Jacked Up! (A Lt. Jack Daniels/Leah Ryan Mystery)

by J. A. Konrath

  It was so bizarre, so unexpected, and I was so rattled that I’d just been shot at, that I started to giggle. Probably not the best reaction to what was happening, but an honest one.

  Then Ninja-Guy spun his nunchaku and tried to bash me in the head with them. I shifted, his aluminum sticks barely missing me taking a big, scary chip out of the concrete, and brought up a stiff leg from my reclined position, connecting solidly with his junk.

  My boot bounced off, and I felt the impact through my thick sole. He was wearing some sort of protection under the outfit.

  He swung the nunchucks around, whooping like Bruce Lee, and then raised them again. I put up my arm, figuring a broken arm was better than a broken head, and then heard, “FREEZE!” followed by another gunshot.

  Ninja-Guy froze. My savior, Lt. Daniels, had either fired a warning shot, or needed more practice time on the range because she was zero for two. But she’d adopted a solid stance, and from thirty yards away her aim looked good. And she was aiming at Ninja-Guy.

  Ninja guy looked at me, his eyes narrowing through slits in his black mask. And the asshole actually made a move to pound me into mush.

  Daniels fired three times, in rapid succession.

  Ninja-Guy staggered back, then raised the nunchucks again.

  Daniels fired a sixth time, and Ninja-Guy swung at me. But the shots he’d taken in the chest—I could see all four smoking holes—had slowed him down enough for me to roll away from the blow. He flailed again, slightly nicking my chin, and I crab-walked backward while he whooped and yipped and did more twirling.

  Then, suddenly, someone was helping me up, and I was standing shoulder to shoulder with Lt. Daniels as Ninja-Guy advanced.

  “Shoot him!” I said, perhaps sounding a bit more panicked than I wanted to.

  “He’s wearing a vest,” she said.

  “No shit. Shoot his head.”

  “My speedloader and bullets—”

  I looked at her, knowing her answer. “In your purse, with your badge.”

  “It’s been one of those days.”

  Ninja-Guy advanced.

  “Where’s my knife?”

  “Garage.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Lieutenant, but as a cop you suck.”

  “You’re under arrest!” bellowed, projecting absolute authority. She pointed the gun—which I knew to be empty because a Colt Detective Special only held six rounds—at the ninja’s head.

  Apparently he could count as well, because he kept spinning the sticks and moving forward.

  “Nice,” I said. “Did you learn those moves in your parent’s basement, in front of a mirror?”

  “Go left and low,” the cop said.

  Left? Was she nuts? There was barely enough width to the walkway to stand side-by-side. How was that going to do anything?

  But then she was going right, launching herself at the guy with a raised knee, connecting with his chest—

  —and then bouncing off ineffectively.

  Had I gone left and low, I could have gotten behind the ninja and tripped him. My bad.

  He swung again, and we both leaned away from it. I felt the wind inches from my nose.

  Turning around and running crossed my mind, but it no longer seemed like the right choice. I had a feeling that the ninja was there looking for me, that he was responsible for the dead body in the garage, and my best chance of getting out of this without jail time was helping Lt. Daniels take him down.

  She lunged, dropping to a knee, connecting with his groin. Then she pulled back, wincing and shaking her hand.

  “He’s wearing something,” I said.

  “No shit.”

  The ninja swung, leaning forward to increase his reach, and we both ducked. The cop went for his instep, crushing her heel into his foot, and I gave him a chop to the throat, trying to break his trachea. We both connected, and he yelped in a very un-Bruce Lee way.

  He backed away, swinging wildly to make us keep our distance, and I heard the wail of police sirens getting closer.

  Ninja-Guy must have heard it, too. Because he turned, ran two steps, and then jumped, spreading his legs. His feet touched the walls of both buildings, and he stuck there, almost doing the splits. Then he stretched over, placing his hands on Carey’s brick wall and his feet on the building next to it, and began to walk up both buildings, hand over foot.

  The lieutenant and I watched as he climbed up the wall like a mountaineer in a crevice, get himself onto the roof, and then disappear.

