Jack Daniels Six Pack

by J. A. Konrath

  Their patrol cars were black with silver accents, and there was one of them at the address when I arrived. It was empty.

  On the drive over, I’d gotten a little sleepy. But this put me into full alert mode, complete with adrenaline sweat and a tug of nausea. They’d gone in without me.

  I dug out my .38 and stared at the apartment building. Three stories, brick, dirty beige. Black wrought iron railing along the walkway, rusty and broken. Security windows on the first floor. Front door open a crack.

  I hung my star around my neck, drew in a big breath, and went through the door.

  Hallway was well lit, the walls freshly painted. I took the stairs two at a time, up to the second floor and 2- C, where the Hothams resided. Their door was also open a few inches. I nudged it with my shoulder, peering into the apartment but keeping my face well away from the crack.

  I heard static, then, “Car seventeen, this is base, please copy.”

  “Police,” I announced. “I’m coming in.”

  I eased the door open, still not daring to breathe the air coming out of the apartment.

  I saw the legs first. Male, black shoes, sidearm still in his rocker holster.

  “Seventeen this is base, what’s your twenty, over.”

  He lay on his back, bloodshot eyes wide, mouth hanging open and coated in froth and mucus. I didn’t see any movement, but I knew I needed to check for a pulse to be sure.

  The problem was, I didn’t want to go into that apartment.

  I parted my lips, still not breathing, but trying to taste the air, to see if it was safe. I didn’t taste anything.

  “Is anyone inside this apartment?” I said loudly.

  No answer.

  My options were to call for backup, or go inside and look for possible survivors. If this was the Chemist’s apartment, it could be booby-trapped.

  “Car seventeen, this is base, please respond. You there, Smitty?”

  I let in a tiny bit of air. It seemed fine. No strange smell. No physical reaction, other than a strange sense of déjà vu that I’d been in this same situation before, which wasn’t déjà vu at all.

  But this time, I didn’t have a space suit.

  I went in, crouched next to the fallen cop, probing his carotid. Nothing. So I reached for the radio clipped to his chest.

  “This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago PD. We have an officer down at 1730 East Thirty-first, apartment 2-C. Request immediate assistance.”

  The radio crackled a response, but I wasn’t paying attention; my eyes focused on the two people sitting on the couch.

  A man and a woman. Early sixties. She had brown hair, cut short, with gray highlights. He was mostly bald. Both wore glasses. Both stared straight at me.

  Both were dead.

  It took a moment to realize that. After the adrenaline startle, I stood erect and took a few steps toward them. Their eyes were dry, lifeless. Their faces devoid of color. They held hands, and I noticed the lividity blush to their fingers, where the blood had pooled.

  What killed these people?

  My paranoia kicked up to near panic, and I looked up, down, left and right, in every direction I could, for traps, for gas, for IEDs, for poison, for anything dangerous or out of place.

  Cobwebs on the ceiling. A clean carpet. An easy chair. Two floor lamps, glowing. A window air conditioner. A large floor-model humidifier, silent. Photos on the walls, of the old people. It was their house.

  “Is anyone in here?” I shouted.

  No response.

  I walked past the fallen officer, through the living room, nice and easy, aware of my center, my footing, my balance, eyes sweeping the floor for wires and fishing line.

  Another cop was in the kitchen, facedown on the tile floor, a pool of vomit surrounding his head like a green halo. Gun clenched in his fist. No signs of any injury, just like his partner.

  Had they surprised the Chemist, and he dosed them all and then ran out?

  Or had they run into some of his improvised traps?

  Or was the Chemist still inside, waiting with his jet injector?

  The phone rang, and my finger flinched. I was a millimeter away from shooting the dead cop before I caught myself and eased back on the trigger.

  It rang again. I stared at the phone, one of those older desktop models the phone company once called “Princess,” on the kitchen counter between a coffee machine and a tabletop humidifier—apparently the Hothams preferred a humid household.

