Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  I ran out of that office like it was on fire. It took me five steps before I got any control back, and luckily no one saw me. I wound up sitting on a boardroom table, tugging off my boots, dumping about ten live roaches onto the floor. And a few dead ones, that I’d squished underfoot.

  Yuck. Yuck yuck yuck yuck.

  “At least they weren’t bees,” I said, my voice a wee bit higher than normal.

  My white cotton socks, covered with roach guts, went into the garbage.

  It took courage I didn’t know I had to put those boots back on, and then I flagged down one of the jumpsuited exterminators—one who looked a lot like Bill Murray in Ghostbusters—and gave him directions to my office.

  “Kill them,” I said. “Kill them all.”

  “That’s why we’re here, ma’am.”

  He walked past, but I grabbed his elbow.

  “Do, um, cockroaches carry any kind of disease?”

  He scratched at his stubble. “They aren’t the cleanest. Like to eat spoiled food, and excrement. Tough little buggers too. A roach can survive a few weeks with his head cut off. Eventually starves to death. Can live if you flush them down the toilet. Can even survive radiation equivalent to a thermonuclear explosion. But they don’t carry any germs harmful to humans.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. And hold still, you got one in your hair.”

  I clenched my teeth as he reached up to my scalp and pinched a roach between his bare fingers.

  “Thanks again,” I said, forcing on a smile.

  “Ah, there’s another one. Hold on.”

  I forced myself to stay still.

  “Just a sec . . . little fella crawled around the other side.”

  Bill Murray walked behind me, rooting through my hair like he was giving me a hot oil treatment.

  “Looks like you got a few in here. Maybe they’re having a party.”

  And that was the straw that broke me. I ran squealing to the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and gave my scalp to the tepid spray. I got water up my nose, started to choke, but kept my head under, running my fingers through my hair over and over until I was sure every last bug was out.

  Then I squeezed out the excess water, tried not to stare at the five bugs trying to crawl out of the slippery porcelain sink, and positioned myself awkwardly under the push-button hand dryer.

  The air was hot and strong, but it took twelve button presses before I’d dried my head and jacket.

  I checked the mirror. My expensive makeup hadn’t washed off, and my hair had lost the poofiness and actually looked pretty good.

  I wasn’t going to go back into my office until I was sure it had been fumigated, sterilized, and hermetically sealed, so I took the stairs down to Records.

  Chicago had twenty-six Police Districts, divided into four Areas. Each District housed their duplicate reports at a single Records facility in their Area. My District had that honor for my Area. Alger had worked the two-four, making him part of my Area, which meant copies of his files would be kept in my building.

  Every year, we griped about digitizing the files and putting them in a database. And every year, we were told that there was no money for it. So even in this enlightened technological age, the CPD was still killing trees.

  Records was an expansive, open room with floor-to-ceiling shelves. The shelves held document boxes labeled according to case numbers, which were divided by District and in semi-chronological order.

  The cop running Records was a portly woman named Martel Sardina who’d worked here for six years and didn’t know where a damn thing was. It took a special talent to learn absolutely nothing about your job in that amount of time. I asked Sardina about it once, and her reply was jovial.

  “I like it here. It’s quiet. I can read magazines. Records is considered scut-work, a stepping-stone to other positions. If I did a good job, I’d be promoted out of here. So I don’t do a damn thing.”

  It made a warped kind of sense.

  Sardina offered a friendly smile and wave when I walked in. Instead of reading magazines today, it appeared that she was working on crayon drawings. I asked where the two-four files were, and she shrugged.

  “Come on, Officer Sardina. Just point me in the right direction.”

  “I have no idea. Do we even have records from the two-four?”

  “Yes. And I’m sure a thousand people have asked you where they are, over the years.”

  “If they found them, they never shared their location with me.”

  “If you had to guess, where would they be?”

  “I couldn’t even guess.”

  “Come on. I won’t tell. I’ll even put in a bad word to your superior.”

