Shaken (17 page)

“Roy G. Biv?”

I shook my head, laughing. “You know…red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.”

“Where does black fit in?”

“Black, white, and shades of gray have to go into another closet.”

“What about prints? Or plaid?”

“I didn’t ask. She started talking about astrological signs and palm reading, so I faked a headache and got out of there. Is it possible a woman is the murderer?”

“We can’t rule it out. I’ve never heard of any female serial killers, but I agree the ladies here are a bit…odd. Shell vouches for this Jeroen guy, says he’s a harmless old man, but I’ll be tagging along just the same. Can you help me with your mic?”

Half an hour later, a limo picked me up at the agency. Jeroen ten Berge was a distinguished older gentleman, silver haired, well-dressed, quick to share the champagne he had chilling. I restricted myself to one glass, then played Miss Attentive through the car ride to Ninety-fifth and Kedzie, and on into dinner at the Martinique, the restaurant attached to the Drury Lane Theater.

Jeroen—pronounced
yer-oh-in
—was a delightful man. A retired investment banker who still dabbled in the stock market, he was a treasure trove of stories and jokes, and the perfect dining companion. Halfway into our chicken vesuvio, he asked me the same thing Mr. Sarcotti had asked.

“How can a vivacious, delightful woman such as yourself still be single?”

I played coy. “I could ask you the same thing, Jeroen. An interesting man like you could probably take your pick of grateful brides. Why aren’t you married?”

His face sank. “I was, for thirty-eight wonderful years. My wife passed in ’86. Breast cancer.”

I regretted the question. Especially since Shell warned me not to get too personal.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. Maria was the best thing that ever happened to me. My best friend. My lover. My soul mate. I was so lucky to have so many good years with her, even if the last few were hard.” He leaned closer, put his hand on mine. “Life isn’t worth living unless you have someone to share it with, Jacqueline. The good times, and the bad times. In sickness and in health. Even toward the end, she could still make my heart flutter when I looked at her.”

“She sounds lovely,” I said, meaning it.

“I’m a rich, successful man, Jacqueline. But I would trade it all—the money, the houses, the entire stock portfolio—for just one more day with Maria. Success means nothing unless you have someone to share it with.”

Jeroen’s eyes glassed over. I gave his hand a squeeze, and we finished our meal in silence. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, and checked in with Herb.

“I made my date cry,” I said into my bra-concealed microphone.

“Remember you’re a cop, not an escort,”
Herb said in my ear piece. He hadn’t been able to secure tickets to the show, or afford the restaurant, so he was in the parking lot eating a sandwich his wife had packed for him.
“Besides, it sounds like he was a very lucky guy to have a woman he cared so much for.”

“Would you do that, Herb? Give up your career for your wife?”

“I’d give up anything for my wife.”

After dinner, we watched the musical comedy
They’re Playing Our Song
. Jeroen had seen it in New York, and cheerily mouthed the song lyrics along with the performers. By the end of the play he was no longer maudlin, and during the limo ride back, he convinced me to have another glass of champagne. When he dropped me off and said goodnight, I got a chaste kiss on the cheek.

I was left wanting more. Not from Jeroen. From life. I wanted someone who would give up everything for me.

But would I be willing to do the same for someone else?

For Alan?

Present day

2010, August 10

O
0:15:03…00:15:02…00:15:01…

Fifteen minutes to live.

As I watched the clock, I was oddly philosophical. Once I realized death was inevitable, a cold sort of calm came over me. I was sure there would be fear and panic later, but for the moment, I was retaining some objectivity.

I kind of felt like I was still in college, waiting to get the results of a test. I’d lived for forty-nine years. I’d done things, both good and not so good. I’d tried my best, worked my ass off, pursued and reached my goals.

Now I wanted my final grade.

Did I lead an A+ life?

An A?

At least a B+?

I’d taken some very bad people off the streets. I’d helped a lot of innocent folks. I’d saved some lives. I was a pretty good cop.

On a more personal level, I had loved and been loved. Made friends. Had some fun. Saw some interesting things. Learned a lot.

Was that enough for a B?

