Dying Breath - A Thriller (Phineas Troutt Mysteries Book 2)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Do it yourself.”

  I tossed the gun onto the rug behind her and walked out the door.

  The shot came before I even got to my Bronco.

  HARRY

  “It’s better this way,” I said. “I’m never home. I feed you cardboard and bags of sugar. And even though it doesn’t stick to anything, you’re getting horseshit everywhere. You’ll be better with your own kind.”

  Rover wasn’t even listening to me. He was too busy nuzzling Mirna.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” the sad carriage guy said. He was crying.

  I may have been a little misty-eyed myself.

  “I’m sure. You’ll help out when they want to make sweet, sweet love?”

  He nodded, sniffling. “Of course.”

  “Then my matchmaking work here is done. But under one condition.” I jabbed a finger at him.

  “Anything. Name it.”

  “Rover is a horse of leisure. He’s not a workhorse. I don’t want to be walking down Michigan Avenue someday and see him pulling a very small cart full of little people.”

  “Never. That would never happen.”

  I gave Rover a hug goodbye, and then went home.

  On the walk back, I texted Lester and those car thief pinheads. They’d replaced the tires they slashed, but they were mismatched. I gave them until tomorrow to fix it, or else I went viral with the ass-kicking video.

  If I played my cards right, I’d never have to buy another car part again.

  The dick condo manager was waiting by my front door when I got off the elevator.

  “So,” I said, not hiding my distaste. “You pulled through.”

  “I’m a changed man, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Are you now?”

  “I almost died. And that made me reevaluate everything. My life. My job. The beauty and wonder of all god’s creatures. Your horse—I’m sorry—your dog… he saved me. I remember the bullets zipping past, and him pulling me to safety. He’s a hero, Mr. McGlade. As long as I work here, Rover will always have a place in this building.”

  “I just sold him to a guy outside for fifty bucks,” I said.

  “Oh.” His enthusiasm dimmed about a hundred watts. “I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”

  He turned to leave, but I had a thought. “Hey, wait a sec. If I wanted to get some other kind of exotic pet, maybe a monkey, or a parrot, or a potbellied pig, could I do that?”

  The little weasel perked right back up. “Any creature you bring into your condo is welcome! More than welcome!”

  “Good to hear it. See you around… uh… buddy.”

  He walked off without me getting his name.

  “So, I’m calling for two reasons,” I said into my new phone. “First, to tell you the uplifting story about how The Weekly Advent, your Christian newspaper, saved my life. I was pinned down, desperate, and your wonderfully persistent salesperson called 911 for me. It’s an amazing, heart-pounding tale, full of miracles and Jesus and God and all that shit. And I’m willing to share this story with you, The Weekly Advent, for only ten easy payments of $69.99.”

  “Um, we don’t pay people for stories.”

  “I completely understand. I’ll call you back tomorrow to ask you again. And the day after that. And the day after that. And every day for the rest of the year. Which brings me to the second reason I’m calling.”

  I yelled into the receiver as loud as I could. “CANCEL MY GODDAMN SUBSCRIPTION!”

  “I’m grateful that Cherry and Puma are safe,” Kahdem said into the phone. “Thank you.”

  “We could meet at the Big Stinky Onion if you’d like to give me a bonus,” I said.

  “No bonus. And no Big Stinky Onion.”

  “How about free lap dances every time I go to your club?”

  “I’d never make my employees give a free lap dance.”

  “Free booze?”

  “No. I hired you for a job, you did what you were hired to do. I should not have to provide a bonus.”

  “How about you let me dance at your club?”

  “What? On stage?”

  “I always wanted to try it.”

  Kahdem sighed. “Fine. You can dance on stage. One time. For one song.”

  Score.

  I danced for one and a half songs, and made six bucks in tips. Then I bought lap dances for everyone.

  Just like I said. I was fucking awesome.

