Stirred (10 page)

“I…killed a man.”

Luther stifles the beat of surprise. The man’s reluctance to speak at all was the first indication that he was holding on to some secret, but Luther never expected this.

Never expected to get so lucky.

“You killed a man.”

“Yes.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know his name. No one knows about this. Not even my wife.”

“Tell me what happened. Tell me everything.”

“Three years ago, I was driving home from a bar—I’d been drinking—and this guy…he pulled out in front of me. Cut me off. I’d never reacted like that before. Never since. But I lost it. I followed him for twenty miles.”

“You were angry.”

“Very much. I don’t understand…looking back…it was such a stupid thing. So pointless. I’d lost my job the week before. I’d been drinking. I was in a bad place. I tailgated him until he finally pulled over and jumped out of his car screaming, calling me a psycho.”

“What did you do then, Steve?”

“I popped my trunk, took a two iron out of my golf bag. I only hit him once. I didn’t expect him to die.”

“We all do things we regret. And no one ever saw you?”

“No. It was just a country road on a quiet summer evening. And it was…it was a kid, too. When the newspapers started covering the murder, it came out that he was only twenty-two. He’d just finished college, had been on the verge of starting a teaching job at a local elementary school. Sitting there, watching those news reporters as his family begged anyone with information to come forward…it was so awful. It still is so awful.”

“Thank you, Steve.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

“No, but it almost sounds like you want me to.”

“We all have evil in us,” Steve says. “Some more than others. I never knew I had this in me, and it scares me, because I wonder how much of it is still inside. Waiting to come out.”

Luther pats him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry, sir. There’s a special circle of hell for people like you.”

March 31, 1:45 P.M.

I
t might make things easier for both of us if we got married.

That had to be the single most unromantic proposal in the history of matrimony. I was fat and disgusting, with au jus all over my chin, and the man I loved had just asked a lifelong commitment of me with the same passion and intensity as when he asked what DVD I wanted to watch that evening.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

He flinched a little. “I’m serious. We’re living together anyway, and for insurance, and taxes, and for the baby, I think it’s a—”

“Hold on.” I held up my hand. Phin knew I’d vowed to never get married again. I’d been engaged not long ago,
and it had ended badly
. My previous marriage had also ended badly. For him to ask me, especially like this…

My fax machine chirped.

Phin took the opportunity to break eye contact and walk over to the printer. I watched him read the cover sheet and frown.

“Andrew Z. Thomas, Jack? I thought you promised to give this up.”

“I promised to go to Geneva. Not drop this case.”

He shook his head and spread his hands out. “It’s not just this case. It’s everything. You were supposed to retire from police work altogether. But ever since you quit the force, you’ve been doing the same damn thing. It’s like you never even left.”

“Excuse me if I’ve got some psycho chasing me.”

“Excuse me for caring about you.”

He walked to the door, but stopped before leaving.

“Is this ever going to end, Jack? Even if Luther gets caught or killed, there’s always going to be one more case that the famous Lieutenant Jack Daniels needs to solve.”

“That’s what I’m paid to do, Phin. I work with Harry now. I’m a private eye. I’m very good at it.”

“It’s going to get you killed one of these days. I don’t want to see that.”

“No one’s forcing you to stay.”

Probably a mean thing to say to someone who just asked for my hand in marriage.

“Wow. How’s it feel to be the President of the United States of Super Bitch?”

Ouch.

“I thought we had boundaries, Phin. You don’t ask me to stop being me. I don’t ask you to stop doing whatever dumbass criminal activities you do…”

“Nice. Real nice.”

“…and you don’t ask me to marry you. Those were the rules.”

“Enjoy your sandwich,” Phin said.

Then he left. Duffy gave me a sad, backward glance, and went with him.

I hated myself for a few seconds and then rolled my chair over to the printer and quickly read the letters the agent had faxed over. They didn’t reveal anything new, but Violet King apparently lived in Peoria, about a three-hour drive from me.

I was eating my sandwich and weighing my options, deciding if a personal visit would be better than a phone call, when I found the biggest diamond ring I’d ever seen hidden under the pork rinds.

Oh…shit.

I immediately got up, realizing what a jerk I’d been, and padded into the living room in time to see Harry McGlade pull into the driveway and Phin drive off in his Bronco, right over my lawn.

I called him on my cell, but he didn’t pick up.

The tears came fast and hard.

I was still sobbing when McGlade pressed the security code and strolled in.

Duffy—who apparently hadn’t been let into the Bronco—was all over him, jumping up and down, wagging his tail.

“What’s up with Phin? He looked pissed. You do something?”

I sniffled. “I’m…I’m the…I’m the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”

“No shit. You have been a bit bitchier than normal. But I wouldn’t call you the President of the United States of Super Bitch.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“You’re more like the Master of the Bitchiverse.”

I waddled into the kitchen and grabbed the box of tissue. Empty.

“Or Bitchzilla. You’re such a giant bitch that you stomp through cities, crushing smaller bitches.”

I looked around for another box of tissue and spotted Mr. Friskers on the counter. He hissed at me.

I wiped my nose on my sleeve and turned to face McGlade. “Do you want to go to Peoria?”

“Can’t. The Tesla can only go about two hundred miles per charge.”

“We can take my car.”