My marriage had failed. I’d lost people close to me. Made some big mistakes. Had some big regrets.

Does that get me at least a B-?

Of all my regrets, the one that hurt the most, especially now, was never having children. I’d always been so busy. So dedicated to my job. So intent on saving the world. It would have been nice to have a kid, to pass on some of this wisdom I’d learned, to…

Oh shit.

The memory came stampeding back, making me catch my breath. The memory of last night, clear and focused and full-blown. Standing in the bedroom, looking at Phin in bed, drowsy from his chemotherapy and medication, wanting so badly to tell him about the pregnancy test I just took.

The positive pregnancy test.

I was going to be a mother.

Phin was going to be a father.

I hadn’t expected to see the double line on the little test stick. In truth, I thought the reason for my missed period was the onset of menopause.

But it wasn’t menopause. It was a baby.

A tiny human being, growing inside me.

A miniature version of me. A child. A legacy.

A miracle.

The weight of this realization came crashing down on me, hard. With thirteen minutes left on the countdown clock, I quit being melancholy and reflective, and began to saw the rope with renewed vigor, ignoring the pain in my tortured wrists.

I had to get out of there. For the two of us.

Three years ago

2007, August 8

A
few seconds after we pulled into the Dominick’s parking lot, the Special Response Team showed up. The FedEx guy, a scruffy redhead named Gordy, had placed Dalton’s package in an empty parking spot, then stood a safe distance away, alongside me and Herb, to watch the bomb squad have at it.

“I hope it’s not a big box of anthrax,” Gordy said. “I sniffed that sucker. Sniffed it good. Do you think it could be anthrax?”

“No.”

“Smallpox?”

“No.”

“Botulism? We just had a botulism epidemic in the city.”

“It’s not botulism,” I said, pretty sure of myself. “Ebola?”

I gave the guy a WTF look. “Ebola?”

“I saw it on the Science Channel. You start bleeding blood from your pores. Then your skin comes off. I hope it isn’t Ebola.”

I hoped it wasn’t Ebola, too. But I didn’t think it was any sort of disease. Or explosive. Mr. K didn’t operate like that. He was hands-on.

The SRT, in full bomb suits, performed a battery of tests on the box, using various pieces of expensive-looking equipment. I recognized a portable X-ray unit and a boroscope—a flexible camera usually used by doctors giving rectal exams. After ten minutes of poking and prodding, the SRT sergeant tugged off his helmet and chest plate and approached us.

“Is it Ebola?” Gordy asked.

“It’s a bottle, Lieutenant.” He gave Gordy a sideways glance and then handed me the boroscope, showing me the color screen. “Looks like the seal is intact.”

I instantly recognized the familiar shape. I’d seen it many times before. “Thanks for your help, Sergeant. I think I can take it from here.”

“Do you want us to open it?”

“I think I can handle it.”

I approached the box, feeling no fear, pretty sure of what this package was. Dalton wouldn’t have sent me anything incriminating, because there was the possibility I would have gotten it before he left the country, and subsequently arrested him.

No, he didn’t send this to threaten me or harm me physically. This had a different purpose.

“What is it, Jack?” Herb was walking alongside me. “Mr. K has two signatures. One is ball gags. What’s the other?”

“Rubbing salt in his victims’ wounds.”

“That’s what this is,” I said, tearing off the box top.

As expected, there was a full bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey. Dalton’s way of telling me he had won. And rubbing it in. There was also a handwritten note:

By now, I’m on my way to Cape Verde, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I’ll likely never set foot in the U.S. again. I want you to know that I gave you a fair chance to catch me. The clues were there. You simply weren’t good enough. Don’t be too hard on yourself. You can’t win them all.

I knew I couldn’t win them all. It went with the Job.

But I really
really
wanted to win this one.

Twenty-one years ago

1989, August 17

“W
ant to take a little walk?”
Herb asked in my ear.

I’d just stepped out of Jeroen’s limo and was staring at Shell’s building, about to go inside.

“Where to?” I said into my bra microphone.
“Around the block. Like you’ve decided to have a drink after dinner. Find a spot and park yourself at the bar.”

“Where are you?”

