Bloody Mary

by J. A. Konrath

  “Roger, Two-Delta-Seven. Twelve-Homer-Nineteen flanking South on Wabash, over.”

  “Roger, both. Sixteen-Angel-Niner turning east on Grand to intercept, over.”

  My team was unmarked, but a plain white sedan still screamed COP to all who saw it, so I ordered them to hang back. Even if we lost her, a call to the cab company would tell us where she was dropped off.

  “Think she’s headed for Water Tower Place?” Herb asked.

  “Could be. Or State Street. Seems like a woman with expensive tastes. Her shoes are Ferragamos.”

  “You could tell through the binocs?”

  “I’ve had my eye on that same pair for two months. Five hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “Do they come with a trip to Rio?”

  “Don’t pretend to understand fashion, Herb. And I won’t make any comments about this big red penis you’re driving around in.”

  Herb humphed.

  “My Camaro? I bought this solely for comfort.”

  “So did Holly Fuller.”

  Traffic was tight, befitting a weekend on the Magnificent Mile. This was the best-known part of Chicago. The skyscrapers, John Hancock and the AON Center (formerly Amoco, and before that, Standard Oil). Nieman Marcus and Saks. Navy Pier. The Art Institute. Orchestra Hall. Further south, Buckingham Fountain, the Field Museum, Shedd Aquarium, Adler Planetarium.

  The sidewalks were packed — not quite shoulder to shoulder, but personal space was at a premium. The sun beat down on everyone and everything, and I couldn’t use the binoculars because I kept catching glints off of cars and hurting my eyes.

  “She passed Water Tower. Continuing south on Michigan. Ease up, Herb — you’re riding her bumper. There’s a pedal next to the gas that I don’t think you’ve tried yet.”

  Benedict slowed down, let the cab gain several car lengths.

  “Jack . . . what if we have to take him down?”

  I knew how he felt. Cops were fiercely protective of their own. Arresting one, or shooting one, was a hard idea to get your head around. The us-against-them mentality ran deep in the force. Us-against-us was anathema.

  “Then we do our job. We take him down.”

  “I can’t believe it’s Barry. I can’t believe he could do that. I consider him a friend, for chrissakes.”

  I couldn’t believe it either. I tried to replay every meeting I’d ever had with Barry Fuller, tried to recall any signs or hints that he was a serial killer.

  There were none. Fuller had fooled us all.

  “You know as well as I do, Herb. The scariest monsters have the best masks.”

  Benedict made his mouth into a thin, tight line.

  “He’s supposed to be one of the good guys.”

  “Good guys don’t slice up hookers.”

  The taxi hung a right onto Randolph, and then another right onto State. It stopped in front of Marshall Field’s.

  “The passenger has been dropped off at the northwest corner of State and Randolph. All units converge, but remain out of sight until target is spotted, over.”

  Holly Fuller paid the driver and walked into the department store, while Benedict double-parked. I shoved my earpiece in and pinned the lapel mike to my blouse. After informing our backup that Holly was in the building, Herb and I hurried into Field’s.

  The store was packed. An equal mix of men and women, their attire running the gamut from business formal to T-shirts and sandals. Heat waves were good for business, especially if you had decent air-conditioning.

  We spotted Holly stepping onto the escalator, and lagged behind thirty seconds before following. A lighted sign informed us Home Furnishings occupied the fifth floor.

  There was a line for the escalator, and we wedged ourselves on, surrounded by shoppers.

  “Do you see her?”

  “There. Eleven o’clock.”

  I followed his index finger and spotted Holly on the escalator two floors above us. She was easy to spot, which made me aware of how conspicuous Herb and I were. Benedict didn’t exactly blend in.

  “I’ll need you to stay on the third floor, Herb. See if you can spot Fuller coming up. Lay low.”

  Benedict nodded. I spoke into the mike, requesting further backup to converge on all exits at my command.