  “We just got our asses kicked by Spider-man,” I said.

  A moment later we were surrounded by uniformed cops.

  JACK DANIELS

  The woman sitting at the interrogation table in front of me looked like a strung out rock star. Late twenties. Black hair a tangle of waves, black lined eyes huge as she looked at me. I could smell the fear in her sweat, but she was doing a good job at appearing calm.

  “Look at the paperwork. I’m a repossession agent. I told you. I was sent to Chicago to repossess the Bentley. The owner has missed several payments. This is just a routine job for me. I did not kill Stanley Carey.” She placed her hands flat on the table in front of her to emphasize her point.

  I knew she hadn’t killed Stanley Carey. First of all, because Stanley Carey wasn’t the cause of the smell in that garage. That came from an unknown woman, wrapped in a plastic bag in the trunk of the Rolls-Royce Leah had supposedly come to repossess.

  “I have someone looking into your paperwork, and your story. Tell me again how you wound up breaking into that garage.”

  “I got into town, rented a car, and visited Stanley Carey’s address. I’ve never been to Chicago before today.” Her voice was low and husky, exhaustion and stress making it crack. “And I didn’t break in anywhere. The door was already open.”

  “I saw you picking the lock.”

  “You were mistaken. Door was unlocked.”

  “You also picked the lock on my handcuffs.”

  “I didn’t. You just didn’t put them on correctly.”

  I knew she’d ditched the lockpicks sometime during all the excitement, and I probably could have ordered a thorough search of the area. Probably tossed them in a garbage can while running away.

  If I couldn’t pin a murder on her, I could certainly book her for B&E, resisting arrest, and assaulting a police officer. Also, I’d have to check my cop rule book, but there had to be some kind of law against wearing so much eye make-up.

  “What’s the password on your laptop?” I asked. We’d found the laptop in her rental car.

  She tilted her head to the side and gave me her best oh, please face, like she couldn’t be fooled that easily.

  “You don’t have a warrant.”

  “You claim to be innocent, but you sure aren’t helping your case.”

  “My laptop has nothing to do with the case. I just don’t want you looking at all of my porn.”

  I slowly circled the table, running a red nail over the surface. The color was actually called Ruby Slippers. It was my favorite fall, winter nail color. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Leah?”

  She shrugged. “I do okay.”

  “I bet you’ve gotten away with quite a bit in your life.” I stood a foot away from her, letting my eyes penetrate her big dark ones. There was sharp intelligence in those eyes, and a dislike of authority that I see all the time in this business.

  She nodded, looking right back at me. “Some.”

  This girl was more than just a car boost. I could sense it. She may not be guilty of murder, but she was guilty of something. “I bet you have. You haven’t done time, but I know a Juvee case when I see one.”

  She glared at me, then sat back, resting one tattooed arm on the table. I could see raised scars beneath the tattoo. Cigarette burn marks. She’d hidden them with the tattoos. I cringed a bit on the inside. “Your file is sealed, though.”

  “I believe that’s the law, isn’t it?”

 
; “What were you in for?”

  “Littering. Jaywalking. Foul fucking language.” Leah Ryan stayed still, except for the hand on the table top balling into a fist.

  “No shit. I bet you were a car boost then, too.”

  She smirked. “Yeah. I was. Found my niche early in life. I’m blessed.”

  We traded tough girl stares.

  “You ripped your Armani.”

  I crossed my arms over the tear. “I know a good tailor.”

  “Nice shoes, too. Being a cop must pay pretty well.”

  “It does. You want to apply to the department? Work with me, I’ll put in a good word.”

  She cracked a grin. “I bet being dressed to the nines makes you feel nice and confident when shaking down lowlifes like me. Maybe I should become a cop. Bet assholes who don’t make their car payments would gleefully hand me the keys if I were dressed like you.” She looked down at herself. “I’m going for a more shabby chic look.”

  “Is dressing like a slob in this year? I need to check my Cosmo.”

  “Some women don’t dress to impress others.”

