“Now I understand why so many people own dogs.”
He didn’t reply.
I cleaned up the kitty litter as best I could, poured him another bowl of food, forced down some Frosted Flakes, and went out to face the day.
Chicago was a furnace, hot enough to make my eyeliner run. Stopping for coffee seemed absurd, but I needed the caffeine. I bought an extra for Herb.
The district house still had an air-conditioning problem, which felt great for about two minutes, and then became painful.
Herb wasn’t in his office, which was unusual. He always beat me to work. I set his coffee on his desk, then returned to my office and did some follow-up calls about the incident last night.
The gut-shot bouncer had stabilized, and the perp, defying all expectations, still clung to life. I left word with the doctor to call when toxicology finished the blood work, but she said it wasn’t necessary.
“I’m ninety-nine percent sure he was high on Hydro.”
“Water?”
“No. Hydro is the nickname for a new street drug. It’s a mean mix of phencyclidene hydrochloride, phentermine hydrochloride, and oxycodone hydrochloride; basically angel dust, speed, and codeine. Why anyone would want to mix those is beyond me. Plus, someone is cutting the drug with mephyton phyonadione.”
“Which is?”
“Vitamin K. It’s commonly given to patients before surgery because of its ability to aid in blood coagulation.”
“This drug turns people into psychotic supermen who don’t feel pain or bleed?”
“Makes you long for the sixties and good old LSD, doesn’t it?”
“Who would make something like this?”
“After working the ER for six years, I’ve lost count of the different ways people attempt to destroy themselves. I just patch them up so they can go do it again.”
“You sound cynical.”
“I’m the one who stitched up all the holes you put in this guy, and you’re calling me a cynic?”
She had a point. Curiosity prompting me onward, I called the DEA.
“You’ve no doubt heard about the Big Bust.”
The Big Bust the agent referred to was a capture of almost a billion dollars in heroin off the Florida coast. One of the largest drug seizures in history.
“That left a vacuum in the market,” he went on. “The junkies still needed something to shoot, so a West Coast drug ring hired some chemists to cook up a replacement. We’ve already shut down three Hydro labs, but they’re popping up all over the place. It’s a bad high too. Causes some major freak-outs.”
“I’ve seen it. We shot a man eleven times, and he took off like Carl Lewis.”
“Eleven? Not even close to the record. Two cops in Compton cornered a Hydro-head with a Mac-10, took twenty-eight shots to bring him down. Bad drug.”
“My guy’s still alive.”
“So’s this guy. Has to be fed through a tube, though. We’re thinking of using him as our new antidrug poster boy.”
My faith in human nature restored, I checked Herb’s office again. No Herb. I took his coffee, mine long gone, then went to check on Officer Fuller and the database.
“Just get in?” I asked.
He was hunched over his computer, squinting at a spreadsheet. I must have surprised him, because he flinched when he heard my voice.
“Oh, hi, Lieut. No, been here for a while. Why?”
“It’s ten degrees in here, and you’re sweating.”
He smiled. “I’ve been blessed with a high metabolism.”
“I wish I was that lucky. How’s the database coming?”
“Slow. You’ve had a lot of arrests.”
“I’ve been blessed with a long career. Any matches yet with County’s sign-in book?”
He shook his head. “If I find one, you’ll be the second to know.”
“Thanks, Officer. Carmichael is retiring this October, which means a slot in the Detective Division is opening up.”
Fuller mumbled something under his breath that I didn’t make out.
“Pardon me?”
“Just saying a silent prayer, Lieut. I’ve been trying to get into DD for over a year, and you guys keep passing me over.”
“You’re a good cop, Fuller. But the cops that took those slots had seniority.”
He mumbled something again, and I got the distinct impression I’d been insulted. I let it go. Fuller had a right to be disappointed—he went above and beyond the call of duty to help Herb and me whenever possible, even off the clock. Fuller had a nose for homicide, especially the violent ones, and more than once his input had proven valuable.
Still, he’d only been a cop for three years, and no one rose up the ranks that quickly. The system didn’t allow it.
“Don’t have anything yet, huh?” I asked.
“Not yet, but if there’s something, I’ll find it.”
I thanked him, and noticed Benedict out of the corner of my eye. Actually, I’d heard him before seeing him. He was whistling.
“Good morning, Herb.”
“Morning, Jack.” He smiled, and then winked.
I eyed him suspiciously. “Everything okay, Herb?”
“Everything is wonderful. Couldn’t be better.”
“You’re late this morning.”
“I slept in.” Herb winked again.
“Is something wrong with your eye?”
“No. Why?”
“You keep winking at me.”
“Just in a good mood, that’s all. Are we off to shake down the dealer?”
He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels.
“Yeah. I’ll stop by my office for a bag. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m absolutely perfect, Jack.” And he winked at me again.