  Benedict got off the escalator. I pressed onward and upward. On the fifth floor, I searched for Holly and found her examining Oriental rugs. A quick survey of the area failed to reveal Fuller, but the several dozen shoppers milling about made me very uneasy. Too many people, only one me.

  I didn’t like this. Not a bit.

  I could feel my heartbeat kick up a notch. My palms got damp and my mouth got dry. A crowded department store was not a place for a shoot-out.

  I blended into the crowd, pretending to examine loveseats. A saleswoman came up, asked if I needed assistance. I told her no, keeping distance from Holly as she left rugs for window dressings.

  Best-case scenario, I sneak up on Fuller, he surrenders without incident.

  Worst-case — well, take your pick. He’s a homicidal maniac and a trained marksman. He knows everything I’ll do before I do it. Knows he’s surrounded, exits blocked. Knows he has a much better chance to make a stand when there are this many bystanders hanging around.

  “Any sign of the target?”

  I received a round of negatives in my earpiece.

  “The locale is too crowded. We’ll tail him as he leaves, over.”

  That calmed me a bit. We could just hang back, take him down when he’s back on the street, where there were fewer . . .

  “I’ve got him.” Benedict, from the third floor. “Taking the escalator. Dressed in green gym shorts and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. He’s also barefoot, over.”

  “Hold your positions. We will not engage until he’s off site. Repeat, hold your positions. Over.”

  I changed directions, facing the escalator. A minute passed, and I realized I’d been holding my breath. I let it out, slow.

  Fuller rose up out of the floor, seeming much bigger than he looked around the office. His manner was edgy, irritated, and his eyes darted this way and that. I squatted behind a display of bath towels, watched him through a gap in the terry-cloth layers.

  He passed within twenty feet of me, beelining to window dressings.

  “The target’s on the fifth floor. I have him in my sights, over.”

  Holly had her back to him, absorbed in examining a valence. Fuller spotted her, quickened his pace. He reached his hands out before him, huge hands, at neck level.

  I stood up, adrenaline surging. It was too far away to take a shot. I broke into a jog, hand going for my gun, and then skidded on my heels when Fuller put his hands over Holly’s eyes and played guess who.

  She giggled, turned around, and kissed him on tiptoes. Fuller held out his hand, and Holly handed him the Nike bag she’d been carrying. They exchanged a few sentences, another kiss, and then he led her away from window dressings, back to the escalator.

  I spun around, absorbed in the price tag on a bronze floor lamp.

  “Target and his wife are heading for the escalators. Going up. Everyone stand their ground, over.”

  I gave them half a minute’s lead, then followed the pair up a floor. Women’s Evening Wear.

  “They’re on the sixth floor, looking at cocktail dresses. He’s picking one up off the rack, handing it to her. She’s shaking her head. He’s laughing. Now they’re walking over to the dressing rooms. They just went in.”

  I examined my options. Keep my distance and wait for them to come out, or move in closer to make sure he isn’t adding to his body count.

  They seemed fine. No animosity. Smiling and kissing.

  I decided to hang back. It was just a husband and wife, out shopping. Even as crazy as Fuller seemed, he probably wasn’t going to kill his wife in the middle of a busy department store.

  Right?

  CHAPTER 20

  He’s ready to kill the bitch. The excitemen
t of it makes him giddy, light-headed. As soon as she opens that door, shows off that pretty little Dolce & Gabbana dress, he’s going to wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze until his thumbs meet his index fingers.

  He knocks on her dressing room door. “You okay in there, honey?”

  “Just a second. This isn’t the right kind of bra, I have to take it off. You really like this dress?”

  “I have to see you in it.”

  “I didn’t know you cared about fashion, Barry.”

  Fuller grins, thinking about the corpse in the back of his SUV.

  “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, dear.”

