Shaken (15 page)

“What’s Jack’s network password?” Harry asked, walking into the room. “I need to print my guy out.”

“It’s
crimefighter
.”

“Lame,” Harry said, leaning over Phin’s shoulder. “Who’s that fugly bastard?”

“His name is Victor Brotsky.”

Brotsky was fifty-eight years old, pudgy, sweaty, unshaven, with a lazy eye that made him look even crazier than his police record proved he was. The reason Phin was interested in him was twofold. First, he’d recently been denied parole, and rightfully so—the guy was a butcher. The second was an article from three months ago that appeared in the
Chicago Record
written by someone named Alex Chapa, which showed up in a Google search.
SERIAL KILLER DONATES $50K TO CHARITY.

“What’s up?” Herb said, coming into the room.

“Remember this guy?” Phin asked, zooming in on the article.

Herb squinted at the reporter’s picture. “Chapa? Yeah, we crossed paths a few times. A bit of a pain in the ass, but he wouldn’t do anything to Jack.”

“Not him. Victor Brotsky.”

“Oh, yeah,” Herb nodded, his chins jiggling. “The worst of the worst.”

“In May he donated fifty thousand bucks to Children’s Memorial Hospital,” Phin said. “Apparently, a rich relative of his died in Russia, leaving him a ton of money.”

“So he tried to buy himself a parole,” Herb said. “And when that didn’t work, maybe he hired a hit man to go after the one who arrested him.”

“Would he be the type to do that?”

“Brotsky? He was an animal. He had to be in restraints during his trial because he tried to attack Jack while she was on the stand.”

Phin scrolled down, scanning the article. “He’s in Stateville. About an hour drive. We can keep searching for other possibles on Jack and Harry’s laptops while we’re driving. Do you have connections at the prison, Herb?”

Herb shook his head.

“I do,” McGlade said. “I know the warden. Guy named Miller. He owes me one. We were at a strip club, and he was heading to the champagne room with a hottie until I pointed out her Adam’s apple. I’ll give him a call.” He looked at Herb. “We could use the law on our side to talk to Brotsky and search his cell. You might have to throw your weight around.”

Herb folded his arms and frowned.

“What?” Harry said.

“I’m waiting for the insult.”

“No insult. If the superintendant is behind this, it’ll make it easier.”

Herb nodded. “Okay. Let me fax the Lemonheads box to the crime lab.”

“I’ll give you my Indenti-Kit composite, too,” Harry said.

Phin was surprised. He didn’t expect the two of them to actually be able to work together. Perhaps they understood the urgency of the situation and were able to put aside their mutual hate society and act like reasonable adults.

Both Harry and Herb took off. A minute later, the printer began to hum, spitting out computer-generated pictures of the man McGlade had seen outside his office, both head-on and profile. Long black hair. Vacant eyes. A pointy chin. Creepy looking guy.

The next pictures were even creepier. Harry had taken Herb’s head and Photoshopped it onto a walrus, with an erection. Subsequent pics had the Herb/walrus apparently making love to various famous people, both male and female. The one that had Herb being ridden by Hitler was particularly well done, for what it was.

In the interest of diplomacy, Phin threw them away before Herb returned with the Lemonheads candy box. It took two minutes to make scans of all six cardboard sides, the prints showing up as purple ink. As Herb was e-mailing them, Harry came back in.

“Did my pics print?” he asked.

Phin handed over the two of the long-haired man.

“How about the others?” Harry asked.

“That was it, McGlade.”

Harry bent down, studying the printer. “You didn’t see one with the Skipper from
Gilligan’s Island
?”

Phin saw it, and wished there was some way he could
unsee
it. He grabbed the keys to Jack’s SUV. “Let’s move,” he said.

But the small amount of optimism he had was waning. If Brotsky had hired someone to abduct Jack, it was unlikely he’d talk. And how do you threaten or bargain with a guy who was going to spend the rest of his days locked in a maximum security prison?

Three years ago

2007, August 8

M
cGlade strolled into Spill and spotted us immediately. “Hiya, Jackie.” He glanced at Herb. “Jabba. How’s the rest of the Hutt? Fat and ugly?”

I put a firm hand on Herb’s shoulder, holding him in his seat.

