Lady 52: A Jack Daniels/Nicholas Colt Novel

by Jude Hardin

  Herb opened the door and climbed in.

  “It’s the SuperSlim 5000,” he said. “You plug it in, and all your fat cells start dissolving instantly. Plus, it increases your metabolism. It tricks your body into thinking you’re running a marathon, when all you’re really doing is sitting on the couch watching Gilligan’s Island.”

  “That’s the surprise for your wife?” Laurie asked, laughing.

  “She’ll be surprised when she sees the credit card statement. Really surprised. But I’ll be looking like Brad Pitt by then, so she probably won’t even care.”

  Herb shoved an adapter onto the end of the cord and plugged himself into the Chrysler’s cigarette lighter.

  “It’s making a scary humming noise,” I observed.

  “Right. The revolutionary pulsating sonic waves are blasting my fat cells to smithereens as we speak.”

  “So it’s supposed to sound so… frightening?”

  “These sonic waves don’t fool around. It’s also supposed to heat up. Put your hand on it.”

  I tentatively reached over the seat and pressed my palm against Herb’s chest. The apparatus had gotten warm, like an electric blanket.

  “Interesting,” I said. “You’re not going to burst into flames, are you?”

  Herb laughed. Trails of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as he put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space. He tooled around to the lower level, stopped and swiped his badge at the checkout station and waited for the automatic barrier arm to rise and allow us to exit.

  When the front of the car hit sunshine, I heard a crack, and then two more in quick succession. Electrical pops, I thought. I figured that crazy thing Herb was wearing had shorted out or something.

  Then I saw the holes in the windshield.

  Herb slammed on the brakes. In one swift motion he slung his door open, cleared leather, and started firing toward the lamppost across the street. A man wearing a policeman’s uniform took off down the street. Herb waddled after him.

  I pulled the .38 revolver from my coat pocket and climbed forward through the driver’s side, intending to help Herb apprehend the shooter.

  “Stay here,” I said.

  But Laurie didn’t answer.

  I turned my head in her direction as I was exiting the vehicle.

  Lost my balance and nearly fell when I saw the bright red blood oozing from her left eye.

  DANIELS

  SUNDAY, 4:50 P.M. CST

  I steered into the lot at Castaways, parking my Nova between a BMW and a Jaguar. John Boggan was sitting at the bar on the other side of the room.

  He waved.

  A perky little twenty-something brunette wearing a summery red and white dress stepped up to the greeting station and said, “Will it be just one today?”

  “I’m meeting someone for a drink,” I said. “I see him over there.”

  She transferred a garland of plastic flowers from her neck to mine.

  “It’s Hawaiian night,” she said. “Everyone gets a free lei.”

  “He wishes,” I said.

  She smiled politely and walked away. She’d probably heard every lei joke in the book. And then some.

  I weaved my way through the crowd, took the stool next to John’s at the bar.

  “Good to see you,” he said. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  Philippe had touched up my roots earlier, and I’d put on my date makeup instead of my work makeup. The difference was a slightly brighter shade of lipstick.

  John took a sip from a tall frosted tumbler filled with ice and some sort of liquid that appeared to be glass cleaner. There was a pineapple wedge jammed onto the lip of the glass, and a maraschino cherry bleeding into the napkin beside it.

  “It’s a Blue Hawaiian,” he said. “Thought I’d get into the spirit of things. Want one?”

  “Maybe I should try yours first.”

  He slid the glass my way. “Be my guest.”

  I grabbed a stir stick from the bartender’s caddy, dipped it into the turquoise concoction and gave it a taste.

  “Not bad. What’s in it besides rum and food coloring?”

  “They claim pineapple juice. I remain dubious. Would you like one?”

  “I’d prefer just the pineapple juice.”

  John raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were here for a drink.”

  “I am. I plan to drink the pineapple juice.”

  He called over the bartender and ordered one for the lady.

  “So, you come here a lot?” I asked.

  “Fairly often,” he said. “It’s close to my apartment. I could practically walk home from here. In fact, I have walked home a couple of times. But don’t tell anyone.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me. And as a police officer—and just a concerned citizen—I applaud you for not getting behind the wheel after drinking too much. I saw too many alcohol-related motor vehicle accidents back when I was a beat cop. I have stories that would curl your hair.”

  “My hair’s already curly.”

  I squinted toward the top of his head, like I was checking it out for the first time.

  “So it is,” I said.

  The bartender brought my juice. John said cheers, we clinked our glasses together, and took a drink. I studied him without being too obvious about it. Good looking rich guy who was interested in me? Or psycho who cut off his partner’s face?

  While I’d seen the depths of the human soul, and was never surprised how insane some men were, it was the latter part that puzzled me. Anyone, given the circumstances, could be pushed into murdering a fellow human being. But slicing off their faces? Especially while they were possibly still alive? That took a special breed of psychopath. I’d met a few, but John didn’t strike me as one.

  Sociopaths lacked empathy, and the overall ability to actually emote, so they faked it. This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Most politicians and CEOs were sociopaths, which gave them the ability to climb the ranks without worrying about whom they climbed over. When this lack of empathy became violent—the definition of psychopath—is when I was usually called in to clean up the mess.