  Fuller wipes some sweat from his forehead, hands shaking. The store’s swamped with customers, and there’s no one chaperoning the dressing room. He’ll be able to kill his wife in less than thirty seconds, and then slip out before anyone knows what is happening. Remember to take her ring and tennis bracelet, he tells himself. Might not hurt to stop at the jewelry department on his way out and max his credit card on diamonds. He won’t get even half their value at the pawn shop, but he doesn’t plan on sticking around to pay the bill.

  “You ready, honey?” Holly’s voice is like a dinner bell.

  “I’m ready.”

  “The shoes don’t match.”

  “I don’t care. Let me in so I can look at you.”

  The door opens. Fuller goes in.

  Holly smiles at him, the same fake smile she gives photographers.

  “What do you think?”

  Fuller smiles back, full wattage, his eyes wide and the muscles in his neck stretched taut.

  “I’ll show you what I think.”

  He reaches for her neck.

  CHAPTER 21

  I learned to trust my instincts years ago, as a rookie. If a situation didn’t feel right, it usually wasn’t.

  Something about the eager way Fuller followed his wife into the dressing room set me on edge. I’d never met a man eager to play fashion show, and the quick way he convinced Holly to try on the dress made me suspicious.

  “Change of plan. All units converge on the sixth floor, at the northeast dressing room. We’re taking the target down. Repeat, we’re taking the target down. Over.”

  I hung my star around my neck and tugged out my .38, which was happy to be free of its claustrophobic holster.

  Several patrons stared at me, mouths open. I warned them to stay back.

  Two steps into the dressing room, I heard gurgling and grunting. A muffled scream. I followed the sounds, found the right door. Locked.

  I kicked off my flats, planted my left foot, and snap-kicked the door at knob level, grunting with the force of my effort.

  The jamb splintered. The door swung inward. My gun came up.

  Fuller had Holly by the throat. He spun her around, in the path of my .38, and I jerked the shot high, firing at the ceiling.

  I recovered quickly, leveling the gun, bringing my left hand up to steady it. Fuller’s massive forearm was locked around Holly’s throat. Her face was a mess of tears, mascara, and spit, and her eyes were squeezed shut in pain.

  Fuller was smiling.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  I aimed at his head.

  “Drop her, Barry!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  His arm tightened. Holly went from red to purple.

  My hands had begun to shake. I tightened my finger on the trigger.

  “Dammit, Barry! We can work this out! Don’t make me shoot you!”

  I heard Fuller’s shots a millisecond after I felt them, ripping through Holly’s belly and slamming into mine. It was like getting kicked in the stomach.

  I fired on reflex, my slug winging Fuller in the forehead.

  All three of us went down.

  The dressing room was carpeted, and the floor felt plush under my back. Comfortable. I looked down at my belly and saw blood and bits of flesh. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized my outfit was ruined, and that amused me for some reason.

  To my left, lying less than two feet away, Holly Fuller stared at me. She blinked. Opened her mouth to say something, but all that came out was blood.

  “Don’t talk,” I told her.

  She nodded, once. Then she closed one eye, and the other continued to stare at me as her life left her body.

  Behind her, Fuller was laid out on his back. His head spurted blood with his heartbeat, and I saw bits of bone tangled in his hair. His right hand was clenched around a bloody semiautomatic.

  “Die,” I whispered.

  He didn’t.

  I heard screams, and then Herb’s plump face was staring down at me, filled with anguish. I wanted to tell him not to be so sad, but I couldn’t get the words to form.

  He pried the .38 from my hand, and touched my cheek.

  “It’s going to be okay, Jack. It’s going to be okay.”

  Not for Holly Fuller, I thought. And then it was getting too hard to keep my eyes open, so I went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 22

  When I woke up, Latham was holding my hand. He smiled at me.

  “Hiya, sport. You got out of surgery an hour ago. Had two bullets removed from your abdominal wall.”

  I looked around, took in all the standard hospital surroundings, and then went to sleep again.

  The second time I awoke, Herb was there.