“We need your help, Harry,” I said.

“To roll El Chubbo out of here? We’ll need a few more guys, and a block and tackle.”

“Remember Mr. K?” I asked.

“The breakfast cereal?”

Herb leered at Harry. “Did you get in line for seconds when God was handing out the stupid?” he asked.

“Did you get in line for seconds when God was handing out the sweet potatoes?”

“Enough,” I said. “The older guy sitting further down the bar. We think he might have abducted a child, but we’ve got nothing on him. We want you to provoke him enough so he takes a swing at you, so we can arrest him.”

“Shouldn’t take you more than a few seconds,” Herb said.

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Dalton and his two lawyers were looking at us.

“What’s in this for me?” Harry asked.

“You’d be saving a young boy’s life,” Herb said.

“So that’s worth, what, in U.S. dollars?” He winked at me. “Or sexual favors?”

Herb jerked his thumb at Harry. “How about I beat him up, and we say it was Dalton?” he said.

“Settle down there, Humpty. I’m just messing with you. Except for the money part. You’ll be getting my invoice in the mail.”

Herb and I moved closer as Harry marched over to their part of the bar. “Which one of you assholes is Special K?”

“I know you,” Dalton said. “You’re that private eye, Harrison Harold McGlade. There’s a TV show about you.”

“
Fatal Autonomy
,” Harry said, nodding. “You a fan?”

“A big fan. Could I get your autograph?”

“Sure!”

Dalton passed over a napkin, and Harry pulled out a pen and began to sign it. Next to me, I heard Herb slap himself in the forehead.

“So what’s all this I hear about a child abduction?” Harry asked.

Dalton kept his face neutral. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you threaten me!” Harry yelled.

“Excuse me? I’m not threatening you.”

In a quick move, Harry grabbed Dalton by the lapels and yanked him out of his chair. McGlade fell backwards, Dalton landing on top of him.

“Get off of me!” Harry yelled. “Police! I need the police! I’m being assaulted!”

I winced. This hadn’t played out as I’d hoped. But then, what could I have honestly been hoping for?

“Are there any fat cops in the bar!” Harry wailed.

“On the bright side,” Herb said, “Dalton’s lawyers will no doubt press charges, and with any luck McGlade will go to jail for a few years.”

I walked over there before it got any worse. “Get up, McGlade,” I ordered him.

“A cop! Thank heavens! This man is attempting murder!” Harry was pulling Dalton’s hand toward his own throat. It didn’t quite reach, but McGlade still made choking noises and puffed out his cheeks like he was being strangled. I reached down, pulled Dalton free, and then knelt on Harry’s stomach.

“Are you high?” I said through clenched teeth.

“A little.”

The lawyers began to shout at me, hurling legal terms like
harassment
and
battery
and
litigation
. Dalton, for his part, looked slightly bemused. I decided to try to turn this lemon into lemonade.

“Mr. Dalton,” I said, “I saw the whole thing. I suggest you come down to the station and press charges.”

“What?!” McGlade shouted.

Herb bent over next to Harry. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said, a terse grin on his face, as he snapped a cuff on McGlade’s wrist. “Which I heartily endorse.”

Dalton smoothed his hands over his suit. “I won’t be pressing charges. I simply don’t have the time.” He stared over at me. “Time is such a precious thing, isn’t it, Jack? We really should savor every minute. Some of us only have so long left.”

Herb and I hefted McGlade up to his feet.

“I’ll be seeing you,” I told Dalton.

“No you won’t. But maybe I’ll call you later, after I land.”

We dragged Harry out of there. Once back on the street, McGlade said, “I think that went well. Can you get these cuffs off?” Neither Herb nor I made any effort to follow his request. “What’s up? Why so lugubrious?”

“God, I hate him,” Herb muttered to himself.

“Come on. You’re not really arresting me. Are you?”

I sighed. “Herb, let him go.”

“Do we have to?”

I nodded. My partner made a face, but freed Harry’s wrists. “What were you thinking?” I asked. “Don’t you remember what it was like to be a cop? There’s a child’s life at stake here.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Jackie. Gimme a little credit, will you? If that guy is Mr. K, he’s as cold as they come. There was no way he’d lose his temper and throw a punch. Especially in front of two cops.”

