Dirty Martini

by J. A. Konrath

  Yeah, well, he was right. But I couldn’t do anything about it.

  A nurse opened the curtain and stuck her perky head in.

  “We’ve got a room available, Ms. Daniels.”

  I might have protested, demanded to be released, but the nurse divided into two identical nurses and I wasn’t sure which to talk to. Earlier, I’d been told to expect double vision. It wasn’t as much fun as I’d hoped it would be.

  “Herb, I hate to ask . . .”

  He held up his notes. “I’ll pass this along to the super. We’ll work out the details. You get some rest.”

  “Thanks. Also, in Records, I was looking for the Alger case file for Tracey Hotham’s murder investigation. The Chemist was in the box. I don’t know if he took it or not. If he did, we need to see if the records are still on file at the two-four.”

  “I’ll check.”

  “There was a guy named Welch involved, died in prison.”

  “Jack . . .”

  “I know. We’re not partners anymore. Pass it off on a subordinate.”

  Herb nodded, gave me an informal pat on the shoulder, and left.

  I asked the nurse(s) for some water, and she gave me a cup and took my blood pressure. As she did, my whole body began to shake. First mildly, and then it became violent enough to make me spill water all over my bed.

  “She’s seizing!” the nurse yelled.

  A doctor rushed over while the nurse forced something rubber between my teeth. Then I couldn’t see anything else, because my eyelids were fluttering too fast.

  “Administering diazepam push.”

  I felt a calm flow through me, and the convulsions stopped. The nurse fished out the mouth guard, and I squinted at her, trying to focus.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You’re fine. TEPP can cause seizures. We gave you some Valium, which will work with the atropine and pralidoxime to relax your muscles.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I was pretty freaked out, but the Valium went a long way to helping me over that.

  The nurse draped a dry blanket over me, then promised to be back shortly. While I waited, my phone rang again. A blocked number.

  “This is Daniels,” I said. My voice sounded kind of thick.

  “Hiya, Jackie. How’s it hanging?”

  Harry McGlade.

  “Hi, Harry. How’s the space suit?”

  “A tax write-off. I cornered your superintendent, and she threatened to have me arrested if I didn’t vacate the scene. A real piece of work, that one. Feisty. If her cankles weren’t the size of hams, she’d be my type of woman. Speaking of dates, are you going to PoliceFest on Sunday?”

  “No.”

  “How about going with me? The mayor will be there, and you could get me an audience. He likes you, right?”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Of course you’re going. Every cop in the Midwest is going, and this year it’s in Illinois.”

  “Every cop but me.” I grinned. Valium was a pretty nice drug.

  “You owe me one, Jack.”

  “Ask the super to take you. Maybe she’ll do it if you promise to rub lotion on her cankles.”

  There was a long silence, which was unusual for Harry.

  “Jack, I . . . I gave up my business. No more private investigating.”

  “Chicago will never get over the loss.”

  “It isn’t funny. Could you stay a cop if you lost your gun hand? I suck lefty. Hell, I can’t even wipe my damn ass lefty. I’m completely useless with a gun. And I had to sell my baby, my Mustang, because of the goddamn stick shift. My electric bill was sent back because they thought a retarded child had signed the check. I even had to pay for sex, because no woman wants to sleep with me.”

  “What does that have to do with your hand?”

  “Dammit, Jack, my life is destroyed. Show some sympathy.”

  Maybe it was all the medication, or the residual effects of the TEPP, but I actually felt for him. “That’s too bad, Harry.”

  “If the city doesn’t let me open up this bar, I might as well shoot myself. And I’d need your help doing that too, because I’d miss my fricking head.”

  “You think? You have a pretty fat head.”

  I laughed at my drug-influenced assessment. He did have a fat head.

  “Take me to PoliceFest. Introduce me to the mayor. Help me get the liquor license. And I promise, I’ll never bother you again as long as I live.”

  “That’s a tempting offer.”

