Shaken (16 page)

“Thank you,” I said.

Mizz Lizzy ignored me. “Anything else, Shell?”

“We’re fine for the moment.”

She curtseyed—something I hadn’t seen done in person in quite a while—and then walked off. Shell led us to the next apartment. A blonde answered. A blonde with a perfect face and boobs that made Loni Anderson look like a man.

“Gloria, I don’t believe you’ve met Detective Benedict. He’s in charge of the investigation.”

“I love your mustache, Detective.” She batted her eyelashes, which were so long they had to be fake. “I love the feel of a man’s facial hair on my thighs.”

“You and me both,” Herb said.

“And this is our new girl, Jacqueline Streng.”

“Do you go by Jack?” Gloria asked. “My sister’s name is Jacqueline, and we all call her Jack.”

I shook my head. “No. I prefer Jacqueline.”

“Too bad.” Gloria pouted, as if I’d scolded her. “Are you into girls?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know. Bi?”

“Uh, no. I have a boyfriend.”

“I’ve got plenty of boyfriends,” Gloria giggled. And jiggled. “But girls are nice, too.”

“Even though I don’t have a mustache?” I said.

Gloria gave me a gentle poke in the shoulder. “I like you. You’re funny.” She stuck out her lower lip at Shell. “Shelly, I thought you were supposed to come by this morning. Where were you?”

Shell turned to us. “Can you excuse me just a second?” Without waiting for our response, he stepped inside Gloria’s apartment.

“She looks like a
Playboy
model,” I said.

Herb leaned back, talking to me softly out of the side of his mouth. “She’s cute. But is she the district quick-draw champion?”

I suppressed a smile, but inside I was beaming. Being praised for my shooting skills felt a lot better than being called beautiful.

“Speaking of,” Herb said. “Are you carrying right now?”

“Beretta, in my purse.”

“Nine millimeter?”

“Three-eighty.”

“Does it ever jam on you?” he asked.

“All semi-autos occasionally jam. But nothing I can’t clear in a second or two.”

“In the field, a second or two can be an eternity. I’ve got a .38 Colt, a Detective Special, I can loan you for this job.”

“That only holds six rounds,” I said. My Beretta held eight.

“But those six are guaranteed to fire.”

“Thanks, but I’ll stick with the semi.”

Herb nodded. Though I had no romantic interest in Herb at all, I found myself glancing at his left hand. As I’d guessed, there was a wedding band. The good men were always already spoken for.

“Can I ask you a personal question, Herb?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve my mustache.”

“It doesn’t. Do you like being married?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “Best thing I ever did in my life. You thinking about it?”

“My boyfriend proposed to me yesterday night.” I wasn’t sure why I was telling him this.

“Congratulations. What did you say?”

“I said I needed time. I have career goals, and I don’t know if they’ll fit with marriage.”

“If he loves you,” Herb said, “he’ll respect your goals.”

That’s what I’d been thinking. But it was nice to hear it said aloud. “Did your wife, when you proposed, say she needed time?” I asked.

“She said yes before I even finished asking.” He winked at me. “I think it was the mustache.”

Maybe that’s why I didn’t say yes to Alan right away. He didn’t have a mustache.

Gloria’s door opened, and Shell popped out into the hallway. He had some lipstick on his neck that I was pretty sure wasn’t there before.

“Ready to meet the rest of the girls?” he asked.

I nodded. But part of me wondered if maybe I was crazy for pursuing this whole cop thing. Maybe I’d be happier getting married and having kids.

And if that were the case, maybe Alan’s proposal was my last shot at happiness.

Three years ago

2007, August 8

“E
very time I think my opinion of you couldn’t possibly get any lower, you pull a rabbit out of your hat,” I told Harry.

“Or a perp’s wallet out of his pants.” He handed the aforementioned wallet to me. “I’ll send you my bill in the mail. I’m saving up to buy a monkey.”

Years ago, Harry had a fish tank. Not a single one survived. Hopefully a primate would fare better.

“Good luck with that,” I told him.

“I think it would be fun to have a pet that could fetch me beer. Plus I could give him a tin cup, pretend to be blind, and make a few bucks on the L train.”

