Jack Daniels Six Pack
Page 120
“Helluva night, huh?”
I laugh. It feels good. Real good.
“You have no idea,” I say.
1:24 A.M.
KORK
MY NOSE STOPS BLEEDING. I pull out the tissues, wipe away some of the extra blood, and make myself presentable. Then I ditch the Bronco in an alley behind a convenience store, jog six blocks to the ER loading dock, and sit down on a bench and wait.
This is the nearest hospital to Jack’s house, so it makes sense they’ll take the injured here.
The first ambulance arrives, and two paramedics hop out and open up the rear, pulling out someone I recognize all too well.
The .38 is lousy, but I don’t miss at point-blank range. Both emergency technicians drop, either dead or dying. I walk up to the gurney, taking my time, enjoying the moment.
“Thought you got away, huh?” I ask. “Life’s like that sometimes. Just when you think you’re in the clear, something blindsides you.”
I cock the gun and half of my face smiles.
“Any last words?” I ask.
All I get back is a defiant stare.
“Nothing? I was hoping for something witty.”
“She’ll find you.”
“I certainly hope she will. And just to make sure she goes looking…”
I aim for the head, and hit what I aim at.
Some people run out of the ER, wondering what’s happening. Time to go.
I run off into the parking lot, find an old guy looking for his car. We make a quick swap. I get his car keys, and his wallet, which contains eighty bucks and a few credit cards. In return, he gets a chop in the throat that breaks his windpipe, and a final resting place in his own trunk. A much better deal for me than for him, but life isn’t all that fair.
I pull out of the parking lot, considering my next move. It’s too risky to stay in the area. Plus, I have other things to do. While incarcerated, I did a lot of planning. Big planning. Some of it involved Jack. Some of it didn’t.
I need to get started on the stuff that didn’t involve her. But that doesn’t mean I still can’t keep Jack in the loop.
I pass several police cars on the way out of town, but they leave me alone. After driving for a bit I check into a suburban hotel using the dead man’s American Express.
I yawn. It’s been one hell of a day, and I’m exhausted. I strip off my clothes, take a hot shower, and climb into my first real bed in a long time.
The sheets are warm. The pillow is soft.
I fall asleep dreaming of the many deaths to come.
1:38 A.M.
JACK
I OPEN MY EYES when I realize the ambulance has stopped. I look over my shoulder. The paramedics are gone.
I get a feeling—a bad feeling—and reach up to unbuckle my straps. I open the rear of the ambulance and see the parking lot is a tangle of emergency vehicles, most of them cops.
A paramedic comes up alongside me.
“You don’t want to see this.”
I push him off, hurrying toward the nexus of activity near the rear of the hospital.
A cop is setting up some crime scene tape.
Oh…no…
I grab a nearby uniform and yell, “Who is it? Who’s dead?”
He doesn’t answer. Two more cops see me and begin to walk over, but I duck under the tape and see the dead EMTs, and there, on the gurney…
“NO!”
I become another person. Someone without any control left. Someone overcome by emotion. I rush over to the bloody body, punching anyone who tries to stop me, screaming and screaming because I just can’t stop.
Someone jabs me with a needle, and my consciousness floats away, and all I can think is that I failed, I failed, I couldn’t protect everybody, dear God I’m so so sorry…
4:57 P.M.
JACK
I’M MEDICATED. Something strong that makes it hard to stay awake.
People come and go all day. Doctors and nurses. Cops. People I care about.
I have nothing to offer them. Nothing to give.
My hospital room fills up with meaningless flowers. Friends. Police officers from around the country. Strangers who watched the news.
Captain Bains even shows up, offers his condolences. Tells me to take as long as I need to recuperate.
He even offers to help with the funeral arrangements.
I decline.
“We’ll get her,” he tells me. “We’ve got the Staties involved. The Feds. Every cop shop in Illinois and the surrounding states.”
His words don’t reassure me. I know they won’t get her. I know, because Alex has already gotten away.
She’s told me as much.
Before Bains arrived, one of my floral arrangements began to ring. Inside the planter was a cell phone.
I picked it up, and read the text message on the screen.
SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS, JACK.
I’M IN MILWAUKEE.
COME GET ME.
Along with the text was a picture. A shot of Alex, a half smile on her scarred face, standing in front of a restaurant.
I don’t share this information with the captain. Maybe I will later. I’m not sure. It depends on whether or not I’m going to stay a cop.
I look at it now. The phone. My direct link to the person who hurt me worse than anyone has ever hurt me before.
COME GET ME.
“You can bet on it, Alex. You can bet on it.”
