Jack Daniels Six Pack
Page 24
—Libby Fischer Hellmann, author of An Image of Death
“Pithy banter . . . it’s like a Monty Python rendition of a crime novel.”
—The Courier
“Whiskey Sour is detective fiction at its finest. It’s filled with jackknife plot turns, edge of the blade suspense, and razor-sharp, laugh-out-loud wit. J.A. Konrath has created something special here—a new series character I’ll follow with the same devotion I read Spenser and Dave Robicheaux.”
—Rick Hautala, bestselling author of Bedbugs and The Mountain King
“What a fabulous book!”
—Mystery Morgue
“Fast action, involving characters, twists galore. Easily one of the best debut suspense novels in recent years. Bring on the sequel!”
—BookPage
“Whiskey Sour is a stunning debut novel. Konrath has brewed up a compulsive page-turner populated by real people, a heroine to empathize with and root for, and a monstrous vil-lain serving up enough red meat to satisfy the hungriest Hannibal Lecter fan.”
—George C. Chesbro, author of Strange Prey
“Four stars . . . tough, funny, and smart.”
—Deadly Pleasures
“Whiskey Sour: take the grim doings of a vicious psychopath, stir in quirky characters and crisp dialogue, then shake with dollops of laugh-aloud humor. A fast, fun read. I’m looking forward to the next Jack Daniels outing.”
—F. Paul Wilson, bestselling author of Infernal
“Sharp dialog and dry wit . . . it has all the polish of any suspense thriller bestseller.”
—Murder and Mayhem Book Club
“If you want a wonderful, funny, believable, well-researched murder mystery/thriller, look no further.”
—Rendezvous Magazine
“Without question, you have to meet Konrath’s characters and the dynamo of his narrative to believe anyone can call out and sink every shot with such verve and confidence—but Whiskey Sour is on game from page one to the last. I can honestly say that I have seen the future of suspense thrillers, and it is J.A. Konrath . . .”
—Robert W. Walker, author of City for Ransom
“Suspense skillfully balanced with brilliant humor . . . powerful and exciting.”
—MyShelf
“This book lives up to its hype.”
—Reviewing the Evidence
“Thriller lovers rejoice. The prose is so polished, so assured, you’ll feel you are reading the tenth novel by a master pro at the peak of his powers. I can’t wait for the next one.”
—Steven Harriman, author of Sleeper
“A brilliant debut . . .”
—Chizine
“An exciting book, with a teasing sort of style that draws you in.”
—Pahrump Valley Times
“Whiskey Sour captures the feel and flavor of what it’s really like on the streets chasing violent offenders. Konrath’s characters are tough, gritty and flawed just enough to make them real. I can’t wait for the next sip of Jack Daniels.”
—Sergeant Dave Putnam, San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department
“Readers who are familiar with Stephanie Plum will feel right at home.”
—Mystery Reader
“Konrath displays genuine talent.”
—Mystery Scene
“Whiskey Sour is a combination of Jilliane Hoffman’s Retribution edginess with an Evanovich sense of humor.You gotta love it.”
—Tulsa World
“Whiskey Sour is one hell of a ride!”
—Rob Kantner, author of the Ben Perkins series
“J.A. Konrath’s Whiskey Sour is the best mystery series debut I’ve read in years. From electric excitement to laugh-out-loud humor, this book has it all.”
—Warren B. Murphy, bestselling author of Pigs Get Fat
“Being a police officer and an occasional drinker of whiskey myself, Whiskey Sour immediately caught my eye—especially with a main character with the name ‘Lt. Jack Daniels.’ I am a big fan of Ed McBain (87th Precinct) and Robert B. Parker (Spenser novels)—so finding a book that combines both their styles was a real treat. Whiskey Sour is fast, fun, and witty, with humor and just the right amount of gore to keep me turning the page.”
—Colin Sullivan, Texas-based police officer
Praise for
Bloody Mary
“As sharp and tangy as its title cocktail. Snappy dialogue. Powerful action. A fabulous character to spend time with. What a recipe for a page-turner.”
—David Morrell, bestselling author of The Brotherhood of the Rose
“If the Grim Reaper has a sense of humor, he reads J.A. Konrath . . . If you prefer your mysteries served up like a good steak—sizzling, juicy, and tasting of blood—there’s not a better item on the menu.”