  “We were partners once. I know I did wrong by you, but I’ve helped you out several times since then. Please. I need this.”

  Harry McGlade had caused me more annoyance than I cared to recall, but in a warped sort of way he was kind of a friend. A friend who needed a hand. Really.

  “Fine, McGlade. But I can’t promise the mayor will go for it.”

  “Thanks, Jackie. I’ll drop by Sunday morning. You still at the place on Addison?”

  “No. I’m a suburban girl now. I live in Bensenville.”

  I gave him my address.

  “See you Sunday. Maybe afterward I can buy you a beer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And after that, sex.”

  “Good-bye, Harry.”

  “I’ve got this attachment for my prosthesis—”

  I hung up before he could finish. Then I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, thinking about PoliceFest with Harry . . .

  PoliceFest with Harry? What the hell was I thinking?

  Maybe I’d get lucky, and the Chemist would kill me tomorrow so I wouldn’t have to go.

  I fell asleep, strangely comforted by that thought.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE CHEMIST SHATTERS the last bottle of vodka over the garbage can, spraying glass and alcohol on his heavy work gloves, a shard bouncing off the facial netting on his helmet. He’s in his greenhouse. It’s dark, quiet. Night is the best time to work, because insect activity is minimal.

  He reaches into the glass shards and fishes out the bottle neck, moving with speed and efficiency. He’s getting near the end, a culmination of years of effort. This should be savored. But all of the recent excitement has put him behind schedule, and he has to catch up.

  He places the bottle neck on his workbench and uses a hammer and pliers to break all of the glass away from the aluminum cap. When he’s finished, the cap, with its tamper-proof ring along the bottom edge, is intact.

  Next he selects an identical brand of vodka, and twists off its top. The tamper-proof ring separates along the perforated line where it is attached to the cap and remains on the bottle neck. He snips the ring off using nail clippers, pours out four ounces of vodka, and adds an equal amount of colorless, odorless ethylene chlorohydrin. It blends invisibly with the liquor.

  Then he takes the intact cap—the one he removed from the broken bottle—and carefully screws it onto the full bottle. It now appears to be new, unopened. He places it in the cardboard box next to the eleven other poisoned bottles of alcohol, and gets started on the beer.

  Beer is even easier to tamper with. A local brewing supply shop, the same place he got some of his hydroponics equipment, also sells bottle cappers. He carefully pries the tops off of a dozen popular import beer bottles, adds a few drops of conotoxin to each, and then uses the bench capper to reseal the caps until they’re as tight as when they left the brewery.

  After finishing a full case of beer, he stands and stretches. There are things that need to be double-checked. He makes sure the Little Otter has a full charge. He lays out the dry suit, places a bottle of talc next to it. Tests the gauge on the nitrox canister.

  Then, outside, he changes out of his protective suit and checks the cement mixer, which has another three yards ready. It takes ten minutes to pour. He’s an expert with the forklift, and gets it into place on the first try. Two more to go. He loads the mixer with three more bags. Adds a touch of aluminum. A dash of diesel. A healthy handful of roofing nails.

  Inside, he practices for the
last time with the TelePC. He’s adjusted for delays. He’s taken the route himself, so the timing should be perfect. This should all work out.

  Finally, he uses spell-check on the letter, and prints out a copy.

  This will be a nice surprise for Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels. A beautiful end to a beautiful relationship.

  After six years, three months, and thirteen days, Tracey will finally get her revenge.

  And then he’ll get his revenge.

  CHAPTER 26

  AGAINST DOCTOR’S RECOMMENDATION, I checked myself out of the hospital at seven a.m., wearing loaner clothes. A cab took me to my car, which was still in front of the fire hydrant. I drove back to the suburbs, rush hour traffic helping me chase away the groggies.

  I felt pretty good, considering. A little weak. A little raw. But ready to work.

  Once home, I fed the cat, forced down some oatmeal, hopped into a tepid shower—hot hurt my skin—changed into a pair of boot-cut Levi’s, some Adidas running shoes, and an Anne Klein blouse and jacket—black over white—and called Latham. He was sleeping, but the nurse informed me he was stable. I took that as a good sign.