  “Mission accomplished. I’m not impressed. Tell me about the woman in the trunk.”

  “What woman?”

  Leah seemed to be confused, then I watched the clouds clear.

  “You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “Who was in the trunk, Lieutenant?”

  “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know who it was. You stopped me before I could get inside. I assumed it was Stanley Carey.”

  “It wasn’t. Unless Stanley had long, red hair. The body was pretty decomposed. Not much flesh left.”

  I opened the folder and let her see a picture of the corpse. Leah looked, and her hard-ass attitude cracked into a wince.

  “It might be a woman named Lauren,” she said, some of the insolence gone from her voice. “I don’t know her last name. She was dating Stanley. He supposedly gave her the car.”

  “How do you know this?”

  She gave me a brief explanation of how she got the info. Supposedly she hadn’t done any repo work in a while, and was now a private investigator in Saratoga. She was probably pretty good, too.

  “Thanks, we’ll check it,” I said, nodding at the one-way mirror and knowing Detectives Mankowski and Lewis were watching and would follow up. “You could have offered that an hour ago.”

  “You could have asked nicer. Am I being charged with anything?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “You don’t like me, do you, Lieutenant?”

  Actually, she was wrong. Leah Ryan had a stick up her ass, but she seemed to have straightened her life out since her juvee days. I knew from countless arrests how rare that was. And it made sense why she ran when she did. I had a feeling she was holding out on me, but wouldn’t share. The smart move would be to let her go and tail her, see what she does.

  The door to the interrogation room opened. My rotund partner, Herb Benedict, moved his considerable bulk around the door and shut it behind him. The stains on his tie looked like relish. But I couldn’t really be sure. I was just happy that it was a newer stain than the one he had on his shirt yesterday, which had looked like mustard. But again, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “Jack?” Leah said. “Your name isn’t Jack Daniels, is it? That’s a joke, right?”

  Herb and I ignored her, and he went on.

  “Talked to two guys, both extremely protective of our girl here. One named Callahan Parker, one named Jackson Quick. Both willing to swear on a stack of bibles she’s never been to Chicago before, both willing to vouch for her character. Also talked to Saratoga PD. They say she’s a pain in the ass, but a straight shooter.”

  Leah looked smug. “Am I free to leave, Jack?”

  “We also got an ID on the body,” Herb continued. “It was Lauren Madsen. AKA Lawrence Madsen.”

  Leah and I said in unison, “Huh?”

  “Larry. Yeah. He’s a hell of a looker. Usually I can tell the boys from the girls, even when the boys are made up to look like girls, and they really, really look like girls. But Larry?” Herb shook his head and dropped a couple of photos of a gorgeous redhead on the table. One a full body shot of Lauren in a short black dress, showcasing a set of lovely, slender legs. She wore the red heels in this shot. “Not a chance. Larry was a babe.”

  I stared at Herb. Leah stared at Herb. Then we stared at each other for a long moment. She seemed genuinely surprised.

  “Where’s Stanley Carey?” I asked her again.

  “You mean that guy running for mayor?”

  I knew that voice. It instantly pissed me off. So did the face that peeked inside the door. My ex-partner. Harry McGlade. “Harry, we’re in the middle of an investigation.”

  “I figured. But I saw your friend here, and had to say hello. I’ve seen you on TV. Leah Ryan. You helped break up that sex trafficking ring in Albany a little while back. Nice.”

  I looked back at Leah. “What sex trafficking ring?”

  “It was nothing. Just something I stumbled on during a repo job,” Leah said, clearly uncomfortable in the spotlight.

  I traded a look with Herb. He nodded and went to check, shouldering past Harry.

  “What’s the hurry, Jumbo?” Harry asked. “Dunkin’ Donuts having a sale?”

  “Why are you here, McGlade?”

  “Personal business with Jackie.”

  “I meant why are you here, on this planet? Don’t you have a gun you can eat?”

  “Don’t you have a whole cow you can eat?” He patted Herb’s belly. “Oh, too late.” Harry looked at Leah. “Herb once walked into a restaurant and asked for two menus because one wasn’t enough.”