“Quite the plan,” Herb said.

“Yeah. But in total honesty, I’ll probably just blow the money on malt liquor and lap dances.”

“Thanks for your help, McGlade.”

He nodded at me, gave Herb the finger, and walked off down the street. Every once in a while, McGlade came through for me. But I was incredibly grateful not to be working with him anymore. I couldn’t imagine going down that route ever again.

I tapped Herb and we quickly got into my car, driving away before Dalton figured out Harry had ripped him off. Then I double-parked two streets over and examined our prize.

The wallet looked like any other men’s wallet. Brown leather, trifold, worn in. Dalton had a Platinum American Express, a Visa bank card, and a driver’s license in the various pockets. In the billfold compartment he had three hundred and forty dollars and a strip of paper with a twelve-digit number on it. There was a familiar logo in the corner.

“Federal Express,” I said. “He FedExed something.”

“Recently?” Herb said.

The paper was from an express U.S. airbill. Normally, it was attached to a full receipt that listed the sender and the recipient, along with a description of contents, packaging, and services. This had been torn off, so only the tracking number remained. It appeared new—things that were in wallets for a long time tended to have a faded, frayed look. The fold was still crisp. The colors still fine.

“I think so. Let’s see.”

Using my iPhone, I got online and accessed the FedEx Web site. Personally, I loved the iPhone, but part of me missed the good old days when phones had huge antennas and weighed two pounds.

“I ever tell you about the time a cell phone saved my life?” I asked Herb.

“About a million billion times.”

“I think I need a new partner. Someone who appreciates my classic stories.”

I used the touch screen to punch in the tracking number. It told me no information was available, indicating the package wasn’t in their system yet.

“His condo,” Herb said, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “It had a FedEx box in the lobby.”

I got on the radio and told Dispatch to send a car to Spill and keep an eye on John Dalton, filling in the particulars. Then Herb and I headed back to 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Traffic seemed excruciatingly slow. I thought about calling the nearest squad car and having them check it out before we got there, but that involved all sorts of potential legal trouble. If Dalton had put something dangerous in the FedEx box, we’d need a warrant to take it. In order to get a warrant, we’d have to prove he put something in the box, and the only way we could prove that was with a receipt that we’d stolen. Better to just handle it ourselves.

I parked in front of Dalton’s condo, hopped out of my Nova, and hurried up to the doorman.

“Has FedEx come yet?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago.”

Shit. “Do you know the driver? Know his name?”

“Naw. Different guy every time.”

Double shit. I hurried back to the car just as Herb was pulling himself out. “Get in. We need to call FedEx, find out what truck the package is on.”

After three minutes of navigating the plethora of phone tree options, I got a human being and explained that I was a cop in need of finding a package. After another ten minutes on hold, I was redirected to someone in authority. Rather than giving me a run-around, FedEx was surprisingly helpful. As soon as the tracking number was uploaded into the system—which should be within the next half hour—the local station would locate the package and wait for me to pick it up and take a look. No warrant, no judge, no hassle. Apparently, when you sent something FedEx, they could view the contents at their discretion if it was suspicious. A call from a police officer was enough to induce suspicion.

So Herb and I sat there, engine running, me refreshing the FedEx Web site every few minutes, waiting for the tracking number to be updated. When it finally was recognized by their system, I called the number they gave me, and they contacted the driver. I was able to speak to him directly.

“Got it right here, Officer.” He had a nasally Chicago accent, pure South Side. “It’s a small box, about two pounds. It dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. According to the Web, the package was set to be delivered tomorrow to a Chicago zip code. If it were a bomb, it probably wouldn’t go off until it reached its destination. “Does it have an odor? Is it leaking?”

“Ask if it’s ticking,” Herb said. I shushed him.

“Seems like a normal package. If you want to come take a look, I’m on Division, in the Dominick’s parking lot.”

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” I said. “You might want to, uh, wait outside the truck. Maybe a few yards away. Who is the package addressed to?”

“Gotta be a fake,” the driver said. “Is there any real person in the world actually named
Jack Daniels
?”

Present day

2010, August 10

“O
h…man.”

