by Jack Kilborn
“Perhaps we can.”
Donaldson’s smile suddenly slipped off his face. He’d noticed the same thing Taylor had.
A cop had walked into the restaurant.
Woman, forties, well built, a gold star clipped to her hip. But even without the badge, she had that swagger, had that look, that Taylor had spent a lifetime learning to spot.
“Here comes trouble,” Donaldson said.
And, as luck would have it, trouble sat down right next to them.
4
After filling my gas tank and emptying my bladder, I went in search of food.
The diner was surprisingly full this late at night. Truckers mostly. And though I hadn’t worked Vice in well over a decade, I was pretty sure the only women in the place were earning their living illegally.
Not that I judged, or even cared. One of the reasons I switched from Vice to Homicide was because I had no problems with what consenting adults did to themselves or each other. I’d done a few drugs in my day, and as a woman I felt I should be able to do whatever I wanted with my body. So the scene in the diner was nothing more to me than local color. I just wanted some coffee and a hot meal, which I believed would wake me up enough to get me through the rest of my road trip and into the very patient arms of my fiancée.
I expected at least one or two catcalls or wolf whistles when I entered, but didn’t hear any. Sort of disappointing. I was wearing what I wore to court, a brown Ann Klein pantsuit, clingy in all the right places, and a pair of three inch Kate Spade strappy sandals. The shoes were perhaps a bit frivolous, but the jury couldn’t see my feet when I took the stand. I left for Wisconsin directly from court, and wore the shoes because Latham loved them. I had even painted my toenails to celebrate our vacation.
Maybe the current diners were too preoccupied with the hired help to know another woman had entered the place. Or maybe it was me. Latham said I gave off a “cop vibe” that people could sense, but he assured me I was still sexy. Still, a Wisconsin truck stop at two in the morning filled with lonely, single men, and I didn’t even get a lecherous glance. Maybe I needed to work-out more.
Then I realized I still had my badge clipped to my belt. Duh.
I quickly scoped out the joint, finding the emergency exit, counting the number of patrons and employees, identifying potential trouble. An absurdly dressed man in expensive boots and a diamond studded John Deere cap stared hard at me. He gave me a look that said he hated cops, and I gave him a look that said I hated his kind even more. While I tolerated prostitutes, I loathed pimps. Someone taking the money you earned just because they were bigger than you wasn’t fair.
But I didn’t come here to start trouble. I just wanted some food and caffeine.
I walked the room slowly, feeling the cold stares, and found counter space next to a portly man. I eased myself onto the stool.
“Coffee, officer?”
I nodded at the waitress. She overturned my mug and filled it up. I glanced at the menu, wondering if they had cheese curds—those little fried nuggets of cheddar exclusive to Wisconsin.
“The meatloaf is good.”
I glanced at the man on my left. Big and tall, maybe fifteen years older than I was. He had a kind-looking face, but his smile appeared forced.
“Thanks,” I replied.
I sipped some coffee. Nice and strong. If I got two cups and a burger in me, I’d be good to go. The waitress returned, I ordered a cheeseburger with bacon, and a side of cheese curds.
“Never seen you here before.”
The voice, reeking of alpha male, came from behind me. I could guess who it belonged to.
“Passing through,” I said, not bothering to turn around.
“Well, maybe you can hurry it along, little lady. Your kind isn’t good for business.”
I carefully set down my mug of coffee, then slowly swiveled around on my stool.
The pimp was sticking his chest out like he was being fitted for a bra, a few stray curly hairs peeking through his collar. One of his women, strung out on something, clung unenthusiastically to his side. Her concealer didn’t quite cover up her black eye.
“I’m off duty, and just stopped in for coffee and some cheese curds, which I can’t get in Illinois. I suggest you mind your own business. This isn’t my jurisdiction, but I’m guessing the local authorities wouldn’t mind if I fed you some of your teeth.”
The older fat guy next to me snorted. The pimp wasn’t so amused.