  “I can’t help you, Lieutenant. And in all honesty, I don’t wish that I could.”

  She smiled pleasantly.

  “What if I told Captain Bains you’re doing a great job, and that I wanted you transferred to Homicide?”

  “Threats won’t work,” she said. “He just threatened to suspend me, because of my art.”

  She held up a poorly done stick figure crayon drawing of a man with a very large mouth yelling, “I’m a big stupid poop head!” The title at the top read Captain Bains.

  “You got the eyes wrong. They’re brown dots, not blue dots. And I don’t think he has a pig snout.”

  “Artistic expression. Want to see the one where he’s rolling around in the mud?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Ask Mr. Creepy Exterminator Guy if he wants to see it. He’s around here somewhere, spraying for bugs.” She squinted at her drawing. “Think the captain would look good as a cockroach?”

  “Just make sure you get the eyes right.”

  While she hunted for a brown crayon, I walked down the ranks and files of shelves, trying to remember where I should begin. I had the case numbers, but where were the two-four files?

  I checked the nearest box as a reference point. But the boxes on either side didn’t seem to be in order. Was that also part of Sardina’s plan to appear incompetent? Putting the files back out of order? If so, I was impressed. She deserved to be in management.

  I moved an aisle over, and here the numbering system seemed to work. I opened a box to confirm. This was, indeed, the two-five section. I skipped the next aisle, turned, and almost bumped into a guy in a bright red jumpsuit, digging through one of the boxes.

  “Are they eating our files?” I asked.

  The exterminator looked up and smiled. He had a port-wine birthmark covering most of his right cheek, just above a thick goatee. Aviator glasses that reflected like mirrors. And a dark smudge on his forehead, grease or dirt.

  “Little fellas like it dark. Gotta check everywhere.”

  He set the box back on the shelf and picked up his chemical pack, slinging it over his shoulder. Then he held out the sprayer wand and squirted along the bottom of the shelf he’d been searching, coating the carpeting with white powder.

  “Is that stuff dangerous?”

  He winked. “Only to vermin.”

  Sardina was right. Creepy guy. We passed each other, and I followed the numbers until I got to Alger’s case files. My internal alarm sounded—they were in the same box that the exterminator had been looking through.

  I took off after him, rounding the corner, not even thinking that my piece was upstairs in my purse, and then I skidded to a stop because he was waiting for me, his sprayer extended.

  “Take a deep breath,” he said.

  And then he squeezed the trigger, blasting me right in the face.

  CHAPTER 23

  LIKE I’D DONE AT the Hothams’ apartment, I closed my throat and sealed off my lungs, halting my breathing in mid-inhale. I also shut my eyes on reflex.

  The chemical, or whatever it was, clumped onto my face and neck. It felt warm, slightly moist, almost like a beauty peel or a mud wrap.

  I reached up to wipe the poison off, to get it off my face.

  “Don’t touch,” the Chemist
said. “That’s tetraethyl pyrophosphate. Also known as TEPP. It can be absorbed through the skin, and the mucus membranes. If you rub it, you’ll force it deeper into your pores.”

  I stopped. Time seemed to stop too. I had one of those this can’t be happening to me thoughts, which did nothing to improve my situation.

  “The first symptoms will be eye pain, headache, and cramps. That quickly progresses to chest pain, vomiting, loss of sphincter control, convulsions, paralysis, low blood pressure, and finally, death. Chances are, unless you can wash it off, you’ll be dead within fifteen minutes. Sooner if you inhale.”

  I stuck my hands out, touched the fabric of his uniform, but he pulled away.

  “Not on the first date, Jack. But maybe later. If you live through this. Bye, now. Best of luck.”

  I heard him walk off, and then all I could hear was the beating of my heart in my ears, and it was beating much too fast for me to make it through this alive.

  I pushed aside the panic, which wasn’t that hard to do because I had panicked so many times in the last few days, I didn’t have much left in the tank.

