Shaken (45 page)

“Enough,” Phin said, pulling Herb off of McGlade. “I will personally kick both your asses if you don’t cut this shit out and focus. Harry, have you noticed anything weird lately? Strange phone calls? E-mails?”

“There is the one guy, keeps e-mailing me, telling me I won the Nigerian lottery. I’m thirty percent sure it isn’t legit.”

Phin forced himself to unclench his own fists. The best way to deal with Harry was excruciating patience. “Seen anyone hanging around the office? Anyone following you or Jack?”

McGlade’s eyes lit up. “Actually, there was this one guy. A few days ago. Spooky looking mother. Black, greasy hair. Pale as the sickly, white underbelly of a morbidly obese sea cow.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Outside the office. Just standing on the corner, staring up at our window.”

“Did Jack see him?” Phin asked.

Harry scrunched his eyes closed. “No. She was on the phone with a client. I was playing FarmVille—I just earned enough from my turnip patch to buy a tractor—and I noticed him down there. Checked again a few minutes later, and he was still there.”

“What did you do then?”

“I plowed my field in like one-tenth of the time. That tractor is epic.”

Herb began searching the floor, and Phin guessed he was going to make good on his threat.

“Did you go down and talk to him?” Phin asked Harry.

“Naw. When I checked again, he was gone. Hey, how come we aren’t Facebook friends?”

“Because I’m not on Facebook,” Phin said. “I actually have a life.”

“You should get on there, and friend me, and then send me fuel for my new tractor.”

Now Phin got in McGlade’s personal space, backing him up against the same wall Herb had shoved him against.

McGlade’s eyes went wide. “Hey, easy buddy.”

“If you kill him,” Herb said, “I’ll call it suicide in the police report.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, McGlade.” Phin spoke softly. “Someone has Jack. We need to stop screwing around.”

“Relax, Phin. How many times have we been in this situation? So many times, we already know how it’s going to end. It’ll be a close call, but me, or you, or Tubby the Talking Manatee here will save her at the last possible second. That’s what always happens.”

“Strangle him,” Herb said. “We’ll make it look like autoerotic asphyxiation.”

“Check the house for bugs, Harry,” Phin ordered. “And don’t say another goddamn word.”

Phin released him. Harry smoothed out his rumpled suit and said, “When I win the Nigerian lottery, I’m not giving either of you a penny.” Then he turned on his bug detector and walked into the bedroom.

“We might need help on this one,” Phin said to Herb.

“Way ahead of you. Every cop on the force who ever met Jack Daniels is on the lookout for her. They’re not going to let one of their own slip away.”

Phin nodded. He knew how hard Jack worked, all of those years on the street, trying to earn the respect of her peers. Having them rally behind her would have made her feel good.

“The media?” Phin asked.

“We’re keeping it on the down low for now. If some psycho does have her, we don’t want to egg him on with press. Have you considered this might be someone new?”

“You mean, like a ransom thing?”

“Maybe. Or maybe some unknown whack-job read about her and wanted to get his name in the true crime books.”

Phin didn’t like that scenario at all. If it was someone from Jack’s past, at least they had a chance at finding her. How could they find someone completely new?

“The bedroom is clean,” Harry said, returning to the hall. “Except for those sheets. I saw several stains of dubious origin.”

“Check the rest of the house,” Phin said.

“Kidnaper might have also been watching from outside,” Harry said. “In one of those Hannibal Lector movies, the killer watched the house from the backyard and left all sorts of easy-to-follow clues behind.”

“Finish in here,” Phin said, “and Herb and I will check outside.”

Phin led the portly cop through the garage, out the back door. He located the tire track in the mud, then followed the direction of the treads back into the tree line.

“Take the left side,” Phin said. “I’ll take the right.”

Phin waded into the bushes. After four steps, he had to hold up his bare arms so they didn’t brush the nettles. Turning around, he saw there was no good view of the house—it was too obscured by foliage. He looked up, scanning the trees, finding one nearby.

At the base of the tree, half-hidden by the nettles, were two empty boxes of candy. Lemonheads. They appeared relatively new. No sun bleaching, and they were dry even though it had rained two days ago.

Phin let his eyes wander up the tree, and found a low-hanging limb. Though he wasn’t feeling his best, he managed to get up onto the bough. From there, he could see over the bushes, a direct line of sight to the bedroom window. Jack insisted on always keeping the shades closed, but it would be easy to tell if the lights were on or off.

“Found something!”

Phin looked over at Herb, who was thirty yards away, in the bushes near the garage. As he was getting down he found a Lemonhead candy stuck in the tree bark. He left it there and walked over to Herb.

“Footprints, right here.” Herb pointed at the ground. “Also some twigs broken off the bush so it was easier to see the house.

“Back there, someone was in a tree. You thinking two vantage points?”

“Either two vantage points,” Herb said, “or two abductors.”

They walked the perimeter of the property, trying to see if anyone else could have been watching. All they found were old, spent shell casings—the reason Jack now insisted on keeping the shades drawn, and why she’d installed the new burglar alarm. But there was no evidence of recent surveillance, except in those two spots.

