Racked (A Lt. Jack Daniels / Nicholas Colt mystery) (2 page)

“It’s a Balabushka,” he said, referring to the cue stick. “A replica, but a good replica. Ever try one?”

“Sure, I have a dozen just like it at home.”

“On a cop’s salary? I doubt it.”

He screwed the two pieces together.

“How did you know?” I said.

“The bartender downstairs told me your name and where you’re from. I watch CNN like everyone else, Lieutenant Daniels.”

“You can call me Jacqueline. Or Jack.”

“Saw that airplane stuff this morning. Must have been scary.”

“I’ve lived through worse. And what’s your name?”

He grabbed a block of chalk and started massaging the tip of his cue with it.

“Nicholas Colt,” he said. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Ah. Well, I won’t hold that against you.”

I’d meant the comment as a joke, but he didn’t seem amused.

“We’re not all like McGlade,” he said.

Harry McGlade had once worked for the Chicago Police Department. He’d been my partner for a while. He was private now, and mostly a thorn in my side. Rude, crude, unkempt, misogynistic, thought he was funny. He was an ass, and he had an annoying habit of helping me even when I didn’t ask for help.

“You get McGlade’s name from CNN, too?” I said.

“No. That TV show about him. The one where you’re the overweight cop who wets the bed.”

“So that’s your game. Charming me into playing pool with you. Don’t bother chalking up. You can load your replica stick right back into its replica case.”

“Apologies. Didn’t know it was such a sore spot with you. Obviously you’re not overweight, and I’d be willing to bet that you don’t suffer from enuresis. You’re an attractive woman, Jack. After we shoot a game of pool, maybe we could ride over to my place on the lake. You like to fish? I’ll let you bait my hook.”

I rolled my eyes. It was the first time anyone had ever hit on me with the unlikely combinations of angling and bed wetting.

“Sure,” I said. “Could I make you breakfast in the morning, too?”

“We could play a game of nine ball for who makes breakfast.”

“Or you could go somewhere else and play with yourself.”

He laughed. It was an easy laugh, deep and genuine.

“How about we start over?” he said. “All I’m interested in is a game. Really. No bets. No come-ons.”

“Listen, Colt, I don’t have a lot of time, and I’d really rather just—”

A loud noise from downstairs cut me off in mid-sentence.

I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but it sounded an awful lot like a shotgun blast.

THE BAD GUY

2:19
P.M.

T
he best time to knock off a restaurant is between two and three in the afternoon. The lunch crowd is gone by then, and the dinner crowd hasn’t started trickling in yet. With a little luck, you can be in and out in less than five minutes, and nobody gets hurt.

I’d walked into Kelly’s with a heavy canvas sack, a sawed-off twelve gauge pump, and a cheap plastic Bugs Bunny mask I’d found at a discount store. The mask was made for a kid, so it didn’t really fit my face. I had to cut the eyeholes bigger with a pocketknife.

When the cute little redhead behind the bar saw me, she put her hands in the air and told me to take anything I wanted.

I told her to open the register and stack all the money on the bar. She complied, and I stuffed the bills into my bag. It looked like several hundred dollars. Not a bad score for the afternoon, but I was greedy by nature. My mother always said I should have been an attorney.

“Where’s the safe?” I said.

“In the manager’s office.”

Her upper lip quivered when she spoke. She was about to cry. It was the appropriate reaction, the one I expected. What I didn’t expect was the wild-eyed dude in an apron who came running around the corner with a butcher knife in his hand.

I dropped the moneybag and swiveled toward him, and the gun just kind of went off. Now he was on the floor, writhing, the bottom part of his jeans shredded and soaked with blood.

Red fell to her knees, buried her face in her hands.

“Please don’t kill me,” she said.

There were some other businesses nearby, and I was afraid someone might have heard the gunshot. I needed to get out of there before the cops showed up.

Then again, it would only take a couple of minutes to empty the safe.

“Take me to the office,” I said.

“He needs a doctor.”

“He’ll be all right.”

She got up and started shuffling toward the back of the bar, sobbing as she went.

THE COP

2:20
P.M.

C
olt walked over to the window, glanced down toward the street.

“Could have been a car backfiring,” he said.

“Could have been,” I said, going for my purse. “If the car was parked downstairs in the bar.”

“Maybe it was the tennis equipment factory down the road. They’re always making a racket.”