Acknowledgments
Big thanks to the following people. You’ve helped me immeasurably, and I won’t soon forget. (Apologies to those folks I forgot.)
William E. Adams, Augie Aleksy, Tasha Alexander,
Feo Amante, Brenda Anderson, Patrick Balester, Sarah Bewley,
Dave Biemann, Irene Black, Michele Bradford, Wendy Brault,
Tisha Britton, Lynn Burton, William Conner, Gail Cooke,
Jim Coursey, Tammy Cravit, Blake Crouch, Josephine Damian,
Terri Dukes, Chris Dupee, Audrey N. Durel, Jane Dystel,
Barry Eisler, W. D. Gagliani, Miriam Goderich,
Norman Goldman, Terri Grimes, Jude Hardin, Joe Hartlaub,
Linda Holman, Kay Hooper, Adam Hurtubise, Eileen Hutton,
Bob Hutton, Steve Jensen, Cynthia Johnson, Jon Jordan,
Ruth Jordan, Richard Katz, Nick Kelly, Maria Konrath,
Talon Konrath, Chris & Mariesa Konrath, Laura Konrath,
Mike Konrath, John Konrath, Amy M. Krueger, Michele Lee,
Meredith Link, Brenda C. Long, Maggie Mason,
Joseph P. Menta Jr., Brenda Messex, Jim Munchel, David Omo,
Henry “Hank” Perez, Paul Pessolano, Barbara Peters,
Jeanine Peterson, Sharon L. Pritchard, Pat Reid,
Heather M. Riley, Terry Robertson, J. Greg Robison,
James Rollins, Marcus Sakey, Judith Saul, Terri Schlichenmeyer,
Rob Siders, Wendy K. Smith, Shaun A. Sohacki, Greg Swanson,
Linda Tonnesen, Leslie Wells, Matt Wilhite, Lloyd Woodall.
And special thanks to the many booksellers, librarians, interviewers, bloggers, reviewers, and booksellers (they deserve to be thanked twice) who have embraced my series. I owe every one of you a drink.
About the Author
J.A. Konrath is the author of four previous Jack Daniels mysteries, and lives in the suburbs of Chicago.
OTHER WORKS BY J.A. KONRATH
Whiskey Sour
Bloody Mary
Rusty Nail
Dirty Martini
Copyright
FUZZY NAVEL. Copyright (c) 2008 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.
Microsoft Reader MAY 2008 ISBN 9781401395391
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cherry Bomb
A Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels Mystery
Cherry Bomb
J. A. Konrath
This book is dedicated to my wife,
my one true love,
and my very best friend.
Happily, they’re all the same person.
You’re magic, Maria.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
Front Matter
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
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
Acknowledgments
Also by
Copyright
CHERRY BOMB
1 oz. vodka
1½ oz. white crème de cacao
¾ oz. grenadine
1 maraschino cherry
Shake vodka, crème de cacao,
and grenadine with ice.
Pour into a rocks glass.
Garnish with cherry.
CHAPTER 1
AT MY FIANCÉ’S FUNERAL I got a phone call from the woman who killed him.
“I checked the Weather Channel.” Her tone was conversational, cheery. “It’s raining in Chicago. That’s appropriate, don’t you think? Funerals on sunny days seem so wrong.”
The pastor hit the switch, and the mechanical winch lowered Latham’s casket into the ground on black canvas straps. Slow, like it was sinking into a swamp. The rain beaded up on the lacquered oak lid and I had an irrational urge to find a towel, wipe it dry. Latham didn’t deserve to spend eternity wet.
“I’m coming after you,” I whispered into the phone.
“That’s what he said. Before I shot him. He said you’d come after me. Latham had faith in you until the very end, Jack. Like a puppy dog. Poor guy. Murdered, just for loving the wrong woman.”
My partner, Sergeant Herb Benedict, had been staring at me since the phone rang. Herb’s black suit was purchased back when he weighed less, the tightness making his large stomach seem even larger. His free hand—the one that wasn’t holding the crutch—reached up and touched my shoulder.
Alex? he mouthed.
I nodded.
“Is this your grand plan, Alex? Calling me to make me feel guilty?”
“I don’t need to make you feel guilty, Jack. You’re already guilty. Latham was a good man. I would have preferred shooting you in the head, but our game isn’t over yet. Later today I’m sending you a picture over the phone. Twelve hours from then, the man in the picture will die. Unless you can find him and save him. I hope, for his sake, you do a better job than you did with your fiancé.”
