatic poisoning their food, and we knew but didn’t tell them?”

  Mr. PR opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “I’m calling a press conference,” said the super. “We’re going public.”

  Davy pursed his lips like a fish. “The mayor won’t like this.”

  “Our job is to serve and protect, and keeping this from the public is doing neither. Dr. Ng, Dr. Van Hausen, I understand that you had colleagues at Cook County Morgue when they brought in the members of the Special Response Team from Alger’s house. Have you found anything?”

  Dr. Ng, a thin, attractive Asian woman, nodded at Dr. Van Hausen, cleared her throat, and read off of a paper in front of her.

  “The deaths all appear to be the result of poisoning. We’ve managed to isolate seven different toxins so far. Some of the deceased show symptoms and signatures of several toxins.”

  Rick came back into the room, dragging a chair. Roxy whispered in my ear, “Who is the stud?”

  I ignored her, and suppressed a smug expression when the stud pulled his chair close to mine and sat down.

  “Nerium oleander,” Ng continued, “which is a cardiac stimulant and has an effect similar to digitalis. Ornithogalum umbellatum, Tanghinia venenifera, Strychnos toxifera, Ricinus communis. So far, we haven’t discovered any evidence of disease. And it should be noted that all of the toxins we’ve found have been derived from plants . . .”

  “Have you had similar findings, Special Agent Reilly?”

  Rick turned his attention to the super.

  “Actually, no. I found traces of hydrogen cyanide, arsenic trihydride, and parathion. These are all inorganic compounds, and can be purchased everywhere or made with a child’s chemistry set. The Chemist apparently has knowledge of diseases, organic poisons, and chemical weapons.”

  “Parathion is a relative of sarin nerve gas.” From Dr. Astor, the army guy.

  “Yes. It’s sold under various brands as a pesticide.”

  “Is everything the Chemist is using available domestically?” Major Murdoch asked.

  “The big four haven’t come up yet,” Rick answered.

  Roxy, who had been worrying a hangnail, perked up. “Big four?”

  Rick turned to her. “VX gas, anthrax, smallpox, and plague. These would indicate a hostile foreign source.”

  “Or a domestic one.” I faux-smiled at the major. “Doesn’t the U.S. have smallpox in a freezer somewhere?”

  Major Murdoch gave me a look that left no doubt I hated my country, then said, “Has there been any evidence that these compounds have been weaponized, or made more lethal?”

  Rick snorted. “How can you make cyanide more lethal?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  Rick’s leg rubbed against mine under the table. I didn’t
know if it was intentional or not. My heart rate bumped up a bit, but I blamed that on Roxy’s energy drink.

  “No, Major. All evidence points to a single extortionist, not a sleeper al-Qaeda cell waiting to pop out of a cake and squirt you with Variant U.”

  “What is Variant U, Mr. Reilly?”

  “It’s Special Agent Reilly. Or Dr. Reilly. Variant U is a weaponized form of Marburg. And no, I haven’t found any evidence of that either.”

  O’Loughlin focused on me.

  “What have your teams uncovered, Lieutenant?”

  I looked at the file before me, which I hadn’t opened yet. Now seemed like a good time.

  Herb, ever the professional, had written a condensed version of what he’d discovered so far.

  “We’ve deployed eleven teams to each of the known sources of the BT outbreaks. They’ve already collected several hundred prints, hundreds of food products, have interviewed dozens of potential witnesses, and have the names and contact information for over one hundred more. Background checks are in the process of being done on all known botulism victims, and the store owners and employees at each outbreak nexus.”

  Major Murdoch leafed through the folder in front of him, and I noticed it actually had Top Secret stamped in red on the front. “How about the background of that cop Alger?”

  “He’s come up clean. Two Internal Affairs inquiries. Both shootings, both times he was cleared. We’re looking at his arrest record for anyone who might have a grudge, which is just about everyone he’d arrested in thirty years on the force. The severed fingers in the refrigerator have been confirmed as belonging to Alger, and we suspect he’s been killed.”

  “Maybe he cut off his own fingers to fool us,” Roxy said.

  No one said anything, but the stares she received made her shrink down in her chair.

  “We’ve located the deli on Irving Park that the Chemist mentioned in his letter.” I thought of Latham, and my voice caught. I coughed into my hand to cover it. “We’ve got a Crime Scene Unit there, gathering evidence, questioning the staff. It’s going to take some time to sort through everything.”

  “We don’t have time,” the super said. “This nut wants an answer in tomorrow’s paper. To make the early edition, I need to get the personal ad in today by noon.”

  “Are we paying him?” I asked.

  “I have received authorization to meet the Chemist’s demands. It should go without saying that mum is the word on this.” The super zeroed in on me. “We can say the city is under attack, we can name the businesses that have been hit, we can tie in Alger, but no word about the extortion.”

  I mulled this over. That was probably why the city hadn’t outed the Chemist yesterday—they had been considering paying him off. If that got out, every loony with a Saturday Night Special would be moving to Chicago, trying to extort a few bucks.

  “Who’s in charge of setting the trap to catch him if we decide to pay?” I asked.

  “We are, Lieutenant. You can start figuring out how right after the press conference. Plan on it at ten a.m.”

  The super adjourned the meeting, and both Roxy and Rick stuck to my shoulders, accompanying me to my office.

  “You’re cute for a Fed,” Roxy said to him.

  “I believe that looks are superficial, and it’s what’s inside that counts.”

  Roxy batted fake eyelashes. “Are you saying you’d like to get inside of me?”

  “Sorry. I don’t date women younger than the scotch I drink.”