“The local authorities,” he said it in a falsetto, obviously trying to mimic me, “and I have an arrangement. That arrangement means no cops.” He gave me a rough shove in the shoulder. “And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if I fed you—”
I drove the salt shaker into his upper jaw with my palm, breaking both the glass and the teeth I’d promised. Besides being hard and having weight, the shards and the salt did a number on the pimp’s gums. Must have hurt like crazy.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his face and howling, and three of his women dragged him out of there. I did a slow pan across the room, looking for other challengers, seeing none. Then I brushed my hand on my pants, wiping off the excess salt, and went back to my coffee, trying to control the adrenalin shakes. I hated violence of any kind, but once he touched me, I didn’t have any other recourse. I didn’t want to play footsie with the local cops he was paying off, trying to get an assault charge to stick. Or worse, wind up in the hospital because some asshole pimp thought he could treat me the same way he treated the women who worked for him.
Better to nip it in the bud and drop him fast. Though I didn’t have to feel good about it.
I took a deep, steadying breath, and managed to sip some coffee without spilling it all over myself, all the while keeping one eye on the entrance. I’d hurt the pimp bad enough to require an emergency room visit, but if he were tougher and dumber than I’d guessed, he might return with a weapon. I set my purse on the counter, my .38 within easy reach, just in case.
“You’re Lieutenant Jack Daniels, aren’t you?”
I glanced at the fat man again. Even though I’d been on the news many times, I didn’t get recognized very often in Chicago, and it never happened away from home.
“And you are?” My voice came out higher than I would have liked.
“Just a fan. You got that serial killer Charles Kork, the one they called the Gingerbread Man. How many women did he kill?”
“Too many.” I turned back to my coffee.
“I saw the TV movie. The one that became the series. You’re much better looking than the actress who played you.”
I was in no mood to be idolized. Plus, there was something creepy about this guy.
“Look, buddy, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m really not up for conversation right now.”
The fat man didn’t take the hint. “And you got Barry Fuller. He killed over a dozen, didn’t he? He was both a serial killer and a mass murderer, due to all those Feds he took out at that rest stop.”
I sighed. The waitress came by with my cheese curds. She set down the basket and winked at me. “These are on me.”
“Thanks. I could use some salt.”
I tried a curd. Too hot, so I spit it back out into my palm and played hot potato until it cooled off. My biggest fan refused to give up.
“There were others in the Kork family as well, weren’t there? A whole group of psychos. I heard they killed over forty people, total.”
I really didn’t want to think about the Kork family, and I really didn’t want to have a late-night gabfest with a cop groupie.
But, on the plus side, knocking out that pimp’s teeth really woke me up.
When the waitress brought me the salt, I asked for my meal to go. The fat guy apparently didn’t like that, because he gave me his back and had an intense whisper exchange with his buddy; a younger, attractive man in a flannel shirt. The young guy nodded, got up, and left.
“Just one last question, Lieutenant, and then I promise I’ll leave y
ou alone.”
I sighed again, glancing at him. “Go ahead.”
“Did you ever try to take on two serial killers at once?”
I popped a curd in my mouth. “Can’t say that I have.”
He smiled, lopsided. “Too bad. That would have been cool.”
The fat guy threw down some money, then followed his buddy out.
No longer pestered, I decided to eat there, and settled in to eat my cheese curds.
5
Taylor hadn’t ever killed a cop. He came close once, a few years ago, when a state trooper pulled him over, and asked him to step out of his truck. Taylor had been ready to pull his knife and gut the pig, but the cop only wanted him to do a field sobriety test. Taylor wouldn’t ever risk driving drunk, and he easily passed, getting let off with a warning and pulling away with a dead hooker in his sleeping compartment.
But he was itching to get at this cop. Taylor liked strong women. He liked when they fought him, refusing to give up. They were so much fun to break. Especially when they had such adorable feet.