  “Good morning, Jack. How you feeling?”

  “Stomach hurts,” I said. Or tried to say. What came out was something that sounded like, “S’hurt.”

  “I’ll have the doctor up your morphine.”

  I shook my head and tried to say no.

  “Thirsty?”

  I nodded. Benedict poured me some water from a pitcher and held the glass. I took two sips, and two more sips dribbled down my face.

  “Day?” I managed.

  “Friday. You’ve been out about twenty-four hours.”

  “Olly?”

  Herb shook his head.

  “Uller?”

  “He’s in recovery. I’ll tell you more when you’re feeling better.”

  “Ell me.”

  “This is how we figured it — lemme know if it’s right. Fuller was holding Holly around the neck. Did you know he had a gun?”

  I shook my head.

  “He had it pressed to her back, and tried to shoot you through his wife. The slugs ripped through her and got lodged in your stomach muscles. I guess it pays to do sit-ups.”

  I grunted. It wasn’t sit-ups. Holly’s body slowed them down, so they didn’t penetrate deep.

  “Your round took off part of his head, above his right eye. Mostly skull. The docs picked bone splinters out of his brain for the better part of ten hours. Also, they found something else.”

  “What?”

  “Fuller had a brain tumor. About the size of a cherry. They removed that as well. He’s in stable condition.”

  I mumbled for more water, and we did the slurping/spilling thing again. A small voice whispered to me that I should have shot Fuller immediately, before he had a chance to kill his wife.

  “Latham should be back any minute. Went on a burrito run. All of these flowers are from him.”

  Herb made a grand, sweeping gesture, and for the first time I noticed all of the bouquets surrounding the bed, replete with stuffed animals and Mylar balloons.

  “He hasn’t left your side since you got here, Jack. He’s like Lassie.”

  “Case?” I asked. I wasn’t up to talking about Latham.

  “Airtight. We found a body in the back of Fuller’s truck. She’s wrapped in plastic, and his prints are all over her, not that it makes a difference at this point. The State’s Attorney is making a case for the two other women, Eileen Hutton and Davi McCormick, plus the Andrewses.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, yeah. You didn’t know. The dealer, and his mother. Both shot. Witnesses saw a large Caucasian man leaving the scene. Fuller was making so many mistakes, it’s almost like he wanted to
be caught.”

  I took a deep breath, smelling rubbing alcohol and iodine. My arm itched where the IV was jabbed in, and I scratched the skin above the hole. My stomach hurt; not from the inside, like an ulcer, but from the outside, as if someone had kicked me. I pulled down my sheet and pulled my hospital gown to the side. Herb carefully examined his shoes, while I poked and prodded at the large gauze bandage taped to my lower body.

  The poking made me realize how badly I needed to go to the bathroom, and I managed to sit up and plant my feet on the floor. The tile was cold.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Bathroom.”

  “I don’t know if you should.”

  “You want to cup your hands and hold them next to my knees?”

  Herb helped me into the bathroom.

  When finished, I was a little dizzy, and held on to the sink until the room stopped twirling. The woman in the mirror looked like hell. Hair, a disaster. Face, scrubbed clean of makeup, letting age and exhaustion shine through. Pallor, not much better than one of Derrick Rushlo’s dates.

  So when I stepped out of the bathroom, it was a given that my boyfriend would be standing there.

  He was wearing a smile that could charitably be called dopey, and in his hands was yet another floral arrangement, this one blooming from a coffee mug with a rainbow on it.

  “Hi, Jack. You look great.”

  And I could tell that he meant it.

  Maybe it was the drugs, or the pain, or the guilt, but I burst into tears right there. He held me, softly, so as not to hurt me. But I hugged him tight, with everything I had, not ever wanting to let go.

  “I’m so happy you’re okay, Jack. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I love you.”

  I sniffled, making a mess of his sport coat.

  “I love you too, Latham. God, I love you too.”

  CHAPTER 23