Alan shook Shell’s hand, but he looked somewhere between wary and angry. “And by undercover, you mean she has to have her shirt off?”
I looked down at my blouse. I’d undone the first three buttons, and somehow Shell had managed to remove the last few. I buttoned up, wondering how in the hell I was going to explain this.
“I run an escort service,” Shell said. “Someone is murdering my girls. Officer Streng is going to pretend to work for me, to try to find the killer. I needed to take some sexy pics of her for her portfolio. That’s how my clients pick their dates.”
“Three women have died so far,” I quickly added. “The files are on the kitchen counter.”
“I see,” Alan said, though he didn’t sound very convinced.
“Are we done?” I asked Shell, though it was more a statement than a question.
“Yeah. Let me pack up my lights and—”
“I can do it and bring them tomorrow morning.”
Shell nodded. “Sure thing. See you later. Good meeting you, Alan.” Shell stepped around him, then let himself out.
“That was weird,” Alan said. “Nothing like walking in on your girlfriend with another guy and her shirt off.”
“My shirt was on,” I said. “It was just open. Are those for me?”
Alan held out the flowers. I took the bouquet, gave it the perfunctory sniff, and engaged in an awkward hug with my boyfriend. I still was jittery from the shock of him showing up and surprising me, and wasn’t sure what I was actually feeling. After all, Alan had never said I love you, and he’d completely forgotten my birthday.
“Happy birthday,” Alan said. “I love you.”
Whoa. He loved me? How was I supposed to respond to that? Say it back? Did I even want to?
Instead of responding in kind, I held Alan at an arm’s length and searched his eyes. “My, uh, birthday was yesterday.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Alan said. “I wrote it down. It was this Tuesday.”
“Today is Wednesday.”
His face pinched. “Oh, geez, Jacqueline. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it really wasn’t. “At least now I know why you didn’t call.”
“Did you do anything special at least?”
“I did a prostitution sting and found a dismembered woman in a Dumpster.”
“Fun. Was there birthday cake?”
I smiled, relaxing a notch. “No, there wasn’t.”
“I missed you.”
“Missed you, too.”
But did I? If I really did miss Alan, why was I playing tonsil tennis with some other guy?
“I know I’ve been kind of…distant…lately,” he said, hooding his eyes. “The fact is, I’ve been thinking a lot. About us.”
“And what have you been thinking about?”
Alan crouched down, like he was tying his shoe.
But he wasn’t tying his shoe.
He was kneeling.
And he had a small, black box in his hand.
“I’ve been looking a long time for a woman like you, Jacqueline. I love being with you, and when we’re apart, I think about you.”
Oh my God. Oh my God oh my God oh my God. He was—
“Jacqueline Streng.” Alan opened up the tiny box and took out the gold ring with the diamond in it. “Would you make me the happiest guy in the world and marry me?”
Present day
2010, August 10
I was having a horrible nightmare where I was tied up and someone was going to torture me to death. So there was no feeling of relief when I woke up and realized I was tied up and someone was going to torture me to death.
The Catherine Wheel, with its horrible Guinea Worm attachment, whirred in my vision, and next to it the digital clock continued its countdown.
1:40:26…1:40:25…1:40:24…
It reminded me of a case I had a few years ago. Another countdown, on a digital watch.
I hoped this one would end better than that one had.
My brain was still fuzzy, and I couldn’t remember what had led up to this point. I also had no idea how I’d get out of this. If I didn’t know where I was, how could anyone else?
I scooted backward, peering behind me, eyeing the concrete block I was tethered to. Then I looked at my burning wrists. There was blood, but not as much as I’d expected, and the pain was far out of proportion with the actual damage. The wounds were no more than bad scrapes, but the glistening salt crystals made every millimeter of exposed flesh scream.
Unfortunately, the damage I’d done to the rope was even less impressive than the damage I’d done to myself. For all of my hard work, the nylon cord was barely frayed.
But seeing the Catherine Wheel had steeled my resolve. If I had to saw off both of my hands to get free, I would.
I closed my eyes and began to rub the rope against the corner of the block, whimpering in my throat, biting the ball gag so hard my jaw trembled.
Three years ago
2007, August 8
I hung up my cell phone and watched the cab pull up. Dalton and his associates climbed in. Good old Herb had slashed the tires of Dalton’s Caddy and the Benz, based on my not-so-subtle suggestion, in an effort to keep them on the scene and buy some time while I called Libby Hellmann, the state’s attorney.
Our efforts had bought us five minutes, and they were for naught. Hellmann had agreed with my original assessment; we had absolutely no evidence, and no probable cause, which meant we couldn’t get paper on Dalton. No search warrant. No arrest.