  Officer Sardina wouldn’t be of help. She probably wouldn’t even look up from her crayon art. And I dared not open my mouth to yell, because some poison might get in.

  I needed to wash this off. That meant a sink. There was one on this floor, but I wasn’t sure of the exact pathway. But on the second floor, I knew the bathroom was right down the hall from the stairs.

  Could I make it to the second floor, with only half a chestful of oxygen, blind as a bat?

  I had to try.

  In my mind, I pictured where I stood in the Records room, tried to remember where the door was. Straight ahead, and to the left. I held my hands in front of me and began to walk in what I thought was a straight line.

  I ran straight into a shelf, jamming my right pinky.

  Readjust. Step to the left. Keep walking.

  “Hey, don’t point that thing at me, Creepy Man.”

  Sardina. Then she screamed. It was followed by choking. And gagging.

  I had to focus. I walked fast, using the shelf as a guide. When it ended, I kept going forward until I reached the wall, and followed that left, seeking the doorway.

  Vomiting sounds from Sardina. Then an eerie, pain-racked wail.

  The wall stretched on. I bumped into a chair. Tripped over boxes. Walked fifteen steps. Twenty. Twenty-five.

  Sardina began to scream. Wet, gurgling screams.

  Where was that goddamn doorway? Did I miss it? Did I go the wrong way?

  And then my hand met empty space and I fell through, onto my knees. The tile was cold, hard. I tried to think. The stairs were to the right. I began to crawl until I found the wall again, then followed it to the staircase.

  How long had it been since I breathed? Thirty seconds? A minute? It seemed like a long time ago, and my diaphragm spasmed, wanting air, wondering why I wouldn’t allow it. The pounding in my head became louder, and my eyes had begun to sting. The first symptoms.

  Again I fell when the hallway opened up into the stairs. I landed on my chest, and that knocked some precious stale air out of my lungs, but I couldn’t dwell on it. I was on all fours, climbing the steps, reaching for the handrail, coming up to where the stairs turned, taking them as fast as I could go to the second floor.

  When I reached the hallway, I couldn’t remember if I needed to go left or right.

  Panic worsened. The spasm in my chest was now a full-blown cramp, almost doubling me over.

  Left or right? Left or right?

  My office had been here for ten years. Dammit Jack, focus. This is an easy one.

  Left. It was left.

  I kept my hand on the wall, found a doorknob, but that was an office, not the bathroom. My head was screaming now, and my legs were giving out, and my vision through my closed eyes—already black—seemed to get even darker.

  Dizziness set in. I’d need to breathe within the next few seconds, poison or no poison. Rational thought had been overtaken by animal instinct, and I felt the scream well up in my throat, my whole body beginning to quake.

  And then I was in the bathroom.

  I ran, my hip crashing into the sink, my shaking hands turning on the water and splashing it onto my face, over my eyes, wiping at my nose and mouth, and then I was sucking in air, crying, still wiping and rubbing and splashing and I opened my eyes and saw they were bloodred, and I started screaming until everything went blurry and finally black.

  CHAPTER 24

  AN EXTERMINATOR HAD SEEN me crawling blindly through the hallway, and alerted some cops on my floor. Shortly after I passed out I was whisked away to the hospital. They revived me en route, and I semi-coherently informed them it was TEPP poisoning.

  The ER nurses scrubbed my face and neck until I appeared to be sunburned. My eyes were irrigated, a process as painful as it sounds. I was given atropine. Pralidoxime. Activated charcoal.

  Somehow Herb appeared at my side during the treatment. I gave him bits and pieces about what I remembered, but couldn’t give much of a description beyond the port-wine stain on the Chemist’s cheek, which I guessed to be fake. Even though Herb was no longer my partner, he dutifully took down the info.

  I was in eight kinds of pain. The drugs made my heart jittery. My eyes itched, my skin was on fire. My nose and throat felt like I’d been sniffing broken glass.