I gripped the cell phone so hard my hand was shaking. Latham’s casket dropped below ground level, and the tears on my face mingled with the rain. I managed to keep my voice even.
“And what if I don’t want to play your game?”
“The man I’m going to kill has a wife and kids. Leading the kind of life that you might have led, if you weren’t burying your future. If you don’t make an effort to save him, the next picture I send you will be of a playground filled with children. How much more guilt can you handle before you crumble and blow away?”
I wiped my cheeks, then turned away from the grave. Latham’s family stared hard at me. No pity in their eyes. Only disdain.
“Don’t cry. And if I may be blunt, don’t you think that skirt you’re wearing is a little short? Not very appropriate, unless you’re cruising the funeral for a rebound fuck.”
I glanced down at my knee-length dress, then did a quick 360.
“Careful, Jack. You’re spinning so fast you may knock your fat partner off his crutch.”
I covered the phone and faced Herb. “She’s here.”
Herb hit his lapel mike, turning on his radio and calling for a perimeter sweep. There were more than fifty cops at the funeral. As they scattered I dug my. 38 Colt out of my Gucci handbag and walked away from the grave site, scanning tombstones and monuments, heels sinking into the wet sod, worming my way through Latham’s family while they shamed me with hateful glares.
“You brought a gun to a funeral, Jack?” Alex asked. “Were you expecting me to show up?”
“I was hoping.”
The October wind kicked up, blowing dead leaves and cold air across my scalp, making my stitches sting. Twenty-plus years of on the job training made me keep low, a smaller target. Not that it mattered. Alex was a crack shot.
“Turn left,” Alex said, “another few yards, next to the mausoleum. There’s an angel watching over you.”
I followed instructions, feeling like I had a bull’s-eye on my forehead, and not minding much. I ran my eyes along the slanting granite roof of the stone structure, and noticed the statue of a cherub perched on top. Something was duct-taped to his hand. I moved in closer, gun arm extended, and saw it was a camera phone.
“Twelve hours, Jack. Then he dies. And keep your cell on. Never know when I might call with a hint. Don’t fail him like you failed Latham.”
Alex hung up. My legs decided they didn’t want to support me anymore, and I fell to my knees, my gun hand dropping to my side, cursing the day I became a police officer.
CHAPTER 2
MILES AWAY, Alexandra Kork sits in a coffee store chain, sipping a tall black dark roast. Alex doesn’t care for coffee, but the free WiFi access makes her Internet trail harder to trace. She moves a finger along her laptop touch-pad, and the camera zooms in on Lieutenant Jacqueline Daniels, kneeling in the mud. The image is in color, with a gorgeous 600 dpi resolution that is unfortunately blurred by the drizzle.
Behind the mesh veil, Alex smiles with half of her face. Like Jack, she wears funeral black, but her heels and her hemline are higher. The outfit is new, a Dolce & Gabbana two-button blazer with a matching skirt. No top underneath, just a push-up bra that reveals a lot of cleavage in the V-neck. The hat is vintage, purchased at a thrift store, wide brimmed and stylish in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way. The netting extends from the brim and curls down to beneath her chin, tickling her neck. For the discreet serial killer, it’s the next best thing to a hockey mask.
Above the scents of coffee and cinnamon, Alex catches a whiff of Lagerfeld. It stings her sore nose. She powers off the computer just as the man approaches her small table. Mid-fifties, balding, sho
rt. His suit is tailored, expensive, but still can’t hide the middle-age spread and the bullfrog chin. The gold wedding band is tight on his sausage finger.
“I noticed you sitting here, and I wanted to offer my condolences,” he says, speaking to her breasts. Men are laughably predictable. If she were topless, she wouldn’t even need the veil to hide her face—no man would bother looking above her collarbone.
“Thank you,” Alex says. “I’d offer you a seat, but I was just leaving.”
Alex stands. She’s two inches taller than he, and his eyes follow her cleavage like laser scopes. He seems momentarily unable to speak, so Alex prompts him.
“This may sound rash, but I’m feeling vulnerable right now, and I could use some company. Would you walk me back to my hotel room?”
Now his eyes meet hers. They widen with possibilities.
“Of course. Let me get my things.”
He hurries over to his table, grabbing his umbrella, reaching for the paper cup of coffee and open copy of the Wall Street Journal and then hesitating. Alex can almost see his thoughts pop up over his head in cartoon balloons. If he takes the paper and coffee, then he won’t have a hand free to help console the poor widow. He chooses to leave them, then spins fast and bumps into another man who is also staring at Alex. They exchange glances, one gloating, the other envious, and then he slips past and offers Alex his arm.