Deep down, I knew Dalton had a child in a storage locker somewhere. A child who was running out of time. And there wasn’t anything I could do. Even if I’d tried the loose-wire/vigilante-cop route and attempted to beat a confession out of Dalton, his lawyers showing up had squelched that plan. Not that it was ever a plan to begin with. I was pragmatic about following rules when confronted by a greater good, but unlike Mr. K I had no stomach for hurting people.
The only minor victory we scored was the look on the lawyer’s face when he saw the flat tires. When he went up to Herb, spouting off about suing and calling superiors, my partner told them a story about a roving band of tire-slashing thugs who had a vendetta against luxury cars, which was why my Nova was spared. When asked why he didn’t do anything to stop it, Herb replied, “I asked my lawyer, and he advised me not to.”
I truly did love the man, in that brotherly/sisterly way.
“Follow the cab?” he asked. “Or break into his car?”
I considered it. On one hand, if we chased Dalton, he surely wouldn’t lead us anywhere helpful. On the other, he wouldn’t leave his car with us if there was anything important or incriminating in it. But we couldn’t afford to miss that chance.
“Both,” I decided. “Hurry up. There’s a lock pick in my trunk.”
I hit the button and Herb gracelessly extracted himself from my vehicle, pulling out my lock pick—a one gallon plastic milk jug filled with concrete—just as the cab was pulling away. I took off after Dalton, then pressed the button on my earpiece to keep in touch with Herb. After two rings, he picked up.
“Ms. Daniels, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think this milk has gone bad.”
“It’s gone very bad,” I said, smirking. “You may have to arrest it for B&E. Call me back if you find anything. I can have a car pick you up.”
I heard the CRUNCH of breaking safety glass, and the whine of the car alarm. I killed the phone, then used the radio mic to call Tom Mankowski, the detective on my team.
“Car five-five-niner, this is Lewis.”
Roy Lewis was Tom’s partner. “Hey, Roy, it’s Jack Daniels. Tom keeping you in the loop?”
“He don’t tell me shit. Plus the dude’s drunk all the time, on the take, and dealing crack to underprivileged schoolchildren. Plus he has erectile dysfunction.”
I heard Tom say “asshole” in the background, then, “What’s up, Lieut? I haven’t confirmed Dalton’s prop
erty in Cape Verde, but I did find his flight. He’s taking United out of O’Hare on August ninth, two fifteen p.m.”
I checked the current time, and the digital watch countdown. That coincided exactly with the time running out.
“I need you to arrange for a round-the-clock on John Dalton, sixty-one years of age, residing at 1300 North Lake Shore Drive. Three teams, eight-hour shifts.”
“Roger that. Where is the suspect now?”
“In a yellow cab, just turned off of Clybourn, heading west on Diversey. I also need you to assemble a team and start calling every self-storage facility in Chicago, checking to see who’s renting unit 515. If it’s John Dalton, John Smith, John Doe, or anything cute, get me immediately. I’ll be in touch. Out.”
I cut off, then called home base. “Dispatch, this is Lieutenant Daniels out of the twosix. I need a car to rendezvous with me en route.” I gave them my make, model, and plate number, as well as the upcoming intersection. Less than a minute later, a black-and-white pulled up alongside me. I read their car number off their front fender and got them on the mic.
“Car seven-six-three-seven, I need a photo taken to Scott Hajek at the crime lab. Complete workup, plus run the pic through missing persons. Grab it at the next stop.”
We all came to a red light at Western, Dalton’s cab right ahead of me, the patrol car on my side. A uniform—a young black woman who couldn’t have been older than twenty-one—hopped out of the passenger seat and hurried to my window as I lowered it.
“It’s really an honor to meet you, Lieutenant.”
I checked her nametag. Graves. “Thanks for the assist, Officer Graves. I need this at the lab ASAP. Hit the lights.”
“Roger that, Lieutenant.” Graves held out an evidence bag, and I dropped the envelope inside. Before she ran off, Graves hesitated.
“Did you need something, Officer?”
“I just wanted to say I’ve been following your career since I was a little girl. You’re the reason I became a cop, Lieutenant.”
I was flattered, of course, but I played the hard-ass like I was supposed to. “Don’t blame me for your unhappiness, Officer. Now move it or I’ll have you busted down to traffic duty.”
Her smile was sudden and dazzling. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, then nodded and ran back to her patrol car. I wondered if I was ever that young and eager, anxious to make my mark, and decided I couldn’t have been. The light turned green, and I followed the cab up to a club called Spill, which I knew from a case I had a long time ago. It was a known Outfit property, and it reminded me of a man I remembered from my early days in Homicide, a former mob enforcer.
