Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  “You can keep the funny comments to yourself, Lieutenant.” Herb pulled an eggroll out of the bag and held it to his lips. “Now let’s roll.”

  DEL CHIVO

  FRIDAY, 2:15 P.M. CST

  Two down. Three to go.

  Sergio had been walking for nearly an hour when he finally reached a sprawling two-story building that said Chicago Police Department, District 26. He leaned against a lamppost across the street, lit a cigarette, and waited.

  Men and women of all ages, some in business suits and others in police uniforms, walked in and out of the building at a hurried pace. They were all consumed with themselves, Sergio thought, in love with the idea of their own importance.

  Roaches.

  They all needed to be squashed.

  Alejandro Mendoza had been spot-on when he’d noticed Sergio’s interest in moving up the ranks. What Mendoza didn’t know, however, and what he would never know until it was too late, was that Sergio’s aspirations went far beyond being a lieutenant in San Salvador. Someday, Sergio would be kingpin, and he would order his men to obliterate entire city blocks in the United States of America. Blammo! Structures like the one he was looking at now would be nothing more than a memory.

  But not yet.

  Sergio would have to play his cards just right, lest he end up like poor Jaso in the barber’s chair. There was no hurry. Slow and steady wins the race.

  Right now he would have to settle for Detective Herb Benedict, the marshmallow man.

  White, spongy, stupid.

  Just like a marshmallow.

  He should be roasted like one.

  He lit another cigarette. A few seconds later, a silver car came rolling out of the parking garage, and Sergio could clearly see the occupants’ faces through the windshield.

  It was The Marshmallow Man.

  And his angry partner—Lieutenant Jacqueline something-or-another—was riding along with him. She’d given Sergio her business card by the fire last night.

  Sergio wondered how often Herb and Jacqueline rode in the same car together.

  He still needed three more kills.

  And there was no rule against two of them being cops.

  Sergio walked into the alley across from the police station and checked the rear service doors to some of the businesses.

  On the way back to the abandoned house where he’d slept last night, he stopped at a hardware store and bought a hacksaw blade. It was the only tool he would need.

  Other than the utility knife.

  DANIELS

  FRIDAY, 2:39 P.M. CST

  Kyle Nevell, the manager at CigsMart, hadn’t forced us to get a warrant for the credit card receipts. Some places are funny about handing over those types of records. Ditto security tapes. In a selfless show of appreciation, Herb spent $20 there on junk food.

  “Least I can do,” he said.

  I shook my head in wonder. “You’re becoming a parody of yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, did I forget your loaf of bread? You can throw one on the pile here, Jack.”

  “It’s the witty banter that keeps this partnership fresh, Herb.”

  “No kidding. Someone oughta write a book.”

  There was a new clerk behind the counter, a man this time. After Herb paid, I showed him my badge and headed on back to Kyle Nevell’s office. He was at his desk, scribbling on—surprise surprise—a Post It note.

  “What do you want to do first?” he asked. “Watch the videos or go through the receipts?”

  “Actually, I’d like to do both at the same time. That way, we can match some names with some faces. Mr. Nevell, this is Detective Benedict.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Herb said, his hand in a jumbo bag of chips.

  Nevell eyed him, apparently dubious about the origin of Herb’s enormous snack.

  “I paid for it,” Herb explained. “I was also looking for those dill pickles on a stick, but you didn’t have any.”

  “The ones that are in their own bags? I was thinking about giving those a try.”

  “You should. Not too many stores in Chicago carry them.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion.”

  “Can we speed this process along?” I asked.

  Nevell nodded. “Okay, well, here are the credit card and debit receipts from last night, starting at nine-thirty and ending at ten-thirty, just like you asked for. I also have the cash receipts in a separate pile, in case you need them. Let me know if you need me to run any before or after those times. The time code is in the upper corner. Remember how to work the video?”

  “Yeah.”

  He handed me a stack of yellow papers.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That should do it.”

  “Make yourselves at home. I have some work to do in the walk-in. Just let me know if you need anything.” Nevell grabbed a clipboard and exited the office.

  “Flip you for the chair,” Herb said.

  “You’re such a gentleman.”

  “You know I have bad knees.”

  “Who could have possibly guessed? No biggie, you can have the chair.”

  Herb pulled a pen and notepad out of his coat pocket, sat behind Nevell’s desk, clicked on the button to start the video.

  “Feels kind of like I’m sitting on a jar of peanut butter,” he said.

  No shit.

  The first three customers paid in cash. None of them looked suspicious, but I learned a long time ago that looks were deceiving. Some of the most ruthless criminals on the planet walked around in suits and ties, and some of the nicest people you’ll ever meet were covered with tattoos and piercings. Anyway, I seriously doubted that the killer had walked into the store. Everyone knew there were security cameras in convenience stores. We were mainly looking for potential witnesses.

  “This one paid with a credit card,” I said.

  Herb paused the video. “Name?”

  “Kari Johnson. She used a Visa.”