  I had a simple test to see if someone was sociopathic.

  “Want to hear a joke?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Did you hear about the cryptographer who got sick?”

  John shook his head.

  “He caught a code.”

  He chuckled, and when he did, the corners of his eyes crinkled up. Those muscles were only used when a smile was genuine. So John wasn’t a sociopath.

  But I did have to wonder about a guy who found that stupid joke amusing.

  “My daughter would like that one,” he said. “Do you have children, Jack?”

  “No. Never had time.”

  “Ever think about it?”

  “Sometimes. I think I would, if the right guy came around.”

  “Do you enjoy being a police officer?”

  “I enjoy getting the job done. And I’m normally the one who asks all the questions. I have a few for you.”

  “You’re right. I said we could talk about Bill, didn’t I? And here I was hoping we could just get to know one another.” He made his face into a cute pout that I’m sure all the women loved. And, truth told, it was pretty cute.

  “How did you know Dr. Shipman’s wife hired a private eye?” I asked.

  “He told us, of course. Mark and I. After his wife told him.”

  “Mrs. Shipman told her husband she hired someone to follow him?”

  “Yes. To show how serious she was about trusting him. They were having some problems.”

  “You mentioned earlier they weren’t getting along. Can you go into more detail?”

  “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, Jack. Especially one of my dearest friends. But Bill wasn’t as attentive as he could have been.”

  “Is that what you were arguing about?”

  John seemed surprised by the comment. “Arguing
?”

  “That private investigator who Brenda Shipman hired. While he was following Dr. Shipman, he saw you arguing.”

  “Actually, yes. Both Mark and I felt Bill was treating Brenda poorly. Our families are all very close, you know. Wives talk. It gets back to the husbands.”

  “You’re still that close with your ex-wife?”

  “Sadly, no. But Mark’s wife told him what Brenda said. Bill had been distant, and in some cases, emotionally abusive. Mark felt he should try to patch up the marriage. I was arguing the opposite point. Sometimes marriages don’t work out, and you have to move on. You know?”

  I did know.

  “Do you think Mrs. Shipman was capable of murdering her husband?”

  “Brenda? No. Of course not.”

  “Could she have hired someone?”

  John paused. I could practically see the wheels turn in his head.

  “Well, they were definitely having major problems. And she hired a private investigator because she didn’t trust Bill. How much of a leap is it to hire a hitman?”

  “She hated him enough to hire someone to cut off his face?”

  “Well, Bill was a dermatologist. That would be one way to make a point. But this all assumes the suspect who was killed wasn’t The Defacer.”

  “He may not have been.”

  “Wasn’t there another victim other than Bill?”

  “There was. But the cause of death doesn’t match.”

  He sipped his Blue Hawaiian. I sipped my pineapple juice.

  “You know, if Bill and I had just stayed and watched the end of the game with Mark, none of this would have happened.”

  “You can drive yourself nuts with all the what-ifs,” I said. “Trust me, it’s best not to go there.”

  “I know you’re right about that. Why don’t you let me buy you some dinner?”

  “No. This was supposed to be one drink, and one drink only. And you have racquetball, remember?”

  “I’ll call and cancel,” he said. “How about it? Dinner?”

  “I have plans.”

  John leaned closer. “Change them. I find you very interesting, and attractive, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

  “Not going to happen. There’s a major conflict of interest.”

  “You still consider me a suspect?”

  “Everyone’s a suspect.”

  “So you aren’t allowed to go out to dinner with anyone at all?”

  I laughed at that. “I really need to get going.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  “You seem to be an alright guy, John. But I can’t go to dinner with you until we’re sure about Terrence Rush.”

  “I understand. I’ll keep my eye on the news, and call you when the case is closed. Would that be okay?”

  “That would be fine. Thanks for the drink.”

  I offered my hand. He shook it. Then I left.

  The Jaguar that had been parked beside me was gone, replaced with a shiny black Cadillac Escalade. The fat SUV had been stuffed into an economy-sized parking space, leaving only about six inches from its running board to my driver’s side door.

  I checked the plates, saw that the vehicle was a rental. Thought about calling it in and having it towed, just for spite, but the grownup in me finally decided against it. I walked around to the passenger’s side of my Nova, opened my purse and started digging for my keys. Just as I found them, my cell phone rang.

  “Daniels.”

  “Hello, Jack. Ray Hitchcock over at the Medical Examiner’s office. I received the preliminary results for the autopsy on William Shipman a few minutes ago, and there’s something here I thought you should know about.”

  “What is it, Ray?”

  “The doctor who performed the autopsy is almost certain that the wound on the medial aspect of Shipman’s left thigh was caused by a surgical instrument, a scalpel, number fifteen blade to be exact, and we even know the specific brand. It’s not something you normally see outside a hospital setting—or a doctor’s office where minor surgeries are performed. I know Shipman himself was a—”

  I dropped the phone and pulled out my .38 as someone rushed out from behind the Escalade.

  Before I could raise my weapon the man was on me, hitting me in the shoulder.