Herb and Phin went back into the house. Harry was in the kitchen. He’d made himself a submarine sandwich and was finishing a bite. “No bugs in the refrigerator,” he said, mouth full.

“How about the rest of the house, jackass?” Herb said.

McGlade stared at Herb and protectively hid the sandwich behind his back. “Whole house is clean. At least, it was.”

Harry pointed his chin to the floor, which was dotted with nettles Phin had dragged in. Phin pondered that for a moment, wondering if it meant something. Wondering what they were supposed to do next.

Chapter 7

H
e stares at the iPhone screen. It’s much easier to see Jack Daniels now that the lights are on. That green night vision was blurry and didn’t allow for much detail.

But now, the details are perfect. Crystal clear. He even has controls to zoom in. To pan. To tilt. It’s amazing how far technology has come, and it’s thrilling for him to see this woman, his nemesis, bound and gagged and waiting for the pain to begin.

She’s sleeping. Or pretending to.

Rest now,
he thinks.
Enjoy unconsciousness while you can, whore.

Then he slips his hand inside his underwear and watches, a line of drool dripping down his chin, waiting for Jack to wake up.

Chapter 8

I
was having a horrible nightmare where I was tied up and someone was going to torture me to death. So there was no feeling of relief when I woke up and realized I was tied up and someone was going to torture me to death.

The Catherine Wheel, with its horrible Guinea Worm attachment, whirred in my vision, and next to it the digital clock continued its countdown.

1:40:26…1:40:25…1:40:24…

It reminded me of a case I had a few years ago. Another countdown, on a digital watch.

I hoped this one would end better than that one had.

My brain was still fuzzy, and I couldn’t remember what had led up to this point. I also had no idea how I’d get out of this. If I didn’t know where I was, how could anyone else?

I scooted backward, peering behind me, eyeing the concrete block I was tethered to. Then I looked at my burning wrists. There was blood, but not as much as I’d expected, and the pain was far out of proportion with the actual damage. The wounds were no more than bad scrapes, but the glistening salt crystals made every millimeter of exposed flesh scream.

Unfortunately, the damage I’d done to the rope was even less impressive than the damage I’d done to myself. For all of my hard work, the nylon cord was barely frayed.

But seeing the Catherine Wheel had steeled my resolve. If I had to saw off both of my hands to get free, I would.

I closed my eyes and began to rub the rope against the corner of the block, whimpering in my throat, biting the ball gag so hard my jaw trembled.

Chapter 9

P
hin’s nerves hummed throughout his body, making his extremities tingle and twitch. He was anxious to act, to do something, anything, to find Jack. But he had no idea what to do. Herb had taken the Lemonheads boxes, and the single yellow piece of candy stuck in the bough of the tree, and was trying to find latent prints on them. Harry was on his laptop, using Identi-Kit facial composite software to put together a picture of the creepy looking guy with the black hair who’d been hanging around his office.

Phin had nothing to do other than pace. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, wanting to hit somebody. He checked on McGlade, half-expecting the uncouth private eye to be surfing porno, but found him working diligently on creating the composite. Then Phin checked on Herb in the kitchen, who was using a ninhydrin spray to stain the prints on the box and candy. It smelled like acetone, and Herb was working on the stove with the vent on.

Harry had checked the two unknown numbers on Jack’s cell phone. Both were billing follow-ups for cases they’d recently had.

Phin considered calling Mary, Jack’s mother, who was on yet another cruise—she took several a year. But Phin couldn’t see any reason to ruin the old woman’s trip, when there was nothing she’d be able to do to help.

“Got a bunch,” Herb said, stepping away from the stove and fanning the air with his palm. “Some good ones. But they’ll need to dry before I can lift them.”

“Can you search the CPD database by arresting officer?” Phin asked.

“Sure. But Jack was on the force for more than twenty years. There are going to be over a thousand perps she arrested during that time.”

Phin stared at Herb, hard. “Then we’d better get started.”

Chapter 10

I
had to stop rubbing my wrists against the concrete because I was crying again. It was both shocking and disheartening how a little salt on some superficial wounds hurt so much. I blew air out of my nose, clearing my nasal passages, trying once more to get my breathing under control. The countdown clock drew my eyes yet again.

1:12:19…1:12:18…

I peered over my shoulder, looking to see the amount of nylon cord I’d managed to cut through, feeling a surge of panic when I saw I hadn’t even gotten a third of the way through one of the ropes, and my wrists were wound around several times.

Doing a quick mental calculation, I realized I wasn’t going to free myself in time. I had to speed this up, or I would still be tied up when the clock reached zero.

Snorting in a big, wet breath, my eyes blurry with tears, I sawed my burning wrists against the concrete with renewed fervor brought about by raw fear. My salted wounds hurt more than just about anything I’d ever felt.

But I knew the Catherine Wheel would be a lot worse.

Chapter 11

“H
ow about this guy?” Phin called out while squinting at the computer. For the past half hour, he and Herb had been looking at Jack’s arrest record, cross-referencing perps’ names on the World Wide Web to see if anything recent or interesting came up. They’d gotten as far as the Bs, then Herb waddled off to check if the ninhydrin had dried.

“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.”