“What is it, Harry?” Phin checked the rearview and stared at Harry, who was on the phone with the warden of Stateville Correctional Center. At Harry’s prodding, and with a few calls from Herb’s superiors, they’d placed Victor Brotsky in the isolation unit and had searched his cell.

“Brotsky had an iPhone hidden in his mattress,” Harry said. He looked ashen. “There’s some kind of live webcam video image on it. A woman tied up in a small room.”

Phin squeezed the SUV’s steering wheel hard enough for his forearms to shake. “Is it Jack?”

“Brunette, forties, hogtied with a gag in her mouth. Could be Jack.”

“Is she…alive?” Phin asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

Harry’s face was slack. “Yeah. But there’s a digital clock next to her. It’s…counting down.”

“How long?” whispered Herb.

“Less than thirty minutes.”

Phin hit the gas. They were on Joliet Road, about eight miles away from the prison.

“Maybe it isn’t her,” Harry said.

Phin hoped that was the case. But he knew better. It wouldn’t be the first time one of Jack’s old cases had come back to haunt her. Imagining Jack tied up, in front of a camera, to be killed for some psycho’s amusement, made Phin’s stomach hurt worse than a year’s worth of chemotherapy. In a way, though, it was better to know where Jack was than to not have a clue. When you know your enemy, you can fight your enemy.

“This Victor Brotsky,” Phin said to Herb. “How bad was he?”

“The worst of the worst. If he’s got Jack…” Herb’s voice cracked.

But Victor Brotsky couldn’t have Jack. He was locked up.

However, he might know who
did
have Jack.

And if he did, nothing on this planet could save Victor Brotsky from Phineas Troutt.

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

A
fter meeting the rest of the girls, then washing my hands in an attempt to wipe off some of the rampant neuroses that seemed to pervade Shell’s escort agency like smoke damage, I went on my first official date with Felix Sarcotti.

Mr. Sarcotti was a wee bit older than God. His back was bent like a question mark, he walked with a black, silver-tipped cane, and his facial expression was a permanent leer.

He was also a perfect gentleman, and I had a great time accompanying him to lunch at the Signature Room, on the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock Building. We had crab cakes and Waldorf salads, and he told me about the old days in the meatpacking industry, up until the closure of Union Stockyard in 1970.

I’d received instructions from both Shell and Herb prior to the date. From Shell, I was told to be polite, attentive, and complimentary. I was to ask questions, laugh at jokes, and seem interested without getting too personal. From Herb, I was told to check in with him every five minutes by using the code word
fascinating
, which signaled him to respond in my earpiece. If something was going wrong, I was to use the word
disaster
, which meant he’d come running. Also, if Mr. Sarcotti got too frisky, Herb advised me to go for the balls.

After lunch, and a polite kiss on the cheek from Mr. Sarcotti (no ball-kicking necessary), I was debriefed by Shell, who informed me that Mr. Sarcotti had spoken to him and I was his new favorite, and that the fee Mr. Sarcotti and others were paying to take me out was going toward my Armani outfit. Then I got ready for my theater and dinner date with Jeroen ten Berge.

A few minutes before my scheduled pick-up time—Shell had insisted all clients pick up their dates at the agency rather than meet them elsewhere because of the recent murders—there was a knock on my apartment door. My new apartment, by the way, was fabulous. Tidy, luxurious, well-furnished, and it came with maid service. It sure beat the hell out of dressing up like a hooker and arresting perverts.

I checked the peephole, saw it was Herb, and let him in.

Herb whistled when he walked in. “Nice threads.”

I was wearing a little black cocktail dress that Amy Peterson, one of Shell’s escorts, had lent me. “It’s a Versace,” I said. “Is that good?”

“It looks good.”

“Shell bought it for her. He apparently buys clothes for all of his escorts.”

Herb raised an eyebrow.

“What do you think of that?”

“What I think is that I’ve never met a group of this many suspects outside of an Agatha Christie book. Seriously, Herb. Every one of them is nuts. Gloria thinks she’s Marilyn Monroe. Sandy’s already killed someone. Mizz Lizzy popped out of
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
and looks like she’s searching for children to cook and eat. Amy has her closet arranged so it’s color-coded like a Roy G. Biv rainbow—”