  I moved in closer, searching for trip wires or switches attached to the phone. It seemed untampered with. On the third ring, I picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Who is this?” A male voice, whispering.

  “Lieutenant Daniels, of the Chicago Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”

  A pause. I could hear him breathing. Slow and even, like a metronome.

  “You know who this is, Lieutenant. Did they assign you a new partner yet?”

  Anger overrode anxiety. “Why are you doing this?”

  “You’re the cop. You figure it out.”

  I clenched the phone so tight, my knuckles turned white.

  “You’re killing innocent people.”

  “No one is fully innocent,” he rasped. “Especially not the police.”

  “How about these people in this apartment? What did they do to you?”

  “Unfortunate, but I needed the car. I believe the government would call them casualties of war, or collateral damage.”

  “We’re not at war.”

  “I am.”

  I waited. An old police trick. Give a suspect silence, and he’ll fill the silence with talk.

  “Are you wondering if I’m a terrorist?” the Chemist finally said. “I’m not. I’m not out to cause terror. I’m out to cause pain. An eye for an eye. And I might as well make a little money along the way. Have you decided to pay me?”

  “Yes. The ad will run tomorrow. If we pay you, you’ll stop this?”

  He chuckled.

  “You’re very attractive. Not like that younger woman, the blonde. She had a better body, but she didn’t have that look that you have. The haunted look. You’ve seen things, I bet. Done things. Any sins to confess, Lieutenant?”

  I knew I could get the phone records, trace this number, but he probably knew that as well. Why did he call? To ask about the money? To see if there were survivors?

  “If you come in voluntarily, we can work out a deal. I know the assistant state’s attorney. We could waive the death penalty.”

  “Lieutenant Daniels.” He was speaking normally now, no longer whispering. “I am the death penalty.”

  I had talked to my share of psychos, but this one was really freaking me out.

  “Why did you call here?”

  “For two reasons. First, to get your phone number. You’re the person I want to deal with from now on. What’s your cell?”

  I didn’t like that much, but I gave it to him.

  “What’s the other reason?”

  Another chuckle. “It’s awfully dry in there, don’t you think?”

  I glanced at the tabletop humidifier, noticed that the green light was blinking.

  “Perhaps you should leave, Lieutenant. A dry environment isn’t very healthy.”

  I dropped the phone and backed away, stumbling over the corpse, almost losing my footing, forcing my throat closed in mid-gasp. Back in the living room, I heard the faint humming of the floor-model humidifier next to the sofa. It had been off before, but those things had sensors and timers and started automatically. Now it was running full tilt, billowing lethal steam throughout the room.

  I clamped a hand over my mouth and sprinted, still not breathing, and ran out into the hallway into a band of Cicero cops storming up the stairs.

  Four men trained their weapons on me. I exhaled, raising up my hands, saying, “I’m police.”

  And then my stomach twisted, and my vision got wiggly, and I grabbed on to the railing and thought Oh my God no
just as the vomit escaped my lips.

  Chapter 20

  AN OVERLY HAIRY MEDIC named Holmes stuck an electronic thermometer in my ear as I sat in the rear of his ambulance, breathing into a plastic bag.

  “Ninety-nine point one,” he declared.

  The plethora of unpronounceable poisons, toxins, and diseases I’d been exposed to in the last few days raced like a stampede through my mind.

  “So I’m sick?” I asked, my voice small.

  “BP is normal. Reflexes are normal. Headache or stomachache?”

  “Both.”

  “Open wide.”

  I opened, self-conscious about my breath after throwing up.

  “Throat looks fine.” He shined a penlight in my eyes. “Pupil response normal.”

  “So what have I got?”

  “Nothing, as far as I can tell.”

  The CPD Mobile Command Post drove up, and six SRT cops got out, all wearing full space suits.

  “I threw up,” I told the medic. “Should we go get a sample?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. To test.”

  Holmes gave me a patronizing look.

  “You aren’t the first cop to throw up at a crime scene. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “That’s not why I threw up. I’ve seen corpses before.”

