Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  Another pause.

  “Bill and John left together. The other one—I can’t even remember his name right now—he stayed and watched the rest of the basketball game. Springfield College was playing. He ordered another mug of beer after the other guys took off.”

  “Do you remember what time Bill and John left the restaurant?”

  “Let’s see. It must have been about nine-thirty. The game was over by ten. I do remember that.”

  Felencia Chase had a good memory. The credit card receipt in Dr. William Shipman’s pocket said 9:33. He’d picked up the tab for a large pizza and a pitcher of beer last night. I figured the guys took turns, and this just happened to be Bill’s week to pay.

  “Thanks so much for your time,” I said. “I’ll be in touch if I have any more questions.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Lieutenant. Hope you catch the killer.”

  I disconnected, climbed out of the car, walked inside and stood at the counter. There was one person ahead of me, a guy buying a six-pack of Bud, twenty scratch-off lottery tickets, and one of those little round tins of chewing tobacco. He paid for his items and then scooted off to the side to see if he’d won anything.

  “Help you?” the clerk said to me. She wore a stained CigsMart polo and some sort of perfume that made my eyes water. Mid-fifties, frizzy brown hair tied back in a ponytail.

  “I need to speak with the manager,” I said.

  “I can give you an application if you want one.”

  I showed her my badge. “Police,” I said. “But maybe I’ll take an application if this gig doesn’t work out.”

  “What? Really?”

  “You were getting the manager.”

  “Oh. Hold on.”

  She pulled the key out of the register, walked toward the back of the store. I stood there and watched the guy beside me scratch the silver coating off his lottery tickets with a penny. With the odds on those things, he would have gotten more entertainment value out of taking a twenty dollar bill and burning it.

  Sure enough, he didn’t cheer or laugh or call his boss and tell him to go to hell. Instead he frowned and threw the whole accordion set into the garbage when he left with his beer and chew.

  Kyle Nevell—the CigsMart manager I’d spoken to earlier—appeared at a recess beside the glass cooler and told me to come on back. I walked down an aisle with candy on one side and salty snacks on the other, passing the clerk as she headed back to the counter. I held my breath so I wouldn’t have to smell her perfume again.

  Nevell and I exchanged pleasantries, and then he led me through a maze of cardboard boxes stamped with Salem, Frito-Lay, and Miller High Life, to his office in the back of the store. It was a cramped little space with a cluttered steel desk and a file cabinet. Yellow Post-Its everywhere, like a pack had exploded and stuck to everything.

  “I already loaded the security video onto the computer,” he said. “Have a seat and I’ll get it started for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walked behind the desk and sat on a chair that should have been replaced sometime during the Clinton administration. Stained yellow upholstery, wobbly seat pocked with cigarette burns. There was a bump in the middle, which made it feel, I imagined, sort of like sitting on a jar of peanut butter. The floor would have been more comfortable.

  Nevell stood beside me and clicked on an icon, and a few seconds later the video started.

  “Shipman got here around nine forty-five,” he said. “See, I’m guessing that’s his Mercedes pulling past and into the alley.”

  “Yep. That’s it.”

  It went by fast, and with the low resolution I couldn’t even tell if anyone was in the car with Shipman.

  “No cameras on that side of the store?”

  “No. Sorry. Just the one in front. We have two more units inside the store, for shoplifters and, you know, if we ever get robbed or anything, but the murdered man never walked inside here.”

  “So, that’s all?”

  Nevell clicked on the stop button. “That’s all,” he said.

  “Can you run it again? I want to get the makes and models of the other cars that were here at the time, and I’d like to zoom in and get the tag numbers if possible.”

  “Sure.”

  We watched again. I was able to get the license plate number on a mini-van, a Toyota, and a red Kia Sephia. There were still spaces left in the lot, so Shipman hadn’t pulled into the alley because parking had been full. I watched the video a third time, allowing it to play out until the first police cruiser got there.

  “I need to take a look at the footage from inside, too,” I said. “And I’m going to need copies of all the credit card and debit transactions between eight-thirty and ten o’clock last night. I can get a warrant if you need me to.”

  “Not necessary,” Nevell said. “But it’ll take me a while to get it all together.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know. An hour or two.”

  “All right. I’ll call you in a little while.”

  I left CigsMart, headed back to the 2-6. On the way, I heard a unit being dispatched to a nearby bus stop. Man found dead in the shelter, suspected knifing. I decided to check it out.

  Four black-and-whites were already on the scene by the time I got there. Lights flashing, two lanes of traffic blocked. I parked behind them, raised my star as I mounted the curb and walked toward the Plexiglas shelter. A uniformed officer was standing there saying something into his walkie-talkie.

  When he finished, he turned to me and said, “It’s not pretty, Lieut.”

  And it wasn’t. It wasn’t pretty at all.