  I recited Kari Johnson’s credit card number from the cash register receipt. Herb wrote it down. Once we got everything together, we could contact the banks that had issued the cards and, if necessary, get a judge to crank out some warrants for addresses and phone numbers.

  “Look at her,” Herb said. “She’s stoned.”

  “There’s no law against wearing sunglasses at nine fifty-two P.M.,” I said.

  “Yeah, and there’s no law against buying three bags of Doritos, six candy bars, a can of aerosol cheese, and a bottle of apple juice.”

  “You bought just as much. And you aren’t high.” I looked at my partner. “Are you?”

  “No. Look what else she bought. Rolling papers.”

  “Ah. I heard an interesting statistic a while back. Every year, in the United States alone, several people are killed by vending machines, yet exactly zero die from using marijuana.”

  “Statistics are misleading,” Herb said. “I bet a good portion of those people being crushed by the machines are potheads with the munchies.”

  “Good point.”

  Herb clicked the arrow to continue the video. It took us over two hours to go through all the footage and write down the names of all the credit card customers. Kyle Nevell peeked in on us from time to time, but mostly he left us alone.

  “Now what?” Herb said.

  I looked at my watch.

  4:47.

  “I’m ready to call it a day if you are,” I said.

  “You’re kidding. Bernice won’t know how to act if I get home before dark.”

  “Enjoy your night. I’ll pick you up in the morning, and we’ll ride over to Mark Renke’s house.”

  Herb shook his head. “I’m not falling for that old trick,” he said. “It’s supposed to be cold again. I’ll pick you up.”

  We thanked Nevell, said goodbye to him and the clerk, headed on back to the 2-6 so I could get my car.

  An hour later I was home, in bed, watching my psychotic cat Mr. Friskers rip one of my old bras to shreds. When he finished, he set his si
ghts on an old gym shoe.

  I flipped on the TV to the Home Shopping Network.

  By ten pm, I’d bought a pair of Ferragamo pumps, at a massive discount, and an Oscar de la Renta jacket, at a massive discount.

  If only HSN sold cars at a massive discount.

  By midnight, I kept staring at the phone, thinking about calling my ex-boyfriend. He was the one I told Colt about. I had sabotaged our relationship, and he had probably moved on with his life, but part of me hoped he was as miserable as I was, staring at the phone and waiting to hear from me.

  I didn’t call. Neither did he.

  By two am, I’d bought another pair of shoes.

  By four am, I was finally asleep.

  DEL CHIVO

  FRIDAY, 6:15 A.M. CST

  One of the bums, either Lawrence or Shorty, snored louder than a lawnmower.

  Sergio had to fight the urge to slit both of their throats.

  He doubted they had ID—like many homeless they slept on their valuables, and the only way to get those valuables was to kill them—but the noise was so bad Sergio wanted to kill them anyway. He could always take their faces and steal someone else’s ID to show Mendoza. It wasn’t like Mendoza would ever know the difference.

  Right?

  But this abandoned house was still useful to Sergio, and presently it was occupied by several bums. So the murders would have to wait.

  Maybe, when this was all over, he’d kill them anyway. Them and the other human trash that slept here. Burn the house to the ground. Rid the earth of their stink.

  Sergio knew fire was a very effective cleanser. His father had taught him that.

  His father. Who was of El Salvadorian blood, but was born and lived his youth in the United States.

  Yes, Sergio decided. When he was finished with his work for Mendoza, he would burn everyone there.

  “For Papa,” he said, closing his eyes and smiling

  DANIELS

  SATURDAY, 10:04 A.M. CST

  Mark Renke, one of the late Dr. Shipman’s partners, lived in a nice house in a nice subdivision. Two-story brick, architectural shingles, professional landscaping. All of the homes had been built on large lots, probably half an acre or more. It was the kind of neighborhood where people would talk if you didn’t get your trash can in by a certain time.

  Herb pulled into the driveway, parked his Chrysler behind Renke’s white Audi. We climbed out, walked up to the front door and knocked. I expected a servant to answer, a butler in a tuxedo or something, but it was Dr. Renke himself. Jeans, sweater, carefully trimmed stubble. The wealthy peoples’ Saturday I’m-just-a-regular-guy-like-you look. He introduced himself, invited us in, led us to a sitting room to the right of the foyer.

  “Nice place you have here,” I said.

  “Thanks. Can I get you all a cup of coffee or something?”

  “No, this probably won’t take—”

  “I’ll take a cup of coffee,” Herb said.

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Yes. In fact, forget about the coffee and just bring that.”

  Dr. Renke looked perplexed, as though Herb had presented him with an undiagnosable set of symptoms or something.

  “He’s joking,” I said. “He takes it black, like I do. Right, Herb?”

  “Right. Preferably with a doughnut or two.”

  Renke laughed. “Ah, so it’s true what they say about cops and doughnuts.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not our fault,” Herb said. “They brainwash us at the academy. It’s a conspiracy. They want us to all die of heart attacks six months before we reach retirement age.”

  Renke smiled, shook his head. “I do have some prune Danishes my wife picked up at the bakery this morning. Would you like one of those?”

  “Those are my favorite.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Herb and I sat on the sofa.