  Does that wrap everything up? All loose ends neatly tied? All dangling storylines finished? Every mystery solved? No more questions to be—

  My phone rang, interrupting my train of thought.

  “Enjoy that breath, McGlade.” It was, quite conveniently, my secret admirer with the voice gizmo. “For you will never get—”

  “Shut up,” I interrupted. “I know who you are.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t have a clue.”

  “I do have a clue. I have several clues. First, every mystery only has so many characters. You have to be someone who was introduced during the story. Second, you left me two messages. And they reveal who you are. Not by what you said, but by what you didn’t say.

  Are you playing along at home? Do you think the person sending me death threats is:

  That homeless guy I almost hit.

  Fakir’s mother, angry that I got a bargain.

  Jack Daniels, just because the author loves dumb plot twists.

  None of the above.

  “If you said none of the above,” I said into the phone. “You are correct.”

  “Are you talking to me?” she asked.

  “Yeth I am, Gina Morrith from the Department of Motor Vehicles!”

  “Oh,” she said. “Thit.”

  “In the messages you’ve been leaving me, you never used any letter S. Because you knew I’d recognize you. Little did you know that the very absence of such a popular letter in your death threats lead me right to you.”

  “Don’t break your own arm patting yourthelf on the back.”

  “Are you impressed?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “Not even a thmidgeon.”

  “You want to grab a bite to eat later? I’ve got a Groupon for the Big Stinky Onion.”

  There was a pause. Then she said, “Thure. What the hell.”

  “Meet you there at six. Wear something easy to take off.”

  “Thee you later.”

  She hung up.

  Not only did I solve the Mystery of the Anonymous Death Threats, but I also had the last laugh on the woman who had cost me a fortune in bribes. Little did Gina know that I really didn’t have a Groupon, and that I was going to conveniently forget my wallet, sticking her with the bill.

  That’s right, baby! Harrison Harold McGlade for the W-I-N! In your face, you nasty, expensive, lisping, cross-eyed prank caller!

  Then I went to the corner store to pick up condoms.

  JACK

  “That’s one helluva story.” Herb’s mouth was halfway around one of his homemade barbeque burgers.

  I hadn’t finished mine. Benedict was a much better cop than he was a cook.

  “And Garrett McConnroy survived,” I said. “Special Agent Dailey told me the federal prosecutor is seeking twenty-six life sentences against him. One for each victim.”

  Many had been buried under the pine trees, as Harry and I had suspected. Phin had helped a lot with the identification, having found a stack of Driver’s Licenses at Tucker’s house. Which, perhaps not coincidentally, had burned down.

  “And the women Cline kidnapped were okay?”

  “Doped up, but fine.”

  Herb leaned back in his lawn chair, which groaned in protest. “There’s something I don’t get about that. You said when you found the women, they were bound with duct tape.”

  “Right.”

  “Their mouths too.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you said you heard a female scream. That’s when the four guys ran. If their mou
ths were covered, and they were all drugged up, how did you hear them scream?”

  “It wasn’t them,” I said.

  “Who was it?”

  “I’ll tell you, but you’ve got to tell me something first.”

  “Sure. Need another burger?”

  I lifted a palm to stop him. “I’m good.”

  “Brat? Ribs? Chicken? Portabella mushroom?”

  “I ate enough, thanks. And thanks for the invite over.”

  “It’s about time you took me up on an invitation. Now what do I need to tell you?”

  I paused for dramatic effect, then asked, “What happened to that tie I bought you?”

  Herb laughed and shook his head. “I thought you wanted to hear a nice lie.”

  “I’m done with avoiding the truth. I want to hear it, no matter how ugly it is.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath, let it out slow. “I was at a restaurant. Had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. Which I did. And then I noticed there was no toilet paper.”

  “Oh, no. You didn’t.”

  “I had to. I had no choice.”

  “It was a sixty dollar tie, Herb.”

  “I could tell. It was very soft.”