  “My face hurts,” I told Herb. I was setting him up for the punch line, “Yeah, it’s killing me too.” But he didn’t bite. He just stared at me, sadly, his walrus mustache drooping at the ends.

  “I brought your purse. It’s next to the bed. We’ve also got a team on the way, to watch your room after you’re admitted.”

  “Thanks.” It was painful to talk. “How’s Sardina?”

  “She didn’t make it.”

  I couldn’t take the way he was staring at me, so I turned away, focusing on the green ER curtain that surrounded my cot. Humble pie time.

  “I’m sorry I called you a coward, Herb. You’re no coward.”

  His hand touched my arm, above the IV.

  “This has to stop, Jack. You’ve almost died twice in three days.”

  It was actually three times, if you count the Hothams’ apartment in Cicero, but I saw no reason to share that. Instead, I spilled out everything else.

  “Latham proposed and then got poisoned with BT, I made out with the Fed, my father is still alive, and I can’t catch the Chemist without you.”

  Herb let it all soak in, and then said, “You made out with a Fed?”

  I forced myself to look at him. “Out of everything I told you, that’s what you latch on to?”

  “That HMRT guy?”

  I nodded.

  “I thought he was gay.”

  “Why do men always think that all really cute guys are gay?”

  “It helps us sleep better at night. So how far did he get? Second base?”

  “Second base? What, are we in junior high?”

  “Third base? Did he violate your Constitutional rights?”

  “You sound like McGlade. Can’t we talk about my father, or the fact that I’m engaged?”

  Herb lifted up my left hand, scrutinizing it.

  “Where’s the ring?”

  “I didn’t say yes yet. Before I had a chance, he got sick. He’s critical. I almost lost him last night.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I like Latham. You’re going to say yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Herb smiled. “Congrats. If you need a maid of honor, I look great in pink. And your father isn’t dead?”

  “He lives in Elmwood Park. My mother admitted that he left us, and she told me he died to stop me from looking for him.”

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re going to?”

  “I don’t know. I—”

  I heard my phone beep. Herb handed me my purse, and I checked the number. The Hothams’ stolen cell.


  “It’s the Chemist,” I told Herb.

  He picked up his notepad and put his head next to mine so we could both hear. I answered the call, made my voice strong.

  “This is Daniels.”

  “I’m glad you’re still alive, Jack. You’ve got a great set of lungs on you, if I may say so. How are you feeling?”

  “We’ve agreed to pay you. What are your demands?”

  “I asked you a question, Lieutenant. How are you feeling?”

  I spoke through my teeth, anger masking all of my symptoms.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. Because I want you personally to deliver my two million. Here’s how it will work. I want a hundred thousand dollars in cash, three hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars in platinum eagles, and the remainder in uncut diamonds, at least three carats per stone. No tricks, no transmitters, no laser-engraved serial numbers on the stones, no moissanite, you get the idea. If you screw around with me, I’ll be very angry. Put everything in a leather suitcase, and paint it bright yellow. Then stand outside the Daley Center, near the Picasso, at ten thirty a.m. tomorrow. Got all of that?”

  I looked at Herb, who was furiously scribbling notes. He nodded at me.

  “I got it.”

  “Good. Have your cell phone on you, and wear some running shoes. You’re going to need them.”

  “I know about Tracey,” I said, trying to catch him off guard. “And Dirk Welch. You killed him in prison. Were you cell mates?”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m planning something big. Very big. If everything goes well tomorrow, I’ll tell you what my plan is, and you’ll be able to stop it in time. If anything goes wrong, many will die. If you try to find me, many will die. If you pull any tricks or try to catch me, many will die. The elderly. Women and children. I know you don’t want that on your head. But it won’t stop there. I’ll come after you as well. You and everyone you know.”

  He hung up. I stared at Herb. He didn’t say a word, but I could read his mind.

  Burglars don’t call you up and threaten you and half the city. Robbers don’t spray poison in your face and put you in the hospital. Thieves don’t attack the people you love.