Last Call - A Thriller (Jacqueline Jack Daniels Mysteries Book 10)

by J. A. Konrath

  “Joseph Cermak.”

  Again Luther glanced at Lucy. She shrugged. “Who can remember them all?”

  “Where are you staying in town?” Luther asked him.

  “Nowhere yet. Been living out of the car.” The mess in the rental would confirm it—empty food wrappers and water bottles, a thermos full of urine. Phin had also been smart enough to hide his room key and cell phone in the car’s trunk. So far, his story was sound. Phin figured it was simple enough for him to stick to.

  Jack and Samantha would be safe.

  “Well, you’ve found us, Mr. Hanover. Now what are you going to do to us?”

  Phin set his jaw. He remained defiant as Lucy, stuck her crab-like hand, which was missing a few fingers, into her shorts and pulled out Phin’s butterfly knife.

  “Be careful with that,” Phin said. “You might lose a digit.”

  Luther made a barking sound, which Phin realized was a laugh. “You wounded six of my men, and killed three. Do you like to fight, Mr. Hanover?”

  “Untie me and I’ll show you.”

  “What do you think, princess?” Luther asked Lucy. “We can burn all his skin off, or we can put him in the games.”

  Lucy’s lip twitched. “Let’s burn his skin off.”

  “Not many good fighters in the games. He could be worth a lot of money.”

  “Burn him,” she said again.

  Phin couldn’t think of anything worse than having all of his skin burned off, but the way Luther insisted on the games made him wonder if that was indeed the crueler option.

  “Do I get a vote?” Phin asked.

  “No, Mr. Hanover. But we can take your opinion under advisement.”

  Phin forced bravado. “Kill me now, because if I get free, you’re both dead.”

  Luther’s eyes widened. “He’s feisty. I think we’ll keep him around.”

  “Then why did you even ask me for my opinion?” Lucy said. Her face made an ugly, pouting gesture, and she looked down at her shoes. Pink Crocs.

  “I’ll tell you what, princess. We’ll put him in the games, but I’ll let you burn off one of his nipples. Would that make you feel better?”

  Lucy nodded. Luther picked up the blowtorch and handed it to her. “I don’t like to disappoint her, Mr. Hanover. You know how it is with women.”

  Lucy pushed a button on the torch, igniting the blue flame. As she brought it to his chest, Phin closed his eyes, determined not to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

  He lasted almost nine seconds.

  DONALDSON

  Phoenix

  When you have very little power, your only recourse is to prey on the less powerful.

  In Donaldson’s case, that meant the impaired, little children, or the elderly.

  Children didn’t own cars. Donaldson could have waited for the bars to close and picked off someone drunk, but besides obtaining a vehicle he also needed a passport to get into Mexico.

  That meant finding some old fart.

  A nursing home wouldn’t work, because those living fossils were already too far gone to have vehicles. Casing a retirement home made sense, but Donaldson had tried that in other towns, and they were unusually well protected—probably because the elderly were so easy to victimize.

  So Donaldson thought outside the box and hung out in the parking lot of a discount medical supply store. The heat was stifling, made more unbearable because Donaldson was mostly scar tissue, and scar tissue didn’t have sweat glands. He waited, slowly simmering, for two hours before the perfect opportunity presented itself.

  Old man, at least eighty, driving a Cadillac from some long ago year when they still made them big. He parked crookedly, and when he got out he had one of those aluminum canes with four legs at the base. Donaldson watched him walk, slow and stooped, into the store, and he made his way to the Caddy.

  Dumb old fool didn’t lock his doors. Donaldson slipped into the back seat, which was so roomy he was able to hide on the floor.

  It being Arizona, the heat in the vehicle quickly rose to that of an oven baking cookies. It made the heat outside seem like the Arctic. The elderly bastard took his time, too. Donaldson sat there for at least twenty minutes, sure he could feel his eyeballs shriveling up as the goo inside them evaporated, before the driver finally returned.

