She had two armed guards at her door, and another one that sat inside her room. She lay on top of her sheets, bandages covering most of her body from the many patches of skin they’d harvested trying to reconstruct her face. Her head was swaddled in gauze, mummy-style. Her hand was cuffed to the bed frame. A single blue eye peered out through the cotton, fixing on me when I entered.
“Hello, Jack. Thanks for coming.”
Her voice sounded weak, muffled by her dressings. I sat down in the chair next to her.
“I hear you’ve been cooperating with police. Telling them everything they want to know.”
“Just listening to my lawyers. They want to use an insanity defense, obviously. Poor abused child grows up confused and alone. Some bullshit like that.”
“Do you think you’re insane?”
She shrugged. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s something seriously wrong with you. Maybe you’ll be able to get some help. Professional help.”
“I doubt it. I killed my last four shrinks.”
I leaned forward.
“Why did you want to see me, Alex?”
“You can call me Holly if you want.”
“Why did you want to see me?”
“The doctors, they didn’t want me to see my face yet. But last night I got up and went to the bathroom and took off my bandages in the mirror. I look like someone stapled some raw pork chops to my face.”
If she wanted sympathy, she was preaching to the wrong choir.
“I’ll be scarred for life, Jack.”
“You already were,” I said.
Holly didn’t seem to have anything else to say, so I got up to leave.
“Jack.”
I stopped. Waited.
“You beat me this time. But it isn’t over.”
I gave her a final glance.
“It’s over,” I said, and left the hospital.
That night, in Latham’s bed, I had a strange dream. I was at the shooting range, and no matter how carefully I aimed, I couldn’t hit the silhouette.
But rather than frustrate me, I found it funny as hell. Every time I missed, I laughed like crazy. It was one of the most wonderful dreams I’d ever had.
My cell phone woke me up.
“Ms. Daniels? This is Julie, over at Henderson House.”
Henderson House. The long-term care facility where my mother lived. I checked the clock, saw it was three in the morning.
The fear washed over me like a wave. I’d been expecting the worst for so long, but found myself unable to handle it.
“Is it Mom?” My voice quavered, my eyes filling with tears.
“Yes, it’s your mother. It happened just a few minutes ago. She’s come out of her coma.”
Had I heard correctly?
“Mom’s out of her coma?”
My talking woke Latham up. He hugged me in the darkness.
“Not only is she awake, but she’s completely lucid. Can you come over here, Ms. Daniels? She’s asking for you.”
Epilogue
Several Months Later
THE ALLEY WAS dark, and I shouldn’t have gone in there. It was just plain stupid.
But into the alley I went, following McGlade, gun drawn and moving in a crouch.
“I see something.” Harry had his gun out as well, a much larger gun than mine. “Cover me.”
“No.” I tugged his arm back. “It’s my turn to go first. You cover me.”
“Jack, this is dangerous. Don’t fight me on this.”
Without listening I pushed past McGlade and broke into a run. I stopped in a Weaver stance, legs two feet apart, both arms stretched out in front of me, steadying the gun—
—silhouetted by the street light behind me.
A perfect, easy target.
“Freeze! Police!”
The first shot caught me in the stomach, blood gushing out before me like a fountain.
I fell in slow motion, three more shots ripping into my chest and shoulders, spinning me around, painting the brick walls with blood before I hit the pavement.
I heard Harry yell, and watched him run out to me, firing into the alley as he ran, grabbing me by the collar and dragging me out onto the sidewalk, leaving a smeared trail of red.
“Harry . . .”
“Shh. Jack, don’t talk.”
I looked down at the ruin that was my chest, blood pumping out in a ridiculous amount. McGlade tried to press down on some of the wounds. I cried out in pain.
“I’ve got to get help, Jack.”
He tried to stand up, but I stopped him, grabbing his hand.
“It’s . . . it’s too late, Harry . . . too late.”
“Hold on, Jack.”
A single tear rolled down my face. I put on a brave smile.
“You’ll get the guys. Right?”
“Of course I will, baby. Count on it.”
I blinked a few times.
“Everything’s getting dark, Harry.”
McGlade knelt down, propped my upper body onto his lap, and put his arms around me.
“I’m here, Jack.”
“Harry . . . I . . . I need to tell you something.” I was whispering. “Come close.”
“I’m all ears, Jackie.”
“All . . . all of these years . . .”
McGlade now had tears in his eyes too.
“I’m listening.”
“I . . . love . . . you . . . Harry . . . McGlade . . .”
Harry bent down, and his lips touched mine. When he pulled his head back, my eyes were wide and staring into space.
I was dead.
Harry cried out, lifted his head back, and screamed and screamed and screamed.
TO BE CONTINUED . . . appeared at the bottom of the screen. Then the image froze and faded to black.