  “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s probably what did it.”

  “But you said I have a fever.”

  “A slight fever. Could be due to stress, or overheating.”

  “And my headache?”

  “Stress.”

  He packed up his kit.

  “If I drop dead, you’re going to feel really stupid,” I said.

  He winked at me. “I’ll risk it.”

  A Cicero cop came over, Cooper on his name badge. The sergeant I’d spoken with on the phone. Short, dark, and brooding.

  “What a giant clusterfuck. Those were good guys.”

  He didn’t seem to know what else to say. I didn’t have much either.

  “You want my statement?” I eventually asked.

  “Yeah.”

  We spent half an hour going over it, backward and forward and backward again. Cooper got on the horn with the phone company and a few minutes later found out that the Chemist had called from the Hothams’ own cell phone, which he’d apparently taken with him after their murder. Cooper tried pinging the number—a system that the 911 Emergency Center uses to triangulate cell phone locations to within twenty-five meters—but the Chemist had probably destroyed the phone after calling the apartment.

  With my statement in the can, I asked if I could poke around the apartment. Whe. Cooper said no, the relief I felt was a physical thing.

  “We’ll keep you in the loop, get you the reports, but you going up there now isn’t going to happen.”

  From the hard looks of the Cicero cops who walked past, I understood Cooper’s reasoning. If I hadn’t called earlier, two men would still be alive.

  I drove home. Even though Cicero was closer to Bensenville, it still took an hour.

  A call to the nurse’s station told me Latham had awoken briefly, but was now sleeping again. I asked them to call me if there was any change. Then I fished my notebook out of my purse, and found the number of Wilbur Martin Streng that Dispatch had given to me earlier. He lived in Elmwood Park. No priors, other than some minor traffic violations.

  My dad.

  I stared at the number, wondering how I should feel. I didn’t remember much about my father. All I had were impressions of him. The old leather slippers he always wore around the house. The dark-framed Clark Kent glasses. The smell of Old Spice and cigars.

  One memory stood out, so clear that I had no idea if it was a real memory or a fabrication. We were in Grant Park for some kind of summer festival, and I was on his shoulders, and there was an ice cream vendor on the street. Dad bought me an ice cream, and I dropped it. So we went back to the vendor, and he bought me another one. I accidentally dropped that one too. He didn’t get mad. No lecture. No yelling. Not a single word. We just went back to the ice cream man, and Dad bought me a third.

  This was the man who left me and Mom. The man who destroyed our family.

  I wanted to drum up some hate, but couldn’t seem to find it. All I had was curiosity. I wanted to hear, in his words, why he left. Why he never tried to get in touch. How he could completely absolve responsibility for the lives of two people he was supposed to have loved.

  I put the number away. Now wasn’t the time.

  I came home to a package outside my door. Shoes I’d ordered from some TV shopping club. Normally that would perk me up. This time, it was a chore to even pick them up.

  Upon opening my door, I was greeted by the pleasant surprise of a living room coated in kitty litter. This was impressive, considering the cat box was in the kitchen. Mr. Friskers had also asserted his dominance over the sofa, having shredded one of the armrests.

  He missed my mother, I guessed.

  I’d once gone so far as to battle Mr. Friskers into his cat carrier, in preparation to get him declawed, and if possible, detoothed. Mom, in her mother tone, reminded me that the cat had saved both of our lives, and removing his claws would be like taking away Wyatt Earp’s Colt Peacemaker.

  I told her, “Wyatt Earp didn’t terrorize the West, maiming innocents and destroying property.”

  “Let the kitty out of the carrier, dear, and help yourself to my Valium.”

  The cat was the one who needed the Valium. But Mom won, and the weapons of mass destruction weren’t removed. Mr. Friskers celebrated his victory by tearing apart a section of carpeting in my bedroom.

  He never seemed to destroy any of Mom’s things.

  I went into the kitchen, litter crunching underfoot, and saw Mr. Friskers on the countertop, playing with something small and dark.