“Across the street.”

I resisted the urge to look for him, and instead headed east down Ohio, toward Michigan Avenue. It was close to midnight, but there were still a few folks wandering the streets. Not as many as if it were a weekend, but enough that snatching me would be risky.

Then again, the killer had snatched three other women without drawing any attention.

It was dark, hot, and humid. The city smelled like garbage. A car cruised up, slowing down as it neared me. I wobbled a little, swaying left and right, forcing myself to giggle.

“How much did you have to drink?”
Herb asked.

“Just a glass of wine. I’m playing the part, making myself an easy target. You see this car?”

The car was a Cadillac. Black. The windows were slightly tinted, so I couldn’t see inside. It pulled into the alley ahead of me. I stopped, forcing myself not to reach for the gun in my purse, feeling my arteries throb with adrenaline as the passenger-side window lowered.

“Need a ride, pretty lady?”

“Shell,” I said, blowing out the breath I’d been holding.

He was wearing yet another tailored suit, this one tan corduroy with patches on the elbows, and his hair was slicked back with gel. “What are you doing out here, all by yourself?”

“My job,” I said.

He winced. “Sorry. Forgot you were a cop for a second there. Saw one of my girls walking by herself and my overly protective nature kicked in. Will you be trolling killers for a while? Or are you free for a drink?”

“This guy is starting to bug me,”
Herb said.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Great,” said Shell, who thought I was talking to him. “Hop in.”

Oops. “How about we grab something nearby?” I wanted to stay in the area. All three women had disappeared within a few blocks of the agency.

“There’s this classy bar on Wabash. Miller’s Pub.”

“Miller’s Pub?” I repeated, for Herb’s benefit.

“I know it,”
Herb said.
“I can meet you there.”

“You’re on,” I said, to both Herb and Shell.

I walked around the car, climbing into the passenger seat. Shell smelled like cologne. Somehow, that made me think of Alan, who never wore cologne. I hadn’t called Alan all day. Partly because I’d been busy. Partly because I still wasn’t sure what to say to him.

“You know what I feel like?” Shell drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he pulled onto the street. “Dancing. Want to go dancing?”

“I’m not really in a dancing mood, Shell.”

“Do you like music?”

“Sure.”

“How about Buddy Guy’s?”

Buddy Guy was a Chicago blues legend. He owned a club on Wabash, not too far from Miller’s.

“Buddy Guy’s,” I said. Herb didn’t respond. I wondered if he was out of radio range.

“I saw Clapton play there once. Just came in, unannounced, jammed with Buddy’s band. Amazing show.”

“Okay,” I said, raising my voice to near yelling, “let’s go to Buddy Guy’s Legends. Buddy Guy’s Legends, on Wabash.”

Shell gave me a look like I’d grown an extra head. Still no reply from Herb. I could only hope he’d heard.

A few minutes later, Shell was pulling into a multilevel parking garage on Balbo, where he found a spot on the third floor. We took the brightly lit stairwell down to street level, and walked a block to the bar.

There was a small line. We queued up behind a couple of blue-collar black guys.

A lonely-looking fat man got in line behind us. Shell paid my five-dollar cover, and once inside we took everything in, looking for a place to sit.

Everything about Buddy Guy’s screamed
the blues
. The dim lighting, the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey, the plaintive whine of a single electric guitar, the bartender building drinks and sticking them on damp, empty trays, the sad-faced patrons, many of them sitting alone, nursing something strong. Shell and I found a corner table, so dark I had to lean close to see him. A waitress—who looked like she’d gone three hard rounds with disappointment before it knocked her down for the count—stood next to us without uttering a word, her order pad in hand. Shell got a martini. I got red wine, then excused myself to go to the ladies’ room, having to shout to be heard over the amplifier feedback.

It was quieter in there, but not by much. I fussed with my mic and earpiece, trying to reach Herb, but didn’t get any indication he heard me. Either he was still looking for parking, or he’d gone to Miller’s. The smart thing to do was have a quick drink, then head back to the agency. I really didn’t think Shell was the killer, especially since he was the one who sought out police help. Besides, I had my Beretta in my purse.