“So instead, you think it’s helpful to make an ass out of yourself?” Herb said.

“No, Shamu. That was just a distraction.” Harry reached into his pocket and held up something, his face triumphant. “Who wants to see that SOB’s wallet?”

Present day

2010, August 10

W
hen the countdown timer dropped under sixty minutes, I once again checked out the bindings around my wrists. Through blurry, tear-filled eyes, I saw I hadn’t even gotten through half the rope.

It was no use. I wouldn’t make it in time. My wrists hurt more than anything I’d ever felt before, like tiny fanged creatures were nibbling away at my raw skin. I let my head rest on the floor, wondering what I was supposed to do next.

Rather than look at the slowly spinning Catherine Wheel, I stared up at the ceiling of the storage locker. I wasn’t a spiritual person. Not one bit. Even so, I searched my mind for any prayers I knew.

That’s when I saw it. Something above me. Something that glinted as it moved.

I blinked away the wetness clouding my pupils, squinting at the object, quickly realizing what it was.

A camera. The son of a bitch was watching me.

Despair dropped on me like a cold, wet blanket. Even if I miraculously beat the countdown clock and untied myself, it wouldn’t matter. If Mr. K was keeping an eye me, he would know when I was breaking free. No doubt he was close by, ready to come in at any moment.

And when that knowledge sank in, I realized, with chilling certainty, that there truly was no way out.

I was finished. This was the end. The only question remaining was how long it would take me to die.

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

“I
t was deemed self-defense,” Herb said. “Charges weren’t filed.”

We were discussing one of Shell’s escorts, Sandy Sechrest, while climbing the carpeted stairs to the apartments where the women lived. As with the front door and the lobby, the stairwell had a locked security door.

“What were the particulars?” I asked.

“Live-in boyfriend,” Herb said. “History of violence. Roughed her up, threatening to kill her. She stabbed him in the throat with a steak knife. Witnesses heard the incident through the apartment walls, and she had defensive wounds on her body indicative of abuse.”

“This was just after Sandy joined the agency,” Shell said. “That’s when I decided the girls would be safest if they all lived under one roof. The security here is good. All of the doors are reinforced. The girls have to sign their visitors in. In each room there’s also a panic button, directly linked to the building’s burglar alarm system. No numbers on the apartments, so even if a stalker managed to get up here, he wouldn’t know who lived where. I take the girls’ safety very seriously.”

The second floor hallway was tastefully furnished, the same as downstairs. The sconces on the stucco walls provided plenty of light, and the doors to the apartments all had deadbolts.

“Why no security cameras up here?” I asked.

“There’s a fine line between safety and privacy,” Shell said, knocking on the first door on the left. “Cameras would be a bit too intrusive.”

The door opened, and a gorgeous brunette answered. Besides her classic Lauren Bacall looks, she also had bigger shoulder pads and hair than I did. I bit back the tinge of envy I was feeling.

“Sandy, you know Detective Benedict. I’d like you to meet our new girl, Jacqueline Streng.”

Sandy smiled, but it was without warmth, and she didn’t offer her hand. “Nice to meet you Jacqueline. I’m sure you’ll fit in perfectly here.” Her gaze flitted to Shell. “Shelly, my brunch date is picking me up at eleven, but won’t be able to take me home. Can I cab it?”

“I’d prefer you call me for a ride.”

She nodded. “I still have to get ready.”

“We won’t keep you, Sandy.”

Sandy closed the door, and I heard the deadbolt snick into place.

“How many girls live here?” I asked.

“Eight. You’ll make nine.”

“Are they all that beautiful?” I asked.

Shell’s eyes twinkled. “They are. That’s why you’re going to fit in perfectly here.”

I was flattered by Shell’s compliment, but it made me think of Alan. He hadn’t said I was beautiful when he proposed to me last night. But was that a good thing or a bad thing? Did I want to be with a man who valued my looks more than my personality or intelligence? And if so, why did it make me feel so good to have someone comment on my appearance? Was I that shallow and vain?

The stairwell door swung open, and Mizz Lizzy appeared, carrying a silver tray with two cups of coffee. Without a word she handed one to me, and to Herb. I lifted the delicate, bone china cup and took a sip. Delicious.