  I laughed. “How about your socks? Your underwear?”

  “I used those first. The tie was the next in line.”

  “It was that bad? Really?”

  “Jack, the restaurant was called The Burrito Explosion. That should give you an idea of how bad it was. Now tell me about the scream.”

  “It wasn’t a woman. It wasn’t even a person. It was Herbie.”

  “Herbie?”

  “Herbie the egret. This big, white bird that lived on the lake. McGlade told me about it. It sounds exactly like a woman screaming.”

  “What sounds exactly like a woman screaming?”

  My fiancé had returned from Herb’s bathroom. I was pleased to see he still had his socks on.

  “You know what a woman screaming sounds like,” I told Latham, grinning at him.

  I was in a ridiculously fine mood. I was on vacation. I was engaged to a wonderful man. And very soon, I was going to live with him.

  Live with him in the suburbs. With my mother.

  Not yet. But soon.

  I was finally ready to stop hiding from life and live it to the fullest.

  Nothing was going to get in my way.

  Not even me.

  “Who’s up for dessert?”

  Bernice, Herb’s wife, came out on the porch with a cake big enough to feed ten people. Or the three of us, plus Herb.

  My partner gobbled down the rest of his burger, and then reached for cake.

  “Coffee anyone?” Bernice asked.

  Coffee. Herb had never found out who stole his coffee machine.

  Irritating. But I suppose that was life. Sometimes there were no answers, no matter how hard we look for them.

  A hard lesson to learn.

  But a good one to know.

  HARRY

  I took the damn coffee machine.

  I demanded to see Jack when I got arrested, but she wasn’t in her office. So I grabbed the machine and hid it in the hallway garbage. Then I took it home when I left.

  I meant it to be funny, and I was going to return it later, leaving her to question her own sanity. But then I wound up ruining it with superglue when I did my private eye fingerprint thing.

  If you see Jack, don’t tell her.

  PHIN

  I almost went to Pasha’s place. But it was late, and I didn’t want to wake her.

  Even more than that, I didn’t want to explain the last few days.

  I would tell her everything, eventually.

  Sure, you will.

  I would tell her everything, and I would get chemo.

  I wanted Pasha to be a permanent part of my life. Maybe even marriage. Maybe even kids.

  And I wanted Earl gone. Forever.

  Good luck with that, Earl said.

  I was hungry when I got back to Chicago. There were a lot of late night places to eat, and I thought about going out, but ultimately decided to eat in. I got back to the Michigan Motel, parked, and knocked on the glass for Kenny Jen Bang Ko, to see if I had messages.

  Kenny didn’t come out. Unusual for him.

  When I got to my room, I immediately knew something was wrong when I caught the odor.

  Death. There was something dead in there.

  I pulled out my 9mm, eased the door open, and flipped on the light.

  Someone was on the bed. Someone covered in congealing blood.

  Kenny.

  There was a note next to him. Handwritten, in what looked like a child’s scrawl.

  Hey little bro—

  He talked. Now I’ve got your bitch.

  Looking forward to spending some quality family time together.

  -H

  It was Hugo. My psychopathic white nationalist older brother.

  I immediately called Pasha, my hands shaking with raw panic.

  “That you, little bro?” The voice was deep. Sinister. And horribly familiar.

  My jaw locked. I tried to swallow but couldn’t summon up the spit. Memories invaded my skull, all of them unpleasant. One that immediately jumped out was the time my brother sat on my chest and stuck a box of safety pins into my head one at a time.

  “I thought you were in jail, Hugo.”

  “They paroled me.”

  “That was a mistake,” I said.

  “No shit. The first person I killed when I got out was my parole officer.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Why the hostility Phineas? I thought you’d be happy to hear from me. How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough. Can I speak to Pasha?”

  “She’s pretty good-looking, for a dot head. If I didn’t want to taint my ethnic purity, I might show her what a real man is like.”