My mother clicked off the TV with the remote control, frowning at me.
“That was crap. Pure crap. You never would have gone into the alley like that.”
I shrugged. “At least I won’t be back next season. You want a beer?”
“A beer sounds wonderful. Let’s get good and plowed and order a pizza with extra everything.” She made a kissy sound, and Mr. Friskers bounded into her lap.
“You sure you want everything, Mom?”
Mom smiled, and it was beatific. “Absolutely. I’ve got a lot of eating to catch up on, Jacqueline. I’ve got a lot of life to catch up on.”
She reached for my hand and held it tight. I held it just as tight, never ever wanting to let go.
“You know what, Mom? That makes two of us.”
Acknowledgments
Every book, the list of people I need to thank gets longer . . .
To fellow scribes: Barbara D’Amato, James O. Born, Lee Child, Blake Crouch, Bill Fitzhugh, Jack Kerley, William Kent Krueger, David Morrell, PJ Parrish, and M.J. Rose, for their words, encouragement, and inspiration.
To those in the book biz: Robin Agnew, Augie Alesky, Lorri Amsden, Elizabeth Baldwin, Jim Berlage, Terri Bischoff, Jane Biro, Chris Bowman, Linda Brown, Bonnie Claeson, Diana Cohen, J.B. Dickey, Moni Draper, Tammy Domike, Judy Duhl, Luane Evans, Dorothy Evans, Bill Farley, Beth Fedyn, Dick File, Marilyn Fisher, Holly Frakes, Steven French, Fran Fuller, Sandy Goodrick, Diane Gressman, Maggie Griffin, Joe Guglielmelli, Maryelizabeth Hart, Patrick Heffernan, Jim Huang, Rick Jensen, Steve Jensen, Jen Johnson, Jon Jordan, Ruth Jordan, Steve Jurczyk, Bob Kadlec, Richard Katz, Edmund and Jeannie Kaufman, Carolyn Lane, Steve Lukac, Sheldon MacArthur, Bobby McCue, Dana Mee, Laurie Mountjoy, Jim Munchel, Karen Novak, Cynthia Nye, Otto Penzler, Henry “Hank” Perez, Barbara Peters, Sue Petersen, Sarah Pingry, Taryn Schau, Terri Schlichenmeyer, Matt Schwartz, Cindy Smith, Terri Smith, Kathy Sparks, Laura Stanz, Dave Strang, Jim & Gloria Tillez, Barbara Tom, Maria Tovar, Susan Tunis, Chris Van Such, Lauri Ver Schure, Linda Vetter, Janine Wilson, Chris Wolak, and the many others who have helped spread the word—if your name isn’t here, blame the typesetter!
To the publishing f
olks: Lauren Abramo, Ellen Archer, Alan Ayres, Michael Bourrett, Susie Breck, Anna Campbell, Regina Castillo, Jane Comins, Natalie Fedewa, Nicola Ferguson, Brad Foltz, Miriam Goderich, Jessica Goldman, Laura Grafton, Dick Hill, Amy Hosford, Eileen Hutton, Navorn Johnson, David Lott, Bob Miller, Phil Rose, Will Schwalbe, Michael Snodgrass, Abby Vinyard, Katie Wainwright, Miriam Wenger, Kimberly West, Westchester Book Composition, and Raynel White.
The amazing Leslie Wells.
Jane Dystel, who kicks major booty.
Barry Eisler and Jim Coursey, for their first draft insights.
Family and friends: Laura Konrath, Mike Konrath, Chris Konrath, John Konrath, Talon Konrath, Latham Conger III, George Dailey, Mariel Evans, and Jeff Evans.
And of course, Maria Konrath. I couldn’t write a word without her.
ALSO BY J. A. KONRATH
Bloody Mary
Whiskey Sour
Copyright
Copyright © 2006 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.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2006925772
ISBN 1-4013-0088-X
EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9781401384739
FIRST EDITION
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dirty Martini
A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery
DIRTY MARTINI
J. A. KONRATH
This book is for Jim Coursey, who has been there for me since the beginning. Best friends forever, man!
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Box book
Prologue
Chapter 1
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgment
Also By
Praise 01
Praise 02
Praise 03
Excerpt 1
Excerpt 2
Excerpt 3
Copyright
DIRTY MARTINI
2 oz vodka
1 tbsp dry vermouth
2 tbsp olive juice
2 olives
Fill a mixer with all ingredients, including garnish.
Cover and shake hard 3–4 times.
Strain contents into a cocktail glass.
Prologue
NO SECURITY CAMERAS this time, but he still has to be careful. The smaller the store, the more likely he’ll be remembered.
He’s dressed for the part. The mustache is fake. So is the shoulder-length hair. His facial jewelry is all clip-on, including the nose ring and the lip ring, and his combat boots have lifts in them, adding almost three inches to his height. He’s wearing a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt that he picked up at a thrift shop for a quarter, under a red flannel shirt that cost little more. The long sleeves hide the tube.