  No. Not hitting me. Stabbing me with something sharp.

  He grabbed my wrist and we fought for the gun, and I glanced down and saw a syringe sticking out below my collarbone.

  I kneed my attacker in the groin, pivoted, and flipped him over my hip and onto his back. But he managed to keep his hands on my .38, his fingers locked around the hammer, preventing me from firing.

  I raised my foot and gave him a spiked heel in the gut, taking half a second to look at his face.

  Dr. Mark Renke.

  Then I noticed peripheral movement. John, rushing toward me.

  My hero?

  Wrong.

  John hit me with an uppercut, just under the chin. I let go of my gun and fell against my Nova. Things got really blurry really fast. I felt around my shoulder, tugged out the syringe. It was empty.

  “Bitch stabbed me with her heel!”

  “Get her in the car!”

  “I’m going to shoot her!”

  “Not in the parking lot, you moron! Help me get her in the car!”

  I slumped off the hood, my legs turning into pudding, and then everything went black.

  DEL CHIVO

  SUNDAY, 6:30 P.M. CST

  No!

  Sergio had fired, emptying his gun and hitting the front windshield of the car, but the Marshmallow Man had accelerated too fast and he’d missed him, only hitting his angry female partner in the passenger seat.

  Then the fat cop slammed on the brakes and he was running straight for Sergio.

  The plan had failed. It was time to run.

  Sergio hurried back inside the vacant store, and tripped over the crate he’d been sitting on.

  Hijo de puta!

  The empty gun, and the utility knife he’d had in his other hand, went skittering off into the blackness.

  Sergio scrambled to his feet just as the door opened.

  “Don’t move! Or I’ll shoot!”

  Sergio kept completely still.

  “Hands above your head! Now!”

  Sergio placed his hands over his head. The lights in the shop went on, bright and fluorescent. Sergio hadn’t even known the store had power.

  “Knees! Now!”

  He got onto his knees, and then he was on his belly, arms and legs spread out, being patted down by the fat cop he’d been hoping to kill.

  COLT

  SUNDAY, 6:30 P.M. CST

  At first I thought a piece of glass from the windshield might have flown into Laurie’s face. Then I saw the hole in the headrest. The bullet had entered through Laurie’s eye socket, and it had exited through the back of her skull.

  I reached over and unbuckled her seatbelt and pulled her toward me, held her head in my hands, held my face against hers, felt the warm sticky blood mingling with my tears.

  “NO!”

  I’m not sure what else I said. Maybe I didn’t say anything. Maybe I just knelt there sobbing and wailing for the next sixty seconds or so.

  Laurie was gone.

  She was dead.

  I’d loved her, and now she was gone.

  And some motherfucker was going to pay. Hard.

  I got up, stepped back, turned away. I couldn’t look at her anymore. The lifeless husk lying there was not my Laurie. The woman I loved was gone from this world. Her light had been snuffed out, her essence stolen in a single tick of the clock. She never should have come with me. I never should have allowed it.

  The streetlights clicked on.

  I used Herb’s radio and called Dispatch.

  “There’s been a homicide,” I said. “In front of the twenty-sixth district station house. Detective Herb Benedict and civilian Nicholas Colt in pursuit of suspect.”

  Then
I pulled out the revolver and bolted down the street, traffic stopped in both directions and horns honking emphatically. But I had no idea where I was going.

  I hadn’t seen the shooter. And there was no sign of Herb. A man that big didn’t just disappear. He certainly hadn’t had enough time to run down the block and turn the corner.

  That left… what?

  I looked to my left, saw storefronts. Shoe store, clothing store, pizza shop, book store. No one was running out of any of them, screaming for help. So where did…

  There. A shop with the windows taped over with brown paper, a FOR RENT sign on the door. The sign was askew, as if the door had just been opened.

  I ran for it, grasping at the door handle and pulling.

  Detective Herb Benedict had the man who killed Laurie on the floor, and he was cuffing his hands behind his back.

  Herb’s head whipped around, and he stared at me.

  “Colt! I got him.”

  I stood there, staring, my hands shaking with rage. Herb’s eyes narrowed.

  “Colt, drop the gun.”

  I didn’t drop it. “Go to hell,” I said.

  “Colt, I’m ordering you to drop the gun.”

  “Laurie’s dead.”

  “And he’s going to pay for it.”

  I thumbed back the hammer on Jack’s revolver. “Yes he is. Right now.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Fuck you, Herb. What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

  “I’ll arrest you. I’m a cop, Nicholas. I can’t let you do this. And he’s not worth going to prison over.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” I said. “This son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did.”

  I was the judge, the jury, the executioner. I was furious, and at the moment I didn’t care about the law and due process and all that. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about any of it. I wanted to see this guy’s brains splattered all over the concrete floor. It wasn’t right that he was alive and Laurie wasn’t. A massive earthquake had split the world in two. The universe had been jarred in a big way, and I was determined to straighten it all out with a single squeeze of the trigger.

  “He’ll pay,” Herb said. “You can count on that. Now put the gun away so I can read him his rights. Otherwise, I’m going to be reading you yours.”