I went to my desk, followed by some weird alternate-universe version of my partner, and retrieved a plastic bag filled with powdered sugar. Davi’s supposed dealer probably wouldn’t be forthcoming with the police. The bag would help him loosen his tongue.
I handed it to Herb. In this day and age, it was risky for a woman to frisk a man, and vice versa. Sexual harassment laws protected criminals too.
After a quick stroll through the desert that was our parking lot, we got into Herb’s Camaro and he cranked up the air. It was only a matter of time before the constant flux between hot and cold would give me pneumonia.
Herb pulled onto Lake Shore Drive, heading south. Chicago didn’t seem to be bothered by the heat. People littered the walkways along the beach, and a few suicidal individuals were even jogging. Out on Lake Michigan, hundreds of boats competed for space. It looked as if someone sprinkled some kosher salt on a gigantic polished mirror.
Herb began whistling again, keeping tempo by drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“All right,” I said after five minutes of biting my tongue. “Spill it.”
“Spill what?”
“Why you’re so damn happy.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like you’ve been possessed by one of the Care Bears.”
He looked at me, and winked.
“There are some things best kept private, Jack.”
“That’s bull, Herb. We’re partners. We have no secrets.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Herb winked at me again. I made a fist, ready to slug him.
“Okay. Bernice and I were . . . intimate last night.”
I stared at him.
“That’s all? You’re this happy because you got laid?”
He smiled. “Five times.”
I did a double take.
“Five times?”
He nodded. “Three last night, and then two more this morning.”
I looked at Benedict with newfound respect.
“You haven’t been possessed by a Care Bear. You’ve been possessed by a porn star.”
He winked at me again. “Viagra.”
“Really?”
“Apparently it worked.”
“I was a dynamo, Jack. You should see the scratch marks on my back.”
I had no idea how to respond to that. Pat him on the shoulder? Tell him to nail her once for me? I settled on, “That’s great.”
“She was begging me for mercy, Jack. But I kept a-goin’. I haven’t heard her scream like that since—”
“Herb,” I interrupted, “you were right. Maybe we should keep some things private.”
Colin Andrews’s neighborhood was primarily low-income. Gang-bangers flashing colors eyed us, trying to figure out what business a white couple in a new sports car had in their hood. At a stoplight, a kid with baggy pants pimp-walked up to the passenger side and tapped on my window.
“Y’all lost?”
I smiled at him. “Five-O. Y’all holding?”
He put his hands in the air and backed off, smiling at me with gold caps. The way he wore his bandanna told me he was a Gangsta Disciple. Couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.
“I blame rap music,” Herb said.
“That’s much easier than blaming the parents.”
“I’m serious. Think about how gang violence would be reduced if they all listened to Perry Como.”
“Reduced? I think they’d riot. Hell, I’d riot.”
Ninety-sixth Street had more potholes than asphalt, and Herb cringed every time his car took a dip. Andrews’s apartment building was the nicest one on the block, but that didn’t mean much. Graffiti still colored the sidewalk and walls, and three divots in the front door were obvious bullet holes.
Herb parked directly in front of the building, on the street. Our leather badge cases had cords attached, and we hung our stars around our necks. I got out of the car, feeling the same sense of uneasiness I always felt when on the South Side, being a white female cop. None of those traits were looked upon with respect here.
Herb turned to me. “What’s your take on this?”
I knew what he meant. It was unlikely Davi McCormick got her drugs from Colin, unless he made frequent visits to the Gold Coast—dealers tend to stay local. And two severed arms planted in the county morgue wasn’t your typical gang-related or drug-related crime.
“The calls from her apartment were to his cell phone. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
The security door had a broken lock, allowing us an easy entry. The lobby reeked of heat and decay. More graffiti tags marked the walls, and someone had shattered two of the three hallway lights.
Colin Andrews rented an apartment on the first floor. The number had been removed from the door, but we figured it out by counting.
Herb rapped his knuckle on the door.
“Colin Andrews? Chicago PD.”
No answer.
“Mr. Andrews, this is the police. We’d like to ask you some questions. It’s in your best interest to open the door.”
“How it my best interest letting cops in?”
“Because if you don’t talk to us,” Benedict said, “we’ll start knocking on all of your neighbors’ doors. It would be hard for you to live here if everyone thought you were a police snitch.”
“I ain’t no damn snitch.”
We waited. I noticed Herb had his hand near his holster, and realized that mine had drifted there as well.
After a minute, the door opened a crack. A brown eye squinted out at us.
“What this about?”
I smiled pleasantly. “You want everyone to see you talking to us in the hall?”
He opened the door.
The apartment was air-conditioned, neat, nicely furnished. An entertainment center crammed full of state-of-the-art equipment sat next to a wide-screen TV.
Colin stood about Benedict’s height, but rail thin. He wore an oversized Steelers jersey and a thick gold chain around his neck that seemed to weigh him down.
“Business must be good.” I eyed his place, annoyed that the crooks always had better stuff than I did.
Colin shrugged.
