Knorath, Joe - Jack Daniels 03 - Rusty Nail (5 page)

“Take your time.”

I trimmed my thumbnail with my teeth, imagining the petite man going over the writing sample with a magnifying glass.

“Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Is the original in marker?”

“Yes.”

“Clever.”

“It’s clever to write in marker?”

“One of the things graphologists look at is pressure. Felt-tip pens disguise that. Tell me, the fax you sent, is this the original size, or did you enlarge it?”

“The real sample is half the size.”

“I see. I look forward to seeing the actual note. This is a very interesting sample. We don’t see this too often.”

“See what, Doctor?”

“It appears to be a forgery. Someone who has seen Kork’s original handwriting and has done their best to imitate it. The descending
t
-bars. The slant. The capitalization. But there are some obvious differences. First of all, Kork’s writing is heaviest in the lower zone. This person is an upper zone writer, an indicator of high intelligence. Also, there are some feminine characteristics at work here.”

I blinked. “A woman wrote this?”

“It’s impossible to determine sex from a handwriting sample, and men can have feminine qualities in their script, just as women can have masculine qualities.”

Mulrooney went into a lecture about the differences between male and female traits in handwriting, but my attention was drawn away by a very unpleasant surprise standing in my doorway.

“Dr. Mulrooney?” I interrupted. “Something just came up. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, of course. Until then, Lieutenant.”

I replaced the receiver on the cradle and turned to face my demons.

CHAPTER 6

H
ELLO AGAIN, LIEUTENANT.
I hope you remember us. I’m Special Agent Dailey, this is Special Agent Coursey.” He leaned forward a fraction. “From the Bureau.”

They had matching crew cuts. Special Agent Jim Coursey wore a gray suit. Special Agent George Dailey, the same height and build as Coursey, also sported a gray suit, but his buttons were squarish compared to Coursey’s roundish buttons. That must be how their handler could tell them apart.

“Can I see some ID?” I asked.

Dailey reached for his pocket, but Coursey stopped him with a look.

“She’s kidding. She does that.”

“Didn’t you read my profile?” I asked Dailey.

He dropped his hand back to his side and concentrated on looking Federal. Dailey and Coursey were ViCAT operatives from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit. ViCAT stood for Violent Criminal Apprehension Team, which used high-tech suspect profiling techniques and state-of-the-art crime detecting computers to waste the time of local cops like me.

“We have some exciting news,” said Coursey.

I couldn’t pass that up. “You’re quitting the Bureau and joining the traveling cast of
Riverdance
?”

“No. The Evanston Police Department has invited us in on the new Gingerbread Man murder.”

Here was proof that God hated me.

“We’ve obtained a copy of the video. It contains some similarities to the previous Kork murders.”

“Gentlemen,” I began, “while it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside that you’re—”

“We’ve had Vicky do a profile.” Coursey talked over me while Dailey removed a thick packet of paper from his briefcase and plunked it on my desk.

“Vicky is what we call the ViCAT computer,” Dailey added. “She’s a comprehensive compiled database of criminal activity committed throughout the United States.”

Every time they dropped by, they explained Vicky to me. Perhaps I had a sign around my neck that said: “Tell me again, I’m an idiot.”

“Though we haven’t had enough time to fully analyze the videotape of the murder, Vicky postulates that this is the work of a copycat,” said Coursey.

“A copycat,” said Dailey.

“A copycat,” said I. “Was your first clue the note, or the fact that it took place in the same house as Kork’s murders?”

Sarcasm was wasted on these guys, but that didn’t stop me from making an effort.

“If you’ll look over the profile, you’ll notice that this crime took an extraordinary amount of planning and organization,” said Coursey.

“So much so, that Vicky doesn’t believe this is the work of a single individual,” said Dailey.

“The facts point to the perpetrator being a group of individuals,” said Coursey.

“A group?” said I.

“An organized group of at least three people. Perhaps members of a club or organization.”

I took a stab. “Like the PTA?”

“Actually,” Coursey lowered his voice an octave, “we’ve been informed by Homeland Security that three members of a subversive Brazilian band went through Customs at O’Hare Airport eleven days ago.”

I held up a palm. “Guys, while being sent a videotape may have been meant to inspire terror, I really don’t think this was a terrorist act.”

“They’re not terrorists,” said Dailey. “They call themselves the Samba Kings.”

Coursey added, “They’re musicians.”

I took a moment before saying, “You think the murderer is a Brazilian samba trio.”

Dailey held up his right hand and ticked off fingers. “They’re organized. Focused. Motivated. And are in excellent physical condition, by the looks of the pictures on their CD.”

I checked my neck for the
I’m an idiot
sign. I didn’t have one. But I was considering getting two of them made, with matching gray letters.

“Gentlemen—” I began.

“There’s more,” Dailey interrupted. “According to Interpol, both the drummer and the lead singer have priors. And there have been several dozen instances of mutilation in Brazil recently.”

Coursey leaned in. “Cattle mutilation,” he said.

“Maybe their maraca player is a chupacabra,” I offered.

Dailey and Coursey exchanged a glance. “You don’t seem to be taking this seriously, Lieutenant.”

I sighed. “Sorry, guys. It’s been a rough day. Why don’t you let me memorize this report you gave me, and I’ll get back to you, say, next week?”

Another look passed between them. I wondered if they had some kind of telepathy thing going. Probably not, as that would require a brain.

“How about tomorrow?” said Coursey.

“How about November?” I countered.