  Next, I climbed in my car and headed back to Chicago. When I got on the expressway, I called Herb.

  “Any word on the Hotham file?”

  “Missing. That one and the Welch file. From the two-four as well.”

  “That’s what I figured. There’s something there the Chemist doesn’t want us to find. What’s the set-up for today?”

  “You’ll be carrying a GPS phone, a clone of your cell number. It will track you wherever you go, and has a booster for indoors. They’ve got six cars, two bikes, four teams on foot, and chopper support. You won’t get lost.”

  “Any luck finding Tracey’s cell phone, or her car?”

  “The Staties found a white Honda in a parking lot in O’Hare. No plates, but the VIN matches. Unlikely they’ll find prints—the car was torched. No ping on the cell phone. They think he’s removing the battery between uses. We’d have to catch him during a call.”

  “How about the money?”

  “Cash, coins, and stones are all clean, as he demanded. We’ve got the yellow leather suitcase.”

  “What’s in it? Radio transmitter? Another GPS?”

  Herb didn’t answer.

  “Herb?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing in it, Jack. If you run into the Chemist, you’re ordered to stand down. No arrest. No shooting. The mayor doesn’t want to mess with this guy.”

  I processed that, but it didn’t get any better the more I thought about it.

  “What if I have a chance to catch him?”

  “You remember what the loony said if you try.” Herb kicked up his voice to Mickey Mouse level and mimicked, “Many will die, many will die.”

  “Many will die anyway. He’s not going to stop.”

  “I’m only the messenger,” Herb said. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

  I’m not a person who spits, but I was angry enough to.

  “Will you be there?” I asked.

  Another pause. Then, “No.”

  “Herb—”

  “We’re not partners anymore, Jack. I’m not Homicide. I’ve got another case I’m working on.”

  “And what case is that?”

  “Last week, someone stole a semi full of portable toilets.”

  “Well, that’s a lot more important than tracking down the mass murderer who’s terrorizing our city. What do you call that? Grand theft potty?”

  “Good-bye, Jack. Be safe.”

  Herb hung up.

  I had no right to be mad at Herb. The secret to reaching old age in our profession is knowing when to call it quits. If he felt he couldn’t do it anymore, my goading him wouldn’t help either of us.

  But Herb was Violent Crimes to the bone. If you cut him, he bled Homicide. Robbery was a waste of his time and talents. He must have known that. He just needed someone to remind him.

  I called him back. I was going to open a line of honest communication to get to the bottom of his fears and intentions instead of resorting to blaming and name-calling.

  The first words out of my mouth were, “Don’t be an idiot, Herb.”

  He hung up on me. I thought about calling his wife, remembered she was in on his silly plan to stay alive until retirement, and instead called Rick.

  “I’m glad you called, Jack. I heard about what happened. I wanted to visit you in the hospital, but I figured . . .” He trailed off.

  “No problem. Did you hear what the mayor said?”

  “I was at the meeting last night.”

  “He wants to give the guy his money without trying to catch him.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “You’re not going along with that, are you? The federal government doesn’t make deals with terrorists, right?”

  “Not as far as you know.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “I’m saying that this guy has the means to kill more people. If we pay him off, there’s a good chance he’ll stop. I talked to some special agents on the Behavioral Science Team, and the profiling computer says—”

  Great. I’d been down this route several times, and it never led anywhere worth visiting. Was I the only sane cop left in this hemisphere?

  I interrupted his profile-speak. “What do you think? You personally?”

  “I think he’s got something big planned, and if we bring him in, he’ll let people die.”

  “So we just let the guy go?”

  “The case won’t be over, Jack. We have a mountain of evidence we haven’t even sifted through. We’ll catch him eventually. And we won’t be risking the lives of civilians.”

  It was tough to talk while biting my tongue, but I managed. “So we run away to fight another day.”