—William Kent Krueger, author of Blood Hollow
“Konrath captures not only the mind of a serial killer, but an accurate attitude of the cops working the case. It’s funny and scary, just like real life.”
—James O. Born, author of Shock Wave
“Characters you care about and a breath-stealing plot. Reading Bloody Mary is a ride on a rocket-propelled roller coaster. Strap in and hold on tight.”
—Jack Kerley, author of The Hundredth Man
“Raise a glass to J.A. Konrath. BLOODY MARY is bloody good. Jack Daniels has heart, smarts, and all of Chicago to detect in.”
—Barbara D’Amato, author of Death of a Thousand Cuts
“Take one large psychopath, mix with an unusually violent cat, add a fast pace, a lean plot, and Jack Daniels and what do you get? Believe it or not, a Bloody Mary.”
—Bill Fitzhugh, author of Radio Activity
“A healthy shot of colorful characters, dizzying dialogue and a potent plot, Bloody Mary is laugh-out-loud funny . . . even when read sober.”
—PJ Parrish, bestselling author of A Killing Rain
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank (in alphabetical order): Bruce Arnoux, Mark Arnoux, Latham Conger III, George Dailey, Jeff Evens, Mariel Evens, Elaine Farrugia, Stacey Glick, Miriam Goderich, Carl Graves, Todd Keithley, Chris Konrath, Joe Konrath Sr., John Konrath, Mike Konrath, Talon Konrath, Elisa Lee, Jim McCarthy, Ursel Schmidt, Ace Streng, and Marge Streng.
Special giant-sized thanks go to Jim Coursey—my friend and sounding board; Jane Dystel—agent extraordinaire; Laura Konrath—my mother and biggest critic; Leslie Wells—world’s greatest editor; and most of all to my spouse, for the ceaseless efforts and relentless encouragement.
ALSO BY J.A. KONRATH
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Fuzzy Navel
Cherry Bomb
Copyright
The Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels mystery series is in no way sponsored by, endorsed by, or related to Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc., or to Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey.
Copyright © 2004 by Joe Konrath
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Hyperion e-books.
Mass market ISBN: 978-0-7868-9072-9
EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9781401399863
FIRST MASS MARKET EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5
Bloody Mary
This book is for Laura Konrath, whom I’m honored, blessed, and tickled pink to call Mom.
I love you.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Contents Book
Preface
Prologue
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
Acknowledgments
Also by
Copyright
BLOODY MARY
11/2 oz. vodka
4 oz. tomato juice
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
Several drops of Tabasco sauce
Shake well over ice and strain into an old-fashioned glass.
Add a celery stalk.
PROLOGUE
“It would be so easy to kill you while you sleep.”
He rolls onto his side and faces his wife, tangling his fingers in her hair. Her face is shrouded in a dried blue mask; an antiaging beauty product that has begun to peel. The moonlight peeking through the bedroom curtains makes her look already dead.
He wonders if other people look at their partners at night, peacefully dozing, and imagine killing them.
“I have a knife.” He brushes his fingertips along her hairline. “I keep it under the bed.”
Her lips part and she snores softly.
So ugly, especially for a model. All capped teeth and streaked hair.
He wedges his hand between the mattress and box spring and pulls out the knife. It has a large wooden handle, disproportionate to the thin, finely honed blade. A fillet knife.
He places it against his wife’s neck, gently.
His vision blurs. The pain in his head ignites, a screw twisting into his temple. It tightens with every heartbeat.
Too many headaches in too many days. He should, will, tell the doctor. The six aspirin he took an hour ago haven’t helped.
Only one thing helps when the pain gets this bad.
He caresses her chin with the edge of the knife, shaving off some of the mask. Sweat rolls down his forehead and stings his eyes.
“I can cut your throat, reach in and rip out your voice before you even have a chance to scream.”
She twitches, her head tilting away. Her neck is smooth, flawless. He clenches his jaw hard enough to crush granite, teeth grinding teeth.
“Or maybe I should go through the eye. Just a quick poke, right into the brain.”