“How about on Thursday?” said Dailey.

“How about the first of never?” I returned volley.

“Next week it is,” Coursey said. “We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Please do. And I’ll put out an all-points bulletin, asking my people to pay special attention to anyone speaking Portuguese.”

The special agents gave me a blank stare.

“That’s what they speak in Brazil,” I said.

“We knew that,” said Dailey.

“We went to Harvard,” said Coursey.

“Thanks for stopping by, gentlemen.” I held up their report. “I’ll get started on this right away.”

They left, and I placed the report in the circular file, on top of my empty coffee cup. A quick check of my watch—a Movado that Latham had given me—showed me it was nearing lunchtime, and Herb was probably done with his procedure. I gave him a call.

“Hello?” His voice was groggy.

“How’d the colonoscopy go? You eating a big plate of nachos yet?”

Long pause. I heard hospital sounds in the background. A nurse talking. A doctor being paged.

“They found something. A tumor.”

I momentarily ran out of words.

“Jesus, Herb.”

“Took a biopsy. Won’t know until later.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I gotta go.”

He clicked off.

I stared at the phone, unsure of what to do. Go visit him? Herb, though cuddly on the outside, was a classic stoic. Dropping by would cause embarrassment, and possibly anger. But still, a tumor was a serious thing.

I closed my eyes. I’d had partners prior to Herb, but never one I’d cared about. Benedict was like a big brother. If Herb died . . .

The phone rang. I screwed a cap over my feelings and answered, hoping it was Herb.

“Did the Feebies just drop by?”

Bains.

“Yes, Captain. Evanston brought them in.”

“I want you off this.”

“You gave me forty-eight hours.”

“I said to keep a low profile. With those two involved, it’s only a matter of time before the
Weekly World News
is camped outside the station. You’re off.”

“Captain—”

“Off.”

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. That didn’t do a damn thing, so I took another, and another.

Something inside of me, some little internal switch, had been flipped, and I wasn’t sure who I was. I thought about Herb, and my mom, and my ex-husband, Alan, and Latham, and my job, and my life, and where I’d been and where I was headed.

I thought about how hard I tried to remain in control, and what little good it did. Control didn’t matter. Fate didn’t care about how hard you tried, or how well planned you were, or how much you wanted something.

Fate had its own agenda.

I was forty-six years old. My job, the thing I devoted my life to, was in trouble. My best friend might be dying. My mother was in a coma. And I had screwed up the one thing that I did have some control over; I loved a great guy, and I blew it. And if I wanted to admit it, to take the hard inward glance that made me ask why, I knew the answer.

Deep down, I wanted to be miserable. I wanted to be miserable, because that’s what I deserved, because I hated myself.

Which was a pretty crummy way to live. And not something I wanted to continue.

I picked up the phone, dialing from memory.

“Hello?”

“Hi Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hurting you. I know a lot of time has passed, and I’m sure you’ve moved on, but I haven’t. I still love you. Can I come over?”

“Who is this? Do I know you?”

The voice wasn’t Latham’s.

“Ah, hell.” I disconnected and tried again, dialing more carefully.

“You’ve reached Latham Conger, I can’t come to the phone, please leave a name and number and I’ll get back to you.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Say something, Jack.

The silence stretched.

Open your mouth.

Dead air, each passing second like a kick in the gut.

Dammit, woman, do you want to be miserable your whole life?

“Latham, it’s Jack. I’m sorry for everything. I love you. I’d like to see you again. Please call.”

There. I did it. I actually did something for myself. It brought a small smile to my face.

But my shoulders bunched up again when I realized I’d be up all night, waiting for him to call.

Once again, control was out of my hands.

CHAPTER 7

I
STOPPED BY
Henderson House on the way home from work, but there had been no change. Mom hadn’t opened her eyes again. I sat with her for an hour. No talking this time, just holding her hand.

Twice I checked my cell phone, to make sure it was on. It was.

After a pillow fluff, I turned to leave and had a good startle seeing Tony Coglioso standing in the doorway. His eyes seemed glazed, far away.

“Tony?”

“Hi, Jack. How’s she doing?”

“The same. How about your dad?”

“The same.”

I wondered if I should apologize for barging in on him yesterday, and then thought that maybe he was the one who should apologize for being so rude, and finally accepted that neither of us needed to say the
s
word because, hey, our parents were dying.

“You look nice,” Tony said, not quite focusing on me.

I figured I looked like hell, but thanked him anyway.

Tony smiled. “See you soon.” Then he walked off.

Strange. Maybe he was drunk, or high on something. Or maybe he stopped by to ask me out, checked the merchandise, and decided to pass.

I fluffed Mom’s pillow again, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and headed to the elevator. No Tony in the hall, no Tony in the lobby, and no Tony in the parking lot. It didn’t matter. My mind was on Latham, not Tony, so I didn’t dwell.

After a quick check to make sure my cell phone hadn’t accidentally switched off during my walk to the car, I headed home.

Mr. Friskers gave me a warm welcome, howling and running away when I walked through the door. I reset the alarm and turned the dead bolt. Time to plan my big evening.

I made dinner, maxing out my culinary skills with a BLT. Then I fed the feral cat, plugged my cell into the charger, set my .38 next to my bed, swapped my outfit for a T-shirt and fresh panties, scrubbed my face, ate my BLT, brushed my teeth, and switched on the TV. Network drivel was better than brainwashing when it came to clearing a woman’s mind. I hopped on the bed, content to play station roulette.