I looked at him with my best
you didn’t just say that
expression.

“Are you sure your name’s not Benedict?” I said.

“Who?”

“My partner. He likes bad puns.”

“He tell you the one about the grape that got stepped on?”

“The one who didn’t scream, just let out a little wine?” I reached into my purse and pulled out my .38. “Are you carrying?”

“Left it in the car. Normally pool isn’t a dangerous game.”

Great.

“Let’s just hope it really was something harmless. You have a cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Call nine-one-one if I’m not back in two minutes.”

“I’m going with you,” he said.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Try to stop me.”

Damn it. Another stubborn alpha male determined to take care of me. I didn’t need him tagging along, but I’d wasted enough time arguing.

“I can’t stop you,” I said. “Just stay back a few feet and try not to get your head blown off.”

“Maybe I should carry the gun.”

“Maybe you should wake up, because you’re dreaming, pal.”

I wrapped both hands around the checkered wood grips and headed for the staircase.

THE BAD GUY

2:22
P.M.

T
he manager’s office was the size of a large closet. There was a computer desk and a phone and a corkboard with a bunch of miscellaneous crap tacked to it. Notes and receipts and reminders and whatnot. The safe was on the floor beside the desk.

“Open it,” I said.

“You’re after the ring, aren’t you?”

“What ring?”

“What ring my ass. Why else would you have picked today of all days to rob a bar?”

Now I was intrigued. Apparently there was something very valuable in that safe, which of course made me more determined than ever to get into it.

“Open it,” I said again.

“I don’t know the combination.”

“What?”

“I’ve only been here a week. I’m still on probation.”

“Who else is here?”

“Rey. The guy you shot. He’s just a cook.”

What kind of restaurant manager leaves a beautiful young bartender alone in a joint without giving her the combination to the safe? That’s a sure way to get a beautiful young bartender killed.

Nothing annoys me more than an incompetent manager. Nothing. I planned on filing a complaint.

But first I had to make absolutely sure the beautiful young bartender wasn’t lying. I pointed the gun in her face.

“What if you need to break a big bill, or make change?” I said.

“Rey! He knows the combination.”

“Let’s go ask him.”

We went into the kitchen. Rey didn’t seem happy to see me again. It might have been because I’d shot him in the legs.

“Safe combo,” I said. “I didn’t kill you before, because I don’t want a murder rap. But if you lie to me, the next shot will take your head clean off.”

I got the
clean off
line from Dirty Harry. Great movie. Except where the cop killed the bad guy at the end. Bummer, that.

Rey gave me three numbers. I thanked him and ushered the bartender back into the office.

“Open it.”

She did.

“I’m going to have to tie you up,” I said. “Got any duct tape in here?”

“I don’t know.”

She slumped to the floor beside the safe and hugged her knees. Hands trembling, eyes full of tears and trepidation.

I noticed her nametag.

“Relax,” I said. “Only an asshole would kill someone named Molly.”

She didn’t smile, didn’t even look up at me. She was stressing out big time. Can’t say that I blamed her. I was big and scary, and I was carrying a weapon that could cut her in half.

I needed to empty the safe and get out of there, but first I needed to secure my hostage. I started yanking open desk drawers and ferreting around for something to bind Molly’s wrists and ankles with. The Bugs Bunny mask was making my face sweat like crazy.

I finally found a yellowed roll of packaging tape.

And a hammer.

“I want to go home,” Molly said.

The tears were really gushing now. She could barely even talk.

“Lie on the floor, facedown.”

She did. And then something terrible happened.

THE PRIVATE EYE

2:26
P.M.

P
olice,” Jack shouted. “Open the door and walk out slowly. Backwards. Hands laced behind your head.”

Rey Aquino was up by the bar, lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. He’d told us that the bad guy was in the manager’s office with Molly. I’d called 911, and help was on the way. In the meantime, Jack had stopped the bleeding with some pressure dressings fashioned from bar towels and Saran wrap. She said Rey’s wounds were superficial, but his agonized expressions screamed excruciating pain. They say that about buckshot. They say it hurts like hell.

Jack and I were in the storage area that led to the office now, kneeling behind some cases of Budweiser stacked two-deep.

We waited. After a couple of minutes, I said, “I don’t think he’s coming out.”

“Let’s just hope he doesn’t come out shooting.”