As Donaldson suggested, Taylor had left the diner and gone back to his rig to grab the ether. Candi with an i was still out cold, but she held far less fascination for Taylor than this new prospect.
I’m going to have a little nip of Jack Daniels, he thought, smiling wildly. Maybe more than one. And maybe not so little.
For helping out, he’d let Donaldson have Candi. While Taylor wasn’t into the whole voyeur scene, it might be interesting to watch another pro do his thing. Hopefully, it didn’t involve any sort of sex, because he had zero desire to see Donaldson’s flabby, naked ass.
Taylor grabbed the plastic bag—the ether-soaked paper towels still moist—and met Donaldson in the parking lot.
“The best spot is here, in the shadow of this truck,” Donaldson said.
Taylor didn’t like him calling the shots, but he heard the man out.
“She thinks I’m a fan,” Donaldson continued, “so I’m going to call her over here, ask for an autograph. Then you come up behind her with the ether.”
“She’s armed. Her purse was too heavy to only be carrying a wallet and make-up.”
“I saw that, too. I’ll grab her wrists, you get her around the neck. We can pull her to the ground here, out of sight. How close is your truck?”
“The red Peterbilt, a few spaces back.”
“When she’s out, we throw her arms around our shoulders, walk her over there like she’s drunk.”
Taylor shook his head. “Only when we’re sure no one is watching. I don’t want a witness getting my plate number.”
“Fine. We can walk her around until we’re sure we’re clear.”
Taylor stared at Donaldson for a moment, then said, “She’s mine.”
Donaldson didn’t respond.
“I’ll give you the whore for helping me, Donaldson. But the cop is mine.”
Donaldson eventually nodded. “Fair enough. Is the whore cute?”
“Too old, fat thighs, saggy gut from popping out kids.”
Donaldson raised his eyebrow. “She’s got kids?”
Taylor laughed. “You into kiddies, Donaldson?”
“Any port in the storm. But you can have fun with kids in other ways. Did the whore have a cell phone?”
“Yeah.”
“Give it here.”
Interested in where Donaldson was going with this, Taylor dug the phone out of his pocket and handed it over. Donaldson scrolled through the address book.
“Calling home,” Donaldson told him.
“Can’t calls be traced?”
“They can be traced to this cell phone, but not to our current location. To do that requires some highly sophisticated equipment—which I highly doubt the local constabulary possesses.”
“Put it on speaker.”
Donaldson hit a button, and Taylor heard ringing.
“Hello?” A child’s voice, preteen.
“This is Detective Donaldson. I’m sorry to inform you that your mommy is dead.”
“What?”
“Mommy is dead, kid. She was horribly murdered.”
“Mommy’s dead?” The child began to cry.
“It’s an occupational hazard. Your mom was a whore, you know. She had sex with strange men for money. One of those men killed her.”
“Mommy’s dead!”
Donaldson hit the disconnect button.
Taylor shook his head, smiling. “Man, that is low.”
“I’ll call him back later, see how he’s doing. This phone has a camera, too. Maybe I’ll send him some pictures of Mommy when I’m done with her.”
“What about the babysitter sending the cops here?”
“You think the babysitter knows what Mom’s job is? And even if she calls the cops, Murray’s pays them to stay away. Besides, we’ll be in your truck by then.”
Taylor thought it was reckless. But still, calling up a kid and saying his mother was dead was pretty good. Taylor considered all of the cell phones he’d thrown away, and cursed himself for the fun he’d missed.
Donaldson dug into his pocket and produced a pair of small binoculars. He held them to his face and looked at the diner.
“The cop is still working on her burger. She is a sweet piece of pie, isn’t she? Jack fucking Daniels. What a lucky day indeed. It’s a small world, my friend.”
“Not when you’re driving from L.A. to Boston.”
“Funny you should mention that. One of the reasons I’m a courier is to have a wide area to hunt in. I’m assuming you got into trucking for the same reason.”