“Colin?” A woman’s voice came from one of the back rooms. “Who’s there?”
“No one, Mama. Stay in your room.”
“Mama know you deal?” I asked.
“I don’t deal. That’s all a big misunderstanding.”
I fished through the pockets of my blazer and took out a folded head shot of Davi McCormick.
“Do you recognize this woman?”
I watched Colin’s face. He glanced at the photo without changing his expression.
“Never saw her.”
“She called your cell phone a few days ago.”
“Don’t got no cell phone.”
I read the phone number to him.
“Don’t got that phone no more. Lost it.”
“When did you lose it?”
“Couple weeks ago.”
Herb bent down, reaching for Colin’s foot.
“I think you dropped something, Colin. Well—lookee here.”
Herb held up the bag of powdered sugar.
“Dog, that ain’t mine!”
Herb made an innocent face. “I saw it fall out of your pocket. Didn’t you, Jack?”
“I don’t even deal that shit, man. I just distribute the herb.”
“Where’s your phone, Colin?”
“I told you, I lost the phone.”
Benedict dipped a finger into the bag, then touched his tongue.
“How much you think is here? Eight, ten grams? That’s what—thirty years?”
I moved closer to Colin. “We found the arms. We know she called you.”
“What arms? I don’t carry, man. I’m low-key.”
“Where’s the phone?”
“I don’t know.”
Colin looked frightened. Though I couldn’t arrest him for possession of a known confectionary, I decided to push my luck.
“You know the drill, Colin. On your knees, hands behind your head.”
“I don’t have the phone! I swear! You need to ask your people!”
“What people?”
“Cops. When I got arrested last month, they took my phone. I never got it back.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Herb was dipping back into the bag for another taste. I stepped between him and Colin.
“You’re saying we have your phone?”
“I had it with me when I got booked, and when I got sprung no one knew anything about my phone.”
I had a pretty good internal BS detector, and Colin was either a much better liar than I was used to, or he was telling the truth.
“Have you canceled the service?”
“Haven’t got round to it.”
“Why not?”
I saw fear flash across Colin’s eyes.
“Colin, do you know who has your phone?”
“No.”
“Colin, the person who took your phone is very dangerous. If you tell us who it is, we can protect you.”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Maybe a trip to the station will help jog your memory.”
Colin glanced at Herb and smirked. “I don’t think you be charging me with nothing.”
I looked. Benedict was licking a large mound of white powder out of his palm.
“I’m testing the purity,” Benedict said. His beard was dusty with sugar.
Colin went to the door and held it open.
“Y’all can go now.”
“Colin . . .”
“I know my rights. If I tell you to go, you got to go.”
“We want to help you, Colin.”
“Yeah, right.”
I handed him my card. He took it, reluctantly.
“If a police officer stole your cell phone, you can file a formal complaint. You can help us get this guy.”
“Whatever.”
We left the apartment.
“Jesus, Herb. Real professi
onal.”
“I couldn’t help it. I haven’t had anything sweet in over a week. Once I had that little taste, I couldn’t stop.”
He drove his point home by upending the remainder of the bag into his mouth.
“Do you know how many carbs are in that?”
“I don’t care. It’s like an orgy on my tongue.”
“During the orgy, did you manage to pick up on what Colin said?”
He nodded, his face turning somber.
The perp had access to my handcuffs, to the county morgue, and to Colin’s cell phone.
All signs pointed to the killer being a cop.
Unfortunately, this did little to narrow it down. Chicago had a police force of over seventeen thousand. I had eight hundred working out of my district, plus cops from the other districts came and went on a daily basis. So did cops from out of town, Feds, lawyers, and government officials.
Benedict seemed to sense my thoughts. “Maybe we’ll be able to narrow it down once we go through the complete phone log.”
“Who’s Colin’s carrier?”
“FoneCo. They want a subpoena before they release his records.”
“We can swing by the courthouse.”
Benedict probed his goatee with his tongue, seeking out stray calories.
“Should we put a team on Colin?”
I considered it. If Colin saw cops hanging around, he might freak out and try to run. Plus, who could I trust to put on him? What if I accidentally sent the killer?
“No. We should talk to the assistant State’s Attorney first. Colin’s court case is coming up.”
I didn’t like driving away knowing that Colin was hiding something, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. Coming to him with a deal might loosen his tongue.
“I hope it’s not a bad cop, Jack.”
Me too. If cops were viewed as the enemy, the tenuous balance of power could shift. Laws would be broken out of contempt. Authority wouldn’t be acknowledged. Police officers might even be attacked, or worse.
I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about rioting.
“We’re probably wrong, Herb. It’s probably not a cop at all.”
But deep down, I knew we were right.
CHAPTER 13
He watches them get into the sports car and pull away. That bitch Daniels, and her fat-ass partner, Herb Benedict.
He climbs out of his car and walks toward Colin Andrews’s apartment.
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 31