  Score points for Special Agent Rick.

  “You should date Jack. She’s like in her fifties.”

  And points lost for the new partner.

  “Have you ever done a press conference before, Roxy?” I asked, making my voice conversational.

  “Who? Me? No. I was on TV once, at the MTV spring break bash in Fort Lauderdale. I never saw it, though. My friends told me about it. I was pretty trashed.”

  “I think you should sit this one out.”

  “Why? Are you afraid I’ll steal your thunder?”

  “No. I’m afraid you’ll say something stupid that will get me fired.”

  Roxy tugged my elbow and stared me in the eye, petulant.

  “I’m a detective third grade. I didn’t get this promotion by giving blow jobs. I busted my ass. You, of all people, should know how hard it is for a woman to be taken seriously in this sausage fest.”

  I considered all the things I could say, about professionalism, and attitude, and image. Instead I said, “Chances are this lunatic watches the news. If we put an attractive woman up there, he could become fixated on you.”

  “Really?” Roxy grinned. “Cool.”

  “No. It’s not cool. It’s the opposite of cool.”

  “You think because I’m young I can’t handle myself?”

  “No. I think because you’re young you can’t handle yourself as well as you think you can.”

  Her grin disappeared.

  “You know, you’re an inspiration to a lot of women in the department, Jack. It’s a shame that in person you’re such a bitch.”

  I looked to Rick for support, but he’d taken an inordinate amount of interest in the bulletin board on the wall. Then I met Roxy’s glare. I wondered if I disliked her so much because she reminded me of me at that age.

  No. I would have gotten along with me just fine. This girl was a Gen-X car accident waiting to happen. But we all have to learn sometime.

  I took a deep breath. “Fine. You can do the press conference with me.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious. But I’ll do most of the talking. And we need to go over everything beforehand. Rule one, think before you speak. Don’t repeat yourself or say um or uh a lot. Rule two, if you can’t answer a question, say no comment. Rule three, always appear in control. Reporters can sense fear, and they pounce on it.”

  “I can do all that. How do I look?”

  I gave her a once-over. “Do you have anything else to wear? That outfit is . . . cute, but it doesn’t look very professional.”

  “Let me check my locker,” she said, and hurried off down the hall.

  Rick nudged me. “Is this a good idea?”

  “We’ve all got to learn sometime.”

  “After this conference, how about lunch? I want to go over some points about the case.”

  “Lunch? I’m going to need a few drinks.”

  “We can do that. I need to check in with Washington and Quantico. I’ll probably miss the conference. Can I meet you someplace?”

  What is it about physical beauty? If Rick were average looking, I would immediately take him up on lunch. But because he was handsome, I didn’t think I should spend any time with him outside of the office. It seemed like betraying Latham, even though we might be able to make some headway on the case.

  It’s only lunch, I convinced myself.

  So I named the place and the time.

  What was the worst that could happen?

  CHAPTER 16

  THE CHEMIST WATCHES the press conference with a frown on his face. He hadn’t expected them to go public. Though this doesn’t alter the Plan in the least; the city has followed his trail of bread crumbs quicker than he’s expected.

  They aren’t showing his letters. They admitted that they did receive letters, but say they’re keeping them under wraps to rule out bogus confessions. They also neglected to mention anything about his demands. Which means they’re planning on paying him.

  This is disappointing. He expected the city to stall for at least a few days, or to take a hard-line stance and refuse to deal with terrorists. That would have given him a chance to indulge in a few more surprises before the big bang.

  Still, maybe he can fit one or two more in before crunch time.

  He sets his TiVo to record, and then wanders over to his closet to pick a disguise. He decides on business formal. A Jack Victor suit, wool, three-button, vented, dark blue with dark gray pinstripes. A white shirt. A pow
er tie. He slicks his hair back with mousse, applies a liberal dose of Lagerfeld, and then puts on the distraction—an eye patch.

  A check in the mirror shows him to be roguish, mysterious. And all the witnesses will remember is a well-dressed man with an eye patch.

  Along with the jet injector, he brings along a tiny contact lens case, containing a few drops of extract of Tanghin. The Chemist doesn’t know if he’ll get close enough to use either, but he’s got the entire day free to try. Should be fun.

  He considers taking the bus because parking will be terrible downtown, but with all the stops the bus makes, it will take twice as long. So he risks it and takes a car, one that can’t be traced to him anyway.

  The television told him the press conference was live at the 26th District police station, and that’s where he heads. Traffic isn’t too bad for lunchtime, and he manages to snag a parking meter spot from someone pulling out, only three blocks from the precinct house. Even luckier, the meter still has an hour left on it.

  Fate apparently wants him to kill a cop today.

  He decides to leave the jet injector in the car. Getting this close to the police, he doesn’t want to be caught with it on him. That leaves only the Tanghin, but that should be more than enough.

  He walks briskly, hoping to get there before everyone has left. There are still news vans parked in front, so that’s a good sign. A hot dog vendor is set up on the corner. He approaches the forlorn figure and orders one with the works.

  “Thanks, buddy. Business has been terrible.”

  The Chemist takes a bite of the red hot, smothering his grin with pickle relish. He considers poisoning this man’s stand. It’s the perfect location for it, right outside the police station. Cops probably eat here all the time.

  Maybe later, when he comes back.

  There’s a bench on the sidewalk with a good view of the front of the station. He sits down and eats leaning forward, so nothing drips on his suit. Ten minutes pass, and he orders another dog, to the eternal gratitude of the vendor.

  “Bless you, guy. I got two kids. Wish this city wasn’t so chickenshit.”