“The wider the better. You shouldn’t shit where you eat.”
“I agree. I don’t think I’m even on the Fed’s radar. And cops don’t talk to each other from state to state. A man could keep on doing this for a very long time, if he plays it smart.”
“So, what’s your thing?” Taylor asked.
Donaldson lowered the binocs. “My thing?”
“What you do to them.”
Donaldson did the eyebrow raise again, which was starting to get annoying. “Have we reached that point in our relationship where we can share our methods? You haven’t even told me your name.”
“It’s Taylor. And I want to know, before I invite you into my truck, that you aren’t into some sick shit.”
“Define sick.”
“Guts are okay, but don’t puncture the intestines. That smell takes forever to go away.”
“I’m not into internal organs.”
“How about rape?”
Donaldson smiled. “I am into rape.”
“I don’t want to see it. No offense, but naked guys are not a turn-on for me.”
“That’s fair enough. We can take turns, give each other some privacy. My thing, as you put it, is to cut off their faces. One little piece at a time. A nostril. An ear. An eye. A lip. And then I feed their faces to them, bit by bit.
Taylor could see the appeal in that.
“How about you, Taylor?”
“Biting. Toes and fingers, to start. Then all over.”
“How long have you kept one alive for?”
“Maybe two days.”
Donaldson nodded. “See, that’s nice. I do all my work outdoors, different locations, so I never have time to make it last, savor it. You’ve got a little murder-mobile, you can take your time.”
“That’s the reason I’m a trucker, not a courier.”
Donaldson got a wistful look. “I’m thinking of renting a shack out in the woods. Out in the middle of nowhere. Then I could bring someone there, really drag it out. You remember that old magic trick? The girl in the box, and the magician sticks swords in it?”
Taylor nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’d love to build one of those. Except there’s no trick. Wouldn’t that be fun? Sticking the swords in one at a time?”
Taylor decided it would.
Donaldson peered through the binocs again. “Here she comes. Let’s get in position.”
Taylor nodded. He felt the excitement building up again, but a different kind of excitement. This time, he was sharing the experience with another person. It was oddly fulfilling, in a way his dozens of other murders hadn’t been.
Maybe tag-team was the way to go.
He clenched the ether-soaked paper towels, crouched behind a bumper, and waited for the fun to start.
6
The burger was good. The coffee was good. The cheese curds were heavenly. I had no idea why they weren’t served in Chicago.
I paid, left a decent tip, then tried calling Latham to tell him I felt good enough to keep driving.
Still no signal. I needed to switch carriers, or get a new phone. It especially bugged me because I saw other people in the diner talking on their cell phones. If that Can you hear me now? guy walked into the restaurant, I would have bounced my cell off his head.
The parking lot had decent lighting, but all of the big trucks cast shadows, and I knew more than most the dangers of walking in shadows. I pulled my purse on over my head and tucked it under my arm, then headed for my car while staying in the light. The last thing I needed was the pimp to make a play for me. Or that—
“Lieutenant Daniels!”
—fat guy from the diner, who approached me at a quick pace, coming out from behind one of the rigs. I stopped, my hand slipping inside my purse and seeking my revolver. Something about this man rubbed me the wrong way, and at over two hundred and fifty pounds he was too big to play around with.
He slowed down when I reached into my handbag—a bad sign. People with good intentions don’t expect you to have a gun. I felt my heart rate kick up and my legs tense.
“Don’t come any closer,” I commanded, using my cop voice.
He stopped about ten feet in front of me. His hands were empty. “I wanted to ask you for your autograph.”
My fingers wrapped around the butt of my .38. Confrontation, even with over twenty years of experience, was always a scary thing. Ninety-nine percent of the time, de-escalation was the key to avoiding violence. Take control of the situation, be polite but firm, apologize if needed. It wouldn’t have worked on the pimp, who was showing off for the crowd, but it might work here.
“I’m sorry, I don’t give autographs. I’m not a celebrity.”