  Naturally, he got into the car without checking the back seat, and even threw his bagged purchase directly on top of Donaldson without noticing him. Donaldson checked the contents.

  Enemas, and petroleum jelly.

  Old people were just plain nasty.

  Thankfully, the geezer cranked the AC, and for the first time since the library Donaldson felt relief from the punishing heat. Seriously, anyone would have to be certifiably insane to live in Arizona.

  Donaldson couldn’t see the dashboard, but he knew they were going at least ten miles an hour under the speed limit. Each intersection required a full, six-second stop. And the driver managed to hit a curb every hundred meters, causing electric ripples of pain to shock through Donaldson’s body. By the time they arrived at the geezer’s house and parked in his attached garage, Donaldson was ready to kill the guy even if he didn’t get a car or passport out of the deal.

  The old man reached behind him, his hand blindly seeking the bag, and Donaldson actually handed it to him. A moment later the garage door was closing and Methuselah was getting out of the Caddy.

  Donaldson chose that moment to make his move. He let himself out of the rear door, and the dinosaur squinted at him as if he was watching television.

  “What in the hell are you doing in the back of my car?”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “What was that?”

  Donaldson raised his voice. “Do you live alone?”

  “What?”

  Jesus Christ. “Do! You! Live! Alone!”

  “What in the hell were you doing in the back of my car?”

  And the state still allowed this guy to drive?

  Donaldson looked around the garage for some kind of weapon, and found a crow bar hanging on the near wall. He picked it up, the weight in his hands oddly comforting.

  “What in the hell are you doing with my crowbar?”

  Donaldson limped within pummeling range, and the old man grimaced. “Damn, son. What happened to your face? Someone hit you with an ugly stick so hard the stick broke.”

  Donaldson countered the barb by hitting him with a stick of his own, bouncing it off the geezer’s dome. The old man staggered a few steps, then collapsed.

  “Why in the hell are you hitting me with my crowbar, you ugly bastard?”

  Donaldson bent down to get closer, even though the act was painful.

  “Do you live alone!”

  “No, I live with a whole church choir, you idiot.”

  Donaldson smashed the crowbar against the man’s knee.

  “My wife is inside!” he moaned.

  “Where is your passport?”

  “Airport?”

  “Pass-port!” Donaldson rapped him hard with each syllable.

  “It’s in my desk! Please stop hurting me!”

  Donaldson was so tired, and so irritated, that he didn’t even enjoy beating the old man to death. It felt like work, not pleasure. A shame, since the fellow was tougher than he looked, and it took over two dozen whacks before his brainpan cracked open and spilled the goodies.

  Skull piñatas usually cheered Donaldson up. The first time he ever split someone’s head, he walked barefoot on the warm, gray matter, letting it squish between his toes, and sang, “I’m always on your mind” to the corpse.

  But now all he felt was tired.

  After catching his breath he limped over to the house door and warily opened it up.

  “Irving?” a woman called from another room.

  No. It’s not Irving.

  It’s the boogeyman.

  Home invasions weren’t normally Donaldson’s thing. But he perked up at the idea. The air conditioning was delici
ously frigid. Once he got rid of Irving’s wife, perhaps he could stay a while. Shower and rinse out the catheter. Fill his belly. Maybe even sleep in an actual bed.

  He locked the door behind him, then lurched into the kitchen. A moment later, an old woman with a bowed back and a wooden cane came limping in. She didn’t even notice Donaldson until she practically bumped into him.

  “You’re not Irving,” she said, squinting through thick glasses.

  “Good grasp of the obvious.”

  The woman touched her neck.

  “There’s an intruder in my house,” she said. “Real ugly fucker.”

  Donaldson was momentarily confused, and then noticed she was holding a medical alert necklace.

  She’d just alerted the authorities.

  And then she whacked him in the mouth with her cane.

  Donaldson didn’t have many teeth. Most of them had been chiseled out. So the four he had left in his lower jaw were important to him.

  The old bitch knocked them out. All four.