“What’s going on in Peoria? Some kind of Bitch Convention? Are they voting to make you Queen?”

“Goddamn it, McGlade! Enough already!”

Mr. Friskers was apparently tuned into my feelings, because he launched himself at Harry with a terrible screech and attached himself to my partner’s chest. McGlade tried to pull him off, but that was the wrong move, as it just made the cat dig his claws in deeper.

Duffy the dog, excited by—well, all the excitement—ran up and bit McGlade on the leg.

I yelled at Duffy and then looked for my squirt bottle that I used when Mr. Friskers got nasty. It was next to the sink, empty. Mr. Friskers got nasty a lot.

“I’M SORRY I SAID YOU WERE A BITCH!” McGlade cried out. “CALL FOR HELP!”

I reached over to swat Duffy. He gave me sad eyes and peed all over McGlade’s leg.

“THAT’S EVEN WORSE THAN THE BITING!”

I grabbed Mr. Friskers by the scruff of his neck and twisted. He detached from McGlade and took a swipe at me, but I released him.

He landed on the dog.

What happened next could best be described as
basset hound rodeo
.

The dog howled, running around the kitchen, the cat clinging to his back like a jockey.

“I’m bleeding,” McGlade wailed. “This was a new shirt. Do you have stain remover?”

As Harry unbuttoned his shirt, Duffy began to buck, but his stunted little hound dog legs weren’t suited to the task. Mr. Friskers hissed and spat, clinging to Duffy in a wholly unnatural way, his cat eyes so wide they looked like they were about to pop out. Eventually, Duffy’s floppy ears blocked his vision, and he ran full force into the refrigerator with a
thud
.

The ride finally over, Mr. Friskers bounded off, straight at McGlade.

The cat leapt up just as Harry took off his shirt and clung to his bare chest, claws sinking in.

“BOTH NIPPLES!” McGlade screamed. “HE’S GOT BOTH NIPPLES!”

Duffy, excited by the commotion, trotted over and bit McGlade’s leg.

“HE BIT ME IN THE SAME EXACT SPOT! THE PISSING WAS BETTER!”

I grabbed another bottle from under the sink and squirted all three of them until they parted ways.

“IT STINGS! GODDAMN IT, JACK, IT STINGS!”

That’s when I realized I’d accidentally grabbed the bottle of vinegar I used to polish windows.

Both Duffy and Mr. Friskers seemed fine, but McGlade was pounding on his bleeding chest like it had caught fire.

“Why don’t you just rub salt on me?” he accused. “Or squeeze on some lemon juice?”

“Sorry,” I managed. But it had improved my mood. A lot. Seeing McGlade in pain appealed to my baser instincts.

“JESUS HOLY MOTHER LOVING EVERLASTING CHRIST IT BURNS LIKE ACID! WHAT THE…AW, SHIT! MY NIPPLE IS GONE!”

I looked at Mr. Friskers to see if he was chewing on anything. Or playing with it. He once batted around a Skittle for two hours, and nipples didn’t seem that different.

Luckily, McGlade hadn’t lost a nipple. It was just covered with blood so he couldn’t see it. I offered him a kitchen towel and then sent him to the bathroom to clean up. Then I locked Duffy in my office and mopped up his pee.

“I may need stitches,” McGlade called from the bathroom.

“Do you want to go to a doctor?”

“No. But what if I get an infection?”

“The vinegar probably cleaned the wounds out,” I said, not knowing if that was true or not. But it sounded plausible. If something stung that badly, it was probably killing germs.

“Your pets suck. You got an extra shirt?”

“Bedroom closet. Use one of Phin’s.”

I went back to my office to check on Duffy and found him happily polishing off my beef sandwich and pork rinds.

My beef sandwich and pork rinds…

“Down! Bad dog!”

I raced for the plate, not concerned for the food, but for what was under the food.

What
had been
under the food.

It was too late. The food, and my engagement ring, were in the dog.

“You call him a bad dog for eating your food, but not for biting your guest?” McGlade had come into the office pulling on a white T-shirt. “You need to get your priorities in order.”

I collapsed onto my chair, which groaned in protest. “I really need to go to Peoria.”

“I’ll go with you, on one condition.”

“What?”

“You euthanize both animals.”

“McGlade…”

“Euthanize them with the cleansing fire of a 450-degree oven. And some gasoline. And a gun.”

“My car’s in the garage,” I said.

“They have to die, Jack. Especially that cat. It’s like a reincarnation of Jack the Ripper. I swear the little bastard was smiling at me the whole time.”

I wrote Phin a note saying I was sorry and not to let Duffy out until I returned.

Then McGlade and I headed off to Peoria to see Violet King.

March 31, 1:45 P.M.

H
e’s sliding a copy of
The Killer and His Weapon
into a clear plastic bag already bearing a note to Jack—black Magic Marker prewritten on plastic—when his iPhone buzzes like an angry yellow jacket.

Luther glances at the caller ID. Swears.

Unfortunate timing for someone to be calling, with Marquette wide open, and Luther sitting in the back of his van. He can see people passing by on the sidewalk through the one-way glass—at least several a minute. He hadn’t expected there to be so many out on a rainy spring day. Hopes choosing this location hasn’t been a critical mistake.

The phone is still ringing.

He sets the bag down and wipes the blood off his arms, answers on speaker, “Hello?”