  DEL CHIVO

  FRIDAY, 1:10 P.M. CST

  Sergio had been careful not to get blood on his hands, or his clothing, or the remainder of the Quarter Pounder. After slicing the thief’s throat, he’d grabbed the burger and stepped away quickly, eating and watching as the man bled out onto the sidewalk. Then he put on his plastic gloves and cut off the man’s nose and ears. Not the whole face, like he had with the first gringo. This time he was more concerned about being seen by onlookers, or the possibility of the bus suddenly arriving. Hopefully Señor Mendoza wouldn’t notice.

  He put the amputated parts, gloves, wallet, and knife into the McDonald’s bag, then shoved the bag beneath his jacket and hurried away. From the bus stop, Sergio backtracked south and stopped at Thelma’s Thrift Store. He bought a long wool overcoat for seven dollars, and a pair of Nikes for ten. The shoes were practically new. They would have cost over a hundred dollars in a regular store. The color wasn’t his favorite—a shade of yellow that could probably be seen from outer space—but they felt good on his feet, and that’s all that mattered. A package containing six brand new pairs of striped knee-high tube socks was only two dollars and forty-nine cents. A bargain if Sergio had ever seen one!

  He wore his new socks and sneakers out of the store, discarding the old ones in a trash barrel by the checkout counter. He stuffed his windbreaker and the five remaining pairs of tube socks into a shopping bag.

  Before he got five steps away from the door, a thought came to him. He turned around, walked back inside, spoke to the lady standing at the cash register.

  “I have a question,” he said.

  “Is there something else I can help you with?”

  “I’m looking for the police station. Twenty-sixth district. Is that anywhere near here?”

  The woman looked it up on her computer and printed out a set of directions from Google Maps.

  “You should probably take the El,” she said. “Unless you can afford a cab.”

  “The El?”

  “The train, baby.”

  Sergio laughed. “Ah, the train. In my language, El means the. So the El would be the the.”

  That tickled the woman for some reason. She had a nice laugh, a nice smile. Attractive. A little too old for Sergio, but still very attractive.

  “I can print you out a schedule if you want,” she said.


  Sergio looked at the directions from the Internet. “That’s okay,” he said. “It’s only three-point-two miles. I can walk there easily in my new shoes.”

  “Suit yourself. Have a good one now.”

  “Gracias, señora. You are very kind.”

  Sergio exited the store, crossed the street, and headed toward the twenty-sixth district station house, where Lt. Daniels and Detective Benedict worked.

  DANIELS

  FRIDAY, 1:38 P.M. CST

  The victim lay sideways on the bench next to a Quarter Pounder box from McDonald’s. His glazed eyes stared out at the traffic crawling by, and a glob of partially-eaten food oozed from his mouth.

  His throat had been sliced open down near the base of his neck, between his collar bones. Deep incision. The killer had opened the trachea, and I judged he’d severed both the carotid and the jugular. But there wasn’t as much blood as I would have expected, relatively speaking. I guessed a great deal of it had drained into the victims lungs, basically drowning him.

  I went back to talk to the patrolman who was first on the scene.

  “Phil Brennan,” he said.

  “Daniels, Homicide. I was in the area.”

  “I’m out of the 1-8, but your reputation precedes you, Lieutenant. You aren’t nearly as fat as you were in that TV movie.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you lose weight?”

  I shrugged. “That movie took some liberties with reality.”

  “I guess. Or else you’d be puking right now, like you did in the movie. It was pretty funny.”

  I silently cursed McGlade. “Soon to be a weekly series.”

  “Same fat actress portraying you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I hope so. It was hilarious watching her vomit every time she saw a dead body. And her eating non-stop was a riot. That scene where she ate a whole loaf of bread—priceless.”

  Herb hadn’t signed any releases, so my character was obviously an amalgamation of us both.

  It didn’t make it any less humiliating for me. Though Herb also found it hilarious. If I cared to, I might appreciate the irony there.

  But I didn’t care to.

  “Has anyone identified the vic yet?” I asked.

  Brennan handed me a Delta boarding pass dated two years ago.

  “Sheldon Lowe,” he said. “Found it in his coat pocket.”

  “Thanks. I’m working on a case with some similarities, cut-and-run robbery at the CigsMart over on Addison.”

  “Face cut up like this?”

  “Yeah. But worse. My guy cut off more. But you never know. Let me know if you get any prints, or if any witnesses come forward.”

  “Two-six, right?”

  “Yeah. We’ll return the courtesy.”

  I climbed into my Nova, and drove on back to the office. Herb was sitting at his desk surrounded by several bags of Chinese food, along with the largest soft drink container I’d ever seen.

  “Hungry?” he said. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  I was starving. I grabbed a carton of fried rice and a spoon.

  “Want some of my root beer?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll just grab something from the machine in a minute.”

  Herb nodded, swallowed a mouthful of General Tso’s chicken. “I filed the report on the Shipman murder,” he said. “Just heard there was another one at a bus stop this afternoon. Reporter from the Trib called a minute ago, and they’re already starting to call this guy The Defacer. Shouldn’t I get royalties on that?”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “What do you mean? Wait… are you still sour about that Fatal Autonomy movie of the week?”

  “Of course not. And I was never sour about it.”

  “You sure you want Chinese, and not a whole loaf of bread?”