He raises the blade up, trying to control the trembling in his hand. The blade wavers over her lid, creeping closer.
“All you have to do is open your eyes, so you can see it coming.”
She snores.
“Come on, honey.” He nudges her shoulder. “Open your eyes.”
He bites down on his tongue, the inside of his mouth hot and salty. His brain is a tiny clawed demon trying to dig its way out.
“Open your goddamn eyes!”
She shifts toward him, mumbling. Her arm falls over his bare chest.
“Another headache, honey?”
“Yeah.”
He places the knife behind her head, at the base of her skull. He imagines jabbing it in, the tip poking through the front of her throat.
Wouldn’t she be surprised?
“Poor baby,” she says into his armpit. She rubs his cheek, her fingers cool against his burning ear.
He gives her a little prod with the knife, just under her hairline. Her head jerks away.
“Ow! Honey, cut your nails.”
“It’s not my nails, dear. It’s a knife.”
She snores her response.
He nudges her again. “I said, It’s a knife. You hear me?”
“Did you take some aspirin, baby?”
“Six.”
“They’ll work soon. You should see a doctor.”
She hooks a leg over his stomach. He feels himself become aroused, unsure if it’s her touch that’s causing it, or the thought of peeling off her face.
Or perhaps both.
He smiles in the darkness, knuckles white on the knife handle, ready to finally give in to the nightly temptation. But as he readies the blade, he notes that the pain in his head has begun to subside. Gradually, the sharp throbbing melts away into a dull ache.
Bearable.
For now.
“I’ll kill you tomorrow.” He kisses her on the scalp.
The knife goes back under the mattress. He holds her tight and she makes a happy sighing sound.
When he finally falls asleep, it’s to the image of cutting her open and bathing his face with her blood.
CHAPTER 1
“Dammit.”
My fan had died. It didn’t surprise me. The fan had ten years on me, and I came into the world during the Eisenhower years. It belonged in a museum, not an office.
Today was the first day of July, and hot enough to cook burgers on the sidewalk, though you probably wouldn’t want to eat them afterward. My blouse clung to me, my nylons felt like sweatpants, and I’d developed a fatal case of the frizzies.
The 26th Police District of Chicago, where I slowly roasted, was temporarily without air-conditioning due to a problem with the condensers, whatever the hell they were. We were promised it would be fixed by December.
I hit the base of the fan with my stapler. Though I was the highest ranking female cop in the Violent Crimes Unit, I tended to be useless mechanically. My handyperson skills maxed out at changing a lightbulb. And even then, I had to read the instructions. The fan seemed to sense this, slowly wagging its blades at me like dusty tongues.
My partner, Detective First Class Herb Benedict, walked into my office, sucking on a soda cup the size of a small garbage can. It didn’t seem to be helping him cool off. Herb weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds, and had more pores on his face than I had on my whole body. Benedict’s suit looked like it had been soaked in Lake Michigan and put on wet.
He waddled up and placed a moist palm on my desk, leaving a streak. I noticed droplets in his gray mustache; sweat or diet cola. His basset hound jowls glistened as if greased.
“Morning, Jack.”
My birth name was Jacqueline, but when I married my ex-husband, Alan Daniels, no one could resist shortening it to Jack.
“Morning, Herb. Here to help me fix my fan?”
“Nope. I’m here to share my breakfast.”
Herb set a brown paper sack on my desk.
“Donuts? Bagels? Cholesterol McMuffins?”
“Not even close.”
Benedict removed a plastic bag containing, of all things, rice cakes.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Where’s the chocolate? Where’s the canned cheese?”
“I’m watching my weight. In fact, I joined a health club.”
“You’re kidding.”
“You know the one that advertises on TV all the time?”
“The one where you get to work out with all of those Olympic bodybuilders for only thirty bucks a month?”
“That’s the one. Except I’ve got the Premier Membership, not the normal one.”
“What’s the difference?”
He named a monetary figure, and I whistled at the amount.
“But with it, I get full access to the racquetball and squash courts.”
“You don’t play racquetball or squash.”
“Plus, my membership card is colored gold instead of blue.”
I leaned back in my chair, interlacing my fingers behind my head. “Well, that’s different. I’d pay extra for that. How is the place?”