  That poor mariachi’s mustache.

  “You’re the Antichrist,” I told him.

  He ignored me.

  I checked his food dish, saw that it was filled with kitty litter (how did he do that?), and rinsed it out. I dumped in some dry food, refreshed his water, and plodded into the bedroom.

  As I undressed, I thought about Latham and got pretty choked up. Not only because he was sick, but because I should have said yes when he proposed. I looked at my left hand and felt an itch where the ring should be.

  Where was the ring?

  Latham had appropriated a few drawers in my dresser, and I opened up the top one. The ring box was resting on top of his jeans. I took it out and opened it up.

  It was gorgeous. Bigger than I remembered. And I wanted it so badly.

  I considered putting it on, so he could see it when I visited him. But I wanted him to put it on me. I wanted the mariachi players again, and the kneeling, and the sweet speech, but this time I’d say yes, and no one would lose any facial hair, and then we’d have a romantic dinner and wild sex and I’d soon be Jacqueline Conger. Jacqueline Conger-Daniels. Jacqueline Daniels-Conger.

  Well, we’d figure out the name stuff later.

  I closed the box and put it back in the drawer.

  A hot shower burned away some of the stress, but not much. I threw on one o. Latham’s undershirts, rubbed some Oil of Olay into my wrinkles, and plopped into bed as exhausted as I’d ever been.

  Sleep refused to come.

  After twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I flipped on the Home Shopping Network. I had their 800 number on speed dial, my customer number committed to memory, and I bought a portable steamer, a hair-coloring system guaranteed to get out the gray in five easy minutes, and an assortment of fake eyelashes because I’d never owned fake eyelashes and because they looked like fun and because I was seriously overtired.

  “Would you like to put this on your Visa, Ms. Daniels?”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  Some people had cocaine. I had HSN. It was still up in the ai
r as to which was the more expensive addiction.

  The phone rang, and I wondered if it was Stacey from HSN, telling me their computer burst into flames when they tried to authorize my credit card.

  But it wasn’t HSN. It was the hospital.

  “Are you the next of kin for Latham Conger?”

  I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. I managed to say, “Yes.”

  “You’d better get here are soon as possible.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “His condition has deteriorated. He may not last the night.”

  I glanced at the drawer, the one with the engagement ring in it. Then I threw on some clothes and headed for the hospital.

  Chapter 21

  HIS GREEN SWEATPANTS have holes in the knees, and have been rubbed with grease and grime from his gas grill. He wears a blue hoodie, equally stained, and over that a black rain slicker. His shoes are an old pair of white Nikes that have been scribbled on with black permanent marker. Grease also coats his forehead and both cheeks. The glued-on goatee has bits of crackers in it.

  Taped to the insides of his jacket are eight large-sized ziplock bags. They’re full, and when he cinches his jacket closed, he can feel their contents wiggling.

  He carries a stuffed backpack, also dirtied up. If he puts his ear to it, he hears a soft rustling sound.

  He checks the mirror, rubs more grease onto his face and over the backs of his hands, and then pulls on a wool cap, covering his hair.

  Then he walks to the corner and waits for the bus.

  Even at three in the morning, it’s unbearably hot. It’s only June, but Chicago already has that oily humidity so common during summer nights; part garbage smell, part sewage smell, with just a hint of Lak. Michigan. It’s bright out—traffic, shops, streetlights—and the bus stop is especially well lit. To discourage criminal behavior, he assumes. He’s not discouraged in the least.

  The movement inside his jacket is creepy, repulsive. He forces himself not to fidget, to keep the coat on and relax. When the bus arrives, green and white and almost as dirty as he is, he puts his quarters in the money box and the driver makes a show of not looking at him.

  The bus has a few occupants. A single black man. Some college kids talking loud. A woman who might be a hooker. He sits in an empty seat and places his backpack between his feet. He stares at it, and tries not to think about what he’s got under his coat, tries not to think about what he’s going to do.