  I clenched the phone so hard I thought I’d break it. “Just let me know she’s alive.”

  Her voice came on. “Phin… they broke in a few hours ago. They were waiting for you. No matter what, don’t come—”

  There was a slapping sound, skin on skin, and a muffled yelp from the woman I loved with my whole body and soul.

  “Mouthy, isn’t she?” Hugo said.

  “What do you want?” It took all of my effort to keep my voice even.

  “I want what we all want. America for Americans. But I’ll settle for meeting you later tonight. Ninety minutes.”

  He named a location. I agreed.

  “Come alone, no cops, all that crap. Or I’ll cut your girlfriend from her snatch to her throat and mail you her insides. Say goodbye, bitch.”

  “Phin! Don’t come! He wants to—”

  And the line went dead.

  When my hands stopped trembling I set my phone down.

  “Don’t worry, babe,” I promised to her, even though she couldn’t hear me. “I’m coming to get you.”

  The End… for now

  Phineas Troutt will return in EVERYBODY DIES.

  THE LIST

  A billionaire Senator with money to burn…

  A thirty year old science experiment, about to be revealed…

  Seven people, marked for death, not for what they know, but for what they are…

  THE LIST by J.A. Konrath

  History is about to repeat itself.

  SHOT OF TEQUILA

  Several million bucks, stolen from the mob…

  A PERFECT FRAME

  All caught on video, with no chance of redemption…

  A RED HOT RECIPE FOR RAMPAGING REVENGE

  Now one man must face the entire Chicago Outfit, a group of hardened Mafia enforcers, a psychotic bookie, the most dangerous hitman on earth, and Detective Jacqueline Daniels…

  His name is Tequila. And he likes those odds.

  SHOT OF TEQUILA by J.A. Konrath

  WHITE RUSSIAN

  J
ust when you get out…

  Former Chicago cop Jack Daniels thought she’d left her former life behind. She’d traded her badge for a toddler, and her lifelong pursuit of heinous serial killers for a boring house in the suburbs.

  …you’re pulled back in.

  Then Jack sees some pictures. Pictures of men who are supposed to be dead. And once again, against the fierce insistence of her husband, Phineas Troutt, Jack reluctantly straps on her gun and goes hunting. Hunting for the worst of the worst.

  Jack treks across the Great Plains, searching for a modern slavery ring, on a collision course with three of the worst villains she has ever faced.

  But Jack, and her irritating buddy Harry McGlade, will face them, and much more. Because they’re prepared to go to hell and back to rescue an old friend.

  The trick will be getting back in one piece. And—spoiler alert—they don’t.

  WHITE RUSSIAN by J.A. Konrath

  What are you willing to lose?

  JOE KONRATH’S

  COMPLETE BIBLIOGRAPHY

  JACK DANIELS THRILLERS

  WHISKEY SOUR

  BLOODY MARY

  RUSTY NAIL

  DIRTY MARTINI

  FUZZY NAVEL

  CHERRY BOMB

  SHAKEN

  STIRRED with Blake Crouch

  RUM RUNNER

  LAST CALL

  SHOT OF TEQUILA

  BANANA HAMMOCK

  WHITE RUSSIAN

  OLD FASHIONED

  SERIAL KILLERS UNCUT with Blake Crouch

  LADY 52 with Jude Hardin

  65 PROOF short story collection

  FLOATERS short with Henry Perez

  BURNERS short with Henry Perez

  SUCKERS short with Jeff Strand

  JACKED UP! short with Tracy Sharp

  STRAIGHT UP short with Iain Rob Wright

  CHEESE WRESTLING short with Bernard Schaffer

  ABDUCTIONS short with Garth Perry

  BEAT DOWN short with Garth Perry

  BABYSITTING MONEY short with Ken Lindsey

  OCTOBER DARK short with Joshua Simcox

  RACKED short with Jude Hardin

  BABE ON BOARD short with Ann Voss Peterson