  “Since when are prune Danishes your favorite?” I said.

  “Any Danish is my favorite.”

  “You’re not going to have to wait six months before retirement to have a heart attack. It could happen within the next few minutes.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re at a doctor’s house.”

  Renke returned with two steaming mugs, a white cardboard box, and a stack of paper napkins on a serving tray. Apparently the rich had serving trays.

  He set the tray on the coffee table in front of us. There was an antique roll-top desk in one corner of the room, and Renke took the chair from that and straddled it, facing us.

  “Of course we were all shocked when we heard about Bill,” he said.

  I did the talking while Herb helped himself to a sweet roll.

  “How long had you been in business with him?” I said.

  “Bill and John and I have been friends since third grade,” he said. “We went to college together, and we all graduated from med school together. We started the dermatology practice, wow, almost ten years ago now.”

  “So you’ve been partners since the beginning?”

  “Yes. And we’re still good friends. Our families get together several times a year. Cookouts, picnics, stuff like that. Bill and Brenda went skiing with us in Utah just a couple of months ago.”

  He used the word we’re. Present tense. A common mistake when someone you’re close to dies. Conversely, for someone who recently lost a lifelong friend and business partner, Renke seemed in pretty good spirits.

  “What’s your wife’s name?”

  “Carla. She’s also a physician. Family practice.”

  “Is she here?”

  “She’s doing some volunteer work this morning. Free clinic, one Saturday a month. She’s been doing it for a while.”

  “Would you happen to have the number to the clinic?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “We just need to ask her a couple of questions as well. It won’t take long.”

  Renke walked over to the desk, shuffled through some papers, found what he was looking for and brought it to me.

  I handed the flyer to Herb. “Would you mind doing the honors?” I said.

  He grabbed another Danish and headed outside to make the call.

  “Carla wasn’t with us Thursday night,” Renke said. “It was just Bill and John and me.”

  “I know.”

  Renke raised an eyebrow. “I’m just trying to figure out why you would want to talk to her.”

  “We like to interview as many sources as possible, make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

  “Ah. So you’re going to ask her some of the same questions you’re asking me, to make sure I’m not lying.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell,” I said. “Of course the two of you could have rehearsed everything by now.”

  “Am I a suspect, Lieutenant Daniels? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

  “Everyone’s a suspect, Dr. Renke, until ruled otherwise. We have to cover all the bases. You understand that, right?”

  “Yeah. It just makes me nervous.”

  “If you have nothing to hide, there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

  He nodded, but still looked apprehensive. “If you say so,” he said.

  “Relax. We’re almost done. You and William Shipman and John Boggan go to Genario’s Pizza every Thursday after work, right?”

  “Not every Thursday, but most. It’s our night to blow off a little steam, have a few laughs, whatever. You know, just the guys.”

  “On the night Dr. Shipman was killed, did the three of you leave the restaurant together?”

  “Bill and John left together. I wanted to stick around and watch the rest of the game.”

  “And what game was that?”

  “Springfield and Norwich. Basketball.”

  “Do you remember the final score?”

  “Seventy-one to fifty-six. Springfield won.”

  “You left the restaurant shortly after the game was over?”

  “Yes, and I came straight home,” he said, anticipating my next
question. “Got here around ten-fifteen. Carla was still up, watching the news on TV.”

  “Great. Thanks so much for your time, doctor. I think that’s about all I need right now.”

  “Like I said, we were all shocked when we heard about Bill. Devastated, really. I still can’t believe he’s gone. Just like that.”

  His façade cracked a bit and his eyes became red. He turned away from me before I could see a tear fall.

  I heard the front door open and close, and a few seconds later Herb walked back into the sitting room.

  “Did you get in touch with my wife?” Renke said, his back to us.

  “Yes. She seems very nice.”

  I stood. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else,” I said.

  “We were friends since we were seven years old. Nothing was ever supposed to break us apart.” His shoulders shook.

  “We’re sorry for your loss, Dr. Renke.”

  “Mind if I take one of those for the road?” Herb said, gesturing toward the bakery box.

  “Take them all,” Renke said. “I’ll just end up throwing them away if you don’t.”

  “Thanks.”

  Herb and I left the house, comparing notes on the drive back to the 2-6. Everything Mark Renke told me checked out with what I’d gotten from Felencia Chase and what Herb had gotten from Carla Renke. Which pretty much eliminated Mark as a suspect.

  “It’s still too early to call Boggan,” Herb said. “He’s still at his kid’s soccer game.”

  “We can run the list of credit card customers from CigsMart, see if any of them have a police record, or could be potential wits. That should kill a few hours.”

  “All right.”

  Herb was still chewing on the last prune Danish as we pulled into the parking garage. Contrary to my every expectation, my partner’s heart did not explode.

  COLT

  SATURDAY, 4:16 P.M. CST

  Laurie and I took an afternoon flight out of Jacksonville, landed at O’Hare about two and a half hours later. We found the rental car place, declined the extra insurance they always try to sell you, and used the onboard GPS to navigate Chicago.