  “You sound pissed off.”

  “I am pissed off.”

  “Not to put a price on human life, but it’s only two million dollars, Jack. That’s nothing.”

  “You’re wrong. It’s two million too much. Tell me about the profile. Let me guess—starts fires, wets the bed, tortures animals, abused as a child . . .”

  “Not even close. Single white male, between thirty-five and fifty-five, college education, white-collar job, lives in Chicago, possibly a leader in the community, does volunteer work, bi-polar—”

  “You think? Maybe his problem is he ran out of Zoloft.”

  “—above average intelligence, minor criminal infractions in the past, single, some background in theater—”

  “Sure, he did Arsenic and Old Lace in summer stock.”

  Rick sighed. “This is a decent profile, Jack.”

  “Where’s the part about dressing up like Snow White and collecting Donnie Osmond lunch boxes?”

  “Actually, the profile says he probably collects something, like comic books or baseball cards.”

  “Or poisonous plants. Look Rick, letting this guy go is a bad idea. Does the profile say he’ll stop if he’s paid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he won’t. I’ve talked to him. This is all a big game, and he’s enjoying it way too much. Once you give a bully your lunch money, you have to keep paying him forever.”

  “What are you planning on doing?”

  I thought about the .38 in my purse.

  “I’m going to be a bigger bully than he is.”

  “And what if more people die?”

  That was the question, wasn’t it? If I caught him, and people died, I’d never forgive myself. But if I let him go, and people died, I’d never forgive myself.

  Burglary/Robbery/Theft was looking better and better.

  I bid adieu to Rick and spent the remainder of the drive going over scenarios, trying to find one with a decent outcome.

  None sprang to mind.

  I parked in front of a hydrant on Randolph, kitty-corner to the Daley Center. It looked like a scene from The Blues Brothers. Twenty members of the SRT were there, i
n formation. At least forty cops. Some brass, including the super. Eight squad cars. Four motorcycles. Two scooters. Four horses. Two mountain bikes. The Mobile Command bus. And a Segway.

  The Daley Center served as Chicago’s main courthouse. It was an imposing six-hundred-foot-tall structure, all steel and glass, bounded on all four sides by streets. The area around the Picasso—an impressive metal sculpture in rusty brown that resembled a horse mating with a harp—had been cordoned off with yellow police tape, and onlookers as well as media had gathered around the perimeter to watch whatever was happening.

  I popped the trunk, dug out my spare shoulder holster, and put it on under my jacket. I also strapped on an ankle harness that held a five-inch AMT Backup II. It weighed about eighteen ounces. I loaded five 9mm short rounds into the clip, jacked one into the throat, and added one more. My boot-cut jeans covered it easily, plus the wider bottoms made my hips seem slimmer. A win-win jeans experience.

  I went back to the front seat and removed my Colt Detective Special from my purse, along with a speed loader, and a roll of antacid tablets. I chewed four antacids while strapping the .38 and the speed loader into the Velcro webbing of my holster.

  Then I opened the glove compartment and took out a balisong, a Filipino butterfly knife. It had a four-inch stainless steel blade, which stayed hidden between two halves of the handle. With a few flicks of the wrist, the handles would separate, the blade would come out, and the handles would rejoin. I’d taken it off a suspect last year, and often played with it while driving. I’d gotten pretty good, and could open the blade in less than a second.

  The knife went into my back pocket. Then I stuck some Ray-Bans on my forehead, locked the car, and jumped into the fray.

  I pushed my way through the crowd, past the SWAT guys, sidestepping the horses and a manure mound that looked disturbingly like Richard Nixon, and sashayed up to Superintendent O’Loughlin. She wore what appeared to be a man’s blazer, which pinched her waist and made her shoulders look like a linebacker’s. The slacks were even less flattering. Someone needed to take away her Macy’s charge card, because she was wasting it.

  The omnipresent Davy Ellis, attired in gray Armani, offered me a big smile and a wink. Captain Bains didn’t seem to be around.