  I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “That’s based on you, Herb, not me.”

  “No, it’s not. The character is a woman named Jack.”

  “When have you seen me eat a whole loaf of bread?”

  “When have you seen me eat a whole loaf of bread?”

  “Three days ago.”

  “Doesn’t count. I ate it with cheese and bologna. It’s not like the movie, just eating it by itself. Who does that?”

  “I was there,” I said, derailing this conversation. “At the bus stop. I was a mile or so away when the dispatch went out.”

  “We working that one too?”

  “No. The eighteenth. I told them to call if they have anything to share, and we’d reciprocate.”

  Herb dipped his eggroll into the puddle of hot mustard he’d squirted onto the wrapper.

  “Do we have anything to share?” he said. “I mean, besides this fine meal I purchased for us?”

  “Nothing yet. I went by the tow lot and the ME’s office, and I talked to Mike Genario and the server who took care of Shipman and his party at the restaurant last night. I also went over to CigsMart and watched the security video, the footage from the parking lot. I’m going back later to see if I can get anything from the cameras inside.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Herb said.

  “Yeah. And what did you get done while I was gone?”

  “I got more marshmallows.”

  “Sounds like a productive morning for you as well,” I said, shoveling another spoonful of rice into my mouth.

  “And I called Dr. Shipman’s buddies, the guys he works with at Lakeview Dermatology, the guys he went out with last night. John Boggan and Mark Renke. I called the office first, but of course they’d cancelled all their appointments for the day.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I know. Like one of your partners getting murdered is an excuse to take the day off. Bunch of slackers. Anyway, the receptionist gave me their pager numbers, and they both got back to me right away.”

  “And?”

  “I told them not to leave town anytime soon.”

  I laughed. “Just like in the movies, huh?”

  Herb chuckled along with me. He took a long slurp from the mop bucket disguised as a soda cup.

  “Actually, I asked if it would be okay for us to come by their homes and talk to them in person tomorrow morning. Renke said fine, so I told him we’d be there around ten.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said. “You know as well as I do police detectives never work weekends.”

  “Right. You know how long it’s been since I took a whole day off? I keep expecting to see my suitcases on the sidewalk when I drive home at night.”

  I nodded. It was true. We’d been extremely busy lately, and summer—the season that Violent Crimes Unit detectives sometimes refer to as job security—was right around the corner.

  “What about Boggan?” I said.

  “His kid has a soccer game. He said to give him a call sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “That’ll work,” I said.

  Our landline buzzed. I picked up.

  “Daniels.”

  “Hello, Lieutenant. This is Kyle, over at CigsMart. I just wanted you to know that I got the video from the inside cameras queued up for you.”

  “Great. I’ll be over in just a little while. What about the credit card receipts?”

  “Got those too. There aren’t very many.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said. “See you in a bit.”

  I hung up.

  Herb had scooted over to my computer monitor. He seemed excited about something, and for some reason I just knew it didn’t have anything to do with work.

  As expected he was checking his email.

  “My credit application was approved,” he said.

  “Credit application for what? You’re not buying another mid-life crisis muscle car, are you?”

  “Of course not. Bernice would kill me. No, this is for the SuperSlim 5000. In a few short weeks, I’m going to look just like George Clooney.”

  I walked over to Herb’s desk and looked at the screen.

  �
��What in the world is a SuperSlim 5000?” I said.

  “It’s a revolutionary new weight loss system. You just wrap it around your torso and plug it in the wall, and millions of supersonic impulses start dissolving your fat cells and increasing your metabolism. I can send you a link to their website if you want.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  He pointed toward the monitor. “Scientifically proven results, Jack. You going to stand there and argue with science? It says here I can burn over six hundred calories just sitting in a chair for eight hours. And you should see all the testimonials, some of them from really famous people.”

  “How much does this revolutionary new system cost?”

  “Only twelve easy payments of thirty-nine ninety-nine. Plus, you get the diet plan booklet, the handy dandy car adapter, and the exercise DVD absolutely free!”

  I did some quick math in my head. “That’s almost five hundred bucks, Herb. For a vibrating plastic floor mat with two strips of Velcro on it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You just don’t understand all the research that goes into something like this, Jack. And, like the website says, you can’t put a price on your health. You’ll see. In six weeks I’ll be down to what I weighed in high school.”

  “Tell me you’re joking about this.”

  “I’d never joke about something as serious as my health.”

  “You ate two bags of marshmallows for breakfast.”

  “One and a half bags. And the second bag was mini marshmallows. They’re better for you because they’re smaller.”

  I spread out my hands in defeat. “Whatever. You want to ride over to CigsMart with me to watch the security videos and go through the credit card receipts?”

  “Yeah, let me just clean this mess up real quick.”

  He started gathering all the containers from the Chinese place and stuffing them back into the big paper bag they were delivered in. I closed my rice box and added it to the mix.

  “You’re going to put all that in the refrigerator, right?”

  “I thought we’d take it with us. We might need a snack later.”

  “Refrigerator.”

  “I’m still hungry.”

  “Probably because those marshmallows were miniature.”