  “I see they’re teaching Asshole Class at the local community college,” Herb said. “But I didn’t think they took illiterates.”

  “I’m not illiterate. You just ate all my books.”

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I got sunburned once,” Harry said to Leah. “Herb chased me around all day with a lobster cracker and drawn butter.”

  Herb snarled. “Didn’t you get sunburned because you broke into Brookfield Zoo and spent the whole day raping orangutans?”

  “That was consensual,” Harry said. “That orangutan and I were in love. Also, it wasn’t an orangutan. It was your wife. She really needs to shave her chest. And tell her to stop throwing feces at people.”

  Herb raised a fist and Harry cringed back and yelled, “Stop! I’m not edible!”

  “Boys,” I said. “Enough.”

  Herb lowered his fist. “He’s a waste of carbon, Jack.”

  “Help!” Harry yelled again. “Giant carbon eating monster! He’s heading for downtown!”

  Herb shook his head, then gave Harry a rough shove as he left. I glanced at Leah, who seemed amused by the whole exchange.

  Harry looked her up and down, a lascivious smile on his face. “So, Leah, pleased to meet you. I dig the look. I like a woman who doesn’t feel like she has to dress to impress.”

  “Why are you here, McGlade?”

  Asking Harry to leave didn’t work. He just kept coming back, over and over. Like herpes.

  “Don’t mind Jack. We used to work together. She’s actually in love with me but she doesn’t like showing it.” Harry blew me a kiss. “Don’t worry, Jackie. Time heals all wounds. You’ll get over me some day.”

  “You have ten seconds to tell me why you’re here.”

  “Ten seconds? I only need five.” He winked at Leah.

  “Time’s almost up.”

  “We’re doing a TV movie about the Chemist thing. I need you to sign a waiver that you won’t sue if some liberties are taken with your character.”

  Somehow some braniac in Hollywood had decided Harry McGlade’s life was worth basing a series on, and the resulting show, Fatal Autonomy, had made him rich. A character based on me appeared occasionally, but
she was a pudgy virgin who wet the bed and had a lisp. “Thave yourthelf, Harry!” had been a national catchphrase for a while, and even inspired a line of pear-shaped, talking action figures that wet themselves when you pressed a button. To McGlade’s credit, he did try more than once to give me a share of those profits, but only if I publicly endorsed the doll.

  I was past the stage where McGlade could hurt or embarrass me anymore, so it would be worth it to sign the waiver just to be rid of him. But then I had an idea.

  “Sure, Harry.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I’ll sign it. Come on.”

  I went to leave the interrogation room, but Harry didn’t move.

  “I said I’d sign it, McGlade.”

  “I know. But you’ve never been this easy before. Did you fall, hit your head?”

  “No.”

  “Fall, hit your head, and become a nympho who will sleep with anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Fall, hit your—”

  “I didn’t fall and hit my goddamn head, McGlade. You coming?”

  “Not yet,” he said. “But I have high hopes.”

  He followed me out of the room, and I told him the deal. Harry was happy to agree. Then Herb showed up, confirming what McGlade had said. That punk rock chick had actually broken up a sex trafficking ring.

  When Herb and Harry began calling each other names again, I slipped back into the interrogation room. I went to Leah’s handcuffs to take them off, but saw she’d already uncuffed herself.

  “I guess I should have ordered a body cavity search,” I said.

  “Whatever gets you off, Lieutenant.”

  “I could book you,” I said, playing it to the hilt, “and you would do time. And if you continue to be a smart ass, I just might do that because it’ll please me to do so.”

  To her credit, Leah shut up. That was McGlade’s cue to walk in.

  “I want you on the next plane out of Chicago, Ms. Ryan. If I see you again, I will arrest you.”

  Harry presented me with the contract. “You forgot to date your signature, Jackie. And Ms. Ryan, Jack’s bluffing. See how her eyes squint in the corners like that? It means she’s full of shit. They don’t have anything on you.”