  Donaldson swung the crowbar so hard he broke her neck on the first blow. He had a strong urge to continue bashing until she was pulp, but he didn’t have time. After stuffing his mouth with paper towels, he quickly found the den and the office desk. The passports were in a cubby hole. He began tugging open drawers and also found a silver dollar collection in a binder, a large, glass jar of change, and a Rolex Datejust. The back of the watch was engraved, “To Irving, for 50 Years”. Reading it made Donaldson wistful, almost sad inside. Why the hell did those fools ruin a beautiful watch by adding an inscription? That took at least 40% off the resale.

  Time running out before the pigs showed up, Donaldson hurried to the bathroom. When he opened the vanity, he gasped so deeply he almost choked on the paper towels.

  Merry Christmas.

  There for the taking was a pharmacy’s worth of prescription drugs. Muscle relaxants, sleep aids, anti-anxiety pills, and best of all; a full bottle of Tylenol-3 and a box of fentanyl patches.

  Donaldson gathered everything in a pillowcase and hurried back to the garage. He relieved Irving of his wallet, which held eight dollars in cash and assorted ID and credit cards. Donaldson looked nothing like the man, and his age was way off, but he knew if he flashed it no one would question him. No one had the balls to ask a guy who had a face like chicken cartilage why he didn’t match his driver’s license pic.

  He also noticed something in the pile of brains. False teeth. On impulse Donaldson reached for them, tucking the dentures into his pocket, then getting into the Cadillac just as distant sirens approached.

  He breezed past the cops as they came screeching down the street.

  Donaldson drove to a supermarket, parked in the busy lot, then checked his mouth in the mirror. Only five teeth left, all on top. He wondered how he was supposed to chew anything now. Maybe put food on the edge of a table, and then ram his upper teeth into it?

  That didn’t sound very appealing. But what was the alternative? Eating baby food for the rest of his life?

  He dug through the pillowcase, dry-swallowed four Tylenol-3s, and considered his options. Maybe he could get a battery-powered blender, and liquefy his meals. A cheeseburger smoothie would taste the same as a whole one, wouldn’t it?

  Then he remembered Irving’s false teeth in his pocket. Donaldson had wondered what impulse made him grab the dentures, but apparently his brilliant subconscious mind had solved his problem. Donaldson wiped off some bits of cerebrum and wedged the falsies onto his lower gums.

  They were too big, and didn’t fit right, sticking out at a weird angle, giving him a huge under bite.

  Uppers. They were uppers.

  Donaldson glanced in the mirror.

  I look like the world’s ugliest bulldog.

  He took the dentures out, then pondered his next move.

  The car had three-quarters of a tank of gas, but Cadillacs weren’t known for their terrific mileage. The Mexican border was about four hundred miles away, and he had no idea how long it would take to find Lucy. He needed cash.

  He fiddled with the GPS and drove to a pawn shop a few blocks away. When Donaldson walked inside, he was surprised how much they’d changed. Back in the day, hock shops were seedy places where junkies could fence stolen radios. Apparently, they’d been modernized into retail chains. None of the customers looked strung out. None of the smiling clerks looked shady.

  Donaldson limped up to the cashier window and presented the silver dollars, watch, and Irving’s ID.

  As expected, they didn’t question him. And watching the smiling clerk try to maintain a smile while staring at him was oddly amusing.

  It amounted to over four thousand dollars. A fortune.

  Donaldson was so flushed by the excitement of his windfall that he didn’t notice the two teenagers, who’d been waiting for him outside the pawn shop. One shoved him to the ground and held him, and the other did a quick frisk and found the roll of bills.

  After a high-five and some celebratory hoots, they jogged off.

  The smiling pawn shop cashier came out and helped Donaldson up, asking if he wanted him to call the police. Donaldson made an excuse about driving himself to the hospital, and then got the hell out of Phoenix, close to tears because life was so blatantly unfair.

  JACK

  Chicago

  When we arrived at O’Hare, Harry took a cab back to his condo to pack for the trip, and I drove Katie back to my place. She’d been surprisingly quiet on the plane, and stayed that way in the car.