When they interview witnesses later, they’ll remember his costume, but not his features.
He picked a good time of day—the store is busy. The woman behind the counter is speaking German with one of the patrons, three people in line behind her. To the left, an old lady is pushing a small cart, scrutinizing some imported canned goods. In the rear of the store, a fat man is picking up a .5-liter bottle of Weihenstephaner beer.
At the deli section, he finds the cooler with the fresh fruit. Pretending as if he’s trying to decide, he eventually picks up a red apple.
He cradles the fruit in his left hand, avoiding the use of his fingertips. Palmed in his right hand, attached to the tube that runs up his sleeve, is the jet injector. It’s four inches long, shaped like a miniature hot glue gun. He touches the orifice to the surface of the apple. Pulls the trigger.
There’s a brief hissing sound, lasting a fraction of a second. He puts the apple back and selects another, repeating the process.
Pssssssstttttt.
After doing four pieces of fruit, some potatoes, and a plastic container of yogurt, the jet injector needs to be armed again—something that will attract attention. He leaves the deli without buying anything, stepping out onto Irving Park Road and into the pedestrian traffic.
Ethnic stores are easy. He’s already done a supermarket in Chinatown, contaminating some star fruit and dried fish, and a Polish butcher shop on the West Side, injecting almost the entire stock of kielbasa. In Wrigleyville he visited a large chain grocery store and made quick work of some apples, pears, and packages of ground beef, mindful to keep his head lowered so the security cameras didn’t get any good facial shots. Just south of Chicago’s Magnificent Mile he paid for admission to the Art Institute and spent thirty minutes in the cafeteria, using his jet injector on practically everything—cartons of milk, juice boxes, fruit, candy bars—and when the clerk turned her head he sprayed a cloud burst into the nozzles of the soda pop machine.
He has two stops left: an all-you-can-eat buffet on Halsted, and another grocery store on the North Side. Then he’s done.
For today.
Tomorrow he has another eight stores picked out, news permitting. The incubation period is anywhere from a few hours to a few days. There’s a chance people will get sick sometime tonight. Paralysis is terrifying, and once it begins, the infected will rush to the hospital. Diagnosis isn’t easy, but the agent will eventually be discovered. Then the alphabets will be notified—the CDC, WHO, FBI, CPD.
If the panic spreads ahead of schedule, he’ll have to move up with the Plan and do the second round in a different way.
It will be interesting to see how things turn out.
He heads down Lincoln, stopping in a fast-food chain. In the bathroom he detaches the injector from the tube, placing it in his pocket. He washes his hands with soap and holds them under the air drier, which is labeled For Your Sanitary Protection. This prompts a smile. When he’s finished, he removes a moistened alcohol towelette and goes over his hands again.
At the counter, he orders a burger and fries, and eats while surreptitiously watching the kids frolic in the indoor playland.
Children’s parks are a cesspool of germs. All that openmouthed coughing and sneezing, all those sticky fingers wiping noses and then touching the slides, the ladders, the bin of a thousand plastic balls, each other. It’s practically a hot zone.
When he finishes eating, he returns to the bathroom, attaches the jet injector to the tube running up his sleeve, and lig
htly shakes the cylinder strapped to his waist under his shirt.
There’s plenty left.
He arms the injector using the key to torque back the spring, and walks out of the washroom over to the cubby where a dozen pairs of brightly colored kids’ shoes lie in wait. Getting down on one knee, he pretends he’s tying a lace.
Instead, he injects the rubber soles of five different shoes.
A small child pokes him from behind.
“That’s my shoe.”
He smiles at the boy. “I know. It fell on the floor. Here you go.”
The child takes the shoe, switches it to his other hand, and wipes his nose with his palm.
“Thanks,” says the boy.
The man stands up, winks, and heads north on Lincoln to catch the bus to the all-you-can-eat buffet.
Chapter 1
Three Days Later
IS THAT A REAL GUN?” The little girl probably wasn’t much older than five, but I’m not good with children’s ages. She pointed at my shoulder holster, visible as I leaned into my shopping cart to hand a bag of apples to the cashier.
“Yes, it is. I’m a cop.”
“You’re a girl.”
“I am. So are you.”
The child frowned. “I know that.”
I looked around for her mother, but didn’t see anyone nearby who fit the profile.
“Where’s Mommy?” I asked her.
She gave me a very serious face. “Over by the coffee.”
“Let’s go find her.”
I told the teenaged cashier I’d be a moment. He shrugged. The little girl held out her hand. I took it, surprised by how small it felt. When was the last time I’d held a child’s hand?
“Did you ever shoot anyone?” she asked.
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