  Odd behavior for someone writing a book. I’d encountered a few journalists in the past, and they usually had to be cut off because they seemed eager to pump me forever. So after ten minutes of silence after picking up the car in short-term parking, I finally asked, “Why Luther Kite?”

  Katie seemed to gather her thoughts before responding. “All the books I’ve written have been about things that have already happened. Kite is still happening. Him, and Lucy, aren’t headline news. But they’re out there, killing people, getting away with it. So instead of covering the story, I want to be part of the story.”

  “You don’t strike me as someone out for fame.”

  “I’m not. It’s… well, you can go through life as an observer. An observer is a victim, in a sense. They react, but they don’t act. There are too many people watching, not enough of them actually doing anything.”

  “You’re a writer.” I’d checked my Kindle earlier, saw all of Katie’s books already pre-loaded. Phin must have bought them after meeting her, and we shared an Amazon account so they downloaded to mine. “That’s doing something.”

  “I’m doing something after the fact. I’ve read all there is to read about you, Jacqueline Daniels. All the books. All the articles. I’ve watched the video clips of your press conferences. I’ve even got the Blu Ray set of Fatal Autonomy.”

  “I’m sorry about that.” Fatal Autonomy was a TV drama supposedly based on the exploits of Harry McGlade. In exchange for a favor I signed away rights for the producers to base a character on me. Harry got rich. I got sent adult-sized diapers every Xmas by Fatal Autonomy fans, because my character wet her pants whenever she got scared.

  “You’ve made a difference, Jack. You’ve saved lives. You’re not a victim, you’re a hero.”

  I shook my head. “A victim is anyone harmed by actions beyond their control. Could be a drunk driver, a tornado, a perverted uncle, a fire, a rapist, a con artist, a psychopath. I’ve been a victim many times. That doesn’t mean I let it define me. No one gets to define me but me.”

  “Spoken like a hero.”

  I frowned. “Hero is another loaded word. Most people get scared. Being able to act while afraid, being able to face fears and keep going; that’s learned. I’m no different than anyone else. I’m just…”

  I searched for the word. Unlucky? I chose to be a homicide cop, so a lot of the shit I’d gone through I brought on myself. Stupid? It was true I had to be either dense or a masochist to
do what I did for as long as I did. My job hurt me, and those I cared about, and I was still unable to live a normal life without taking care of loose ends like Luther Kite.

  “Driven,” Katie said.

  I tried on the word, and it fit. Not perfectly, but enough for me to be comfortable with it. “Yeah. Driven. There are predators out there, hurting people. I’m compelled to do what I can to stop them.”

  “Why?”

  Why, indeed?

  “My mother was a cop. Maybe it’s genetic.”

  “Nothing happened to you? When you were younger? Made you want to chase killers?”

  I recalled my childhood. There had been rough spots, to say the least, but I didn’t feel comfortable sharing these with Katie.

  “Being a kid isn’t easy,” was all I revealed.

  “I’ve read you’re an insomniac.”

  I glanced at Katie. She was staring at me like I was some sort of strange animal she’d never seen before.

  “I used to be. Sleep better now. The baby changed a lot. Or maybe it was me quitting the force. Or both.”

  “You’re not driven anymore. Maybe that’s why you were so good at your job, and why you couldn’t sleep.”

  “Maybe.”

  “When you did catch someone bad, could you sleep?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  Katie turned away and nodded. Then she stared out the window.

  “So you think that catching Luther Kite will make things better for you?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say I’ve had more than my share of sleepless nights.”

  I considered pressing her, but her body language had changed. She’d gone from animated to withdrawn within a few seconds. I concentrated on the road, tried to clear my head of worries, when my phone rang. I hit the button on my steering wheel that enabled hands-free Bluetooth.

  “This is Jack.”

  “Jack? Val Ryker. Been a while.”

  I’d worked with Val on the CPD years ago. She went on to pursue law enforcement in Wisconsin, and we didn’t see each other often. Val was one of the few people I could call a friend, and someone I could normally count on.