I double-parked and watch the trio exit the cab. Dalton waved at me before going inside. My earpiece rang, and I picked up.
“Daniels.”
“Car was clean, Jack. Not even an owner’s manual in the glove compartment.”
“I’m at Spill, Herb. Up for a shot of tequila?”
“I don’t think I’m ready for tequila yet. But a beer would work.”
“Need a ride?”
“I’ll cab it.”
“See you in a bit.”
I hung up, parked in front of a hydrant, and headed into Chicago’s biggest mob bar to see what trouble I could cause.
Present day
2010, August 10
Phin’s nerves hummed throughout his body, making his extremities tingle and twitch. He was anxious to act, to do something, anything, to find Jack. But he had no idea what to do. Herb had taken the Lemonheads boxes, and the single yellow piece of candy stuck in the bough of the tree, and was trying to find latent prints on them. Harry was on his laptop, using Identi-Kit facial composite software to put together a picture of the creepy looking guy with the black hair who’d been hanging around his office.
Phin had nothing to do other than pace. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists, wanting to hit somebody. He checked on McGlade, half-expecting the uncouth private eye to be surfing porno, but found him working diligently on creating the composite. Then Phin checked on Herb in the kitchen, who was using a ninhydrin spray to stain the prints on the box and candy. It smelled like acetone, and Herb was working on the stove with the vent on.
Harry had checked the two unknown numbers on Jack’s cell phone. Both were billing follow-ups for cases they’d recently had.
Phin considered calling Mary, Jack’s mother, who was on yet another cruise—she took several a year. But Phin couldn’t see any reason to ruin the old woman’s trip, when there was nothing she’d be able to do to help.
“Got a bunch,” Herb said, stepping away from the stove and fanning the air with his palm. “Some good ones. But they’ll need to dry before I can lift them.”
“Can you search the CPD database by arresting officer?” Phin asked.
“Sure. But Jack was on the force for more than twenty years. There are going to be over a thousand perps she arrested during that time.”
Phin stared at Herb, hard. “Then we’d better get started.”
Twenty-one years ago
1989, August 16
I looked at Alan, on one knee. Looked at the ring, a nice-size, round diamond. Looked back at Alan. Then at the ring. Then Alan. Then the ring.
“You’re supposed to answer yes or no,” Alan said. His eyes were bright, his face earnest and hopeful.
“Alan…I…well, I’m kind of blown away right now.” Alan waited.
“I mean, we’ve only been dating for a few months,” I went on. “We haven’t even lived together.”
“I’m an old-fashioned guy. The time to live together is when we’re engaged.”
“Shouldn’t living together come first? What if we can’t stand being around each other all the time?”
Alan lost a bit of his sparkle. He closed the ring box and stood up. “You’re going to be thirty next year. If we want to start a family, it has to be soon.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to have kids, Alan. That can happen later. My career—”
“Your career? A guy was just in your living room, taking pictures of you with your shirt off. That’s the career you want?”
“It’s not like that,” I said. “This is what I’ve been working for, Alan. You know it’s my goal to be a lieutenant—”
“—before you’re forty. I know that, Jacqueline. But whenever you talk about your job, all I hear is how little respect you get, how they’re holding you back, how no men want to work with you except that shithead Henry—”
“Harry.”
“—because it’s all a big, sexist old boys’ network.”
I put my hands on my hips. “This is my dream, Alan.”
“And what about kids? Let’s say you do get your dream job. Are you going to quit, at the height of your career, and drop everything to have babies?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. I’m not saying I don’t want to have a family. I’m saying I don’t think I’m ready for one right now.”
Alan shook his head, giving me one of his patented looks of disapproval. “You want to be forty-five and pregnant? By the time the kid is in college, you’ll be in a nursing home.”
“Of course not. I don’t want children when I’m that old.”
“Yesterday was your birthday. In three hundred and sixty-four days you’ll have another one. You can be married and maybe pregnant by then, or working some other hooker sting for a bunch of chauvinists who don’t respect you.”
Alan stuck the ring in his pocket and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I’m not going to start an argument trying to convince you to marry me. Either you want to, or you don’t. I love you, and I respect that you need some time to think. You’re a fantastic, wonderful woman, and I know you’ll make a terrific wife, and mother. But only if you’re ready.”
I didn’t know if I was ready.
“Stay,” I said. What I left unsaid was, convince me this is the right thing to do.
�
�I can’t make this decision for you, Jacqueline. I know I’m ready. Most people our age are ready. Every single one of my friends is married.”
“So you want to get married because all of your friends are?”
“I want to get married because I love you. But the clock is ticking. For both of us.”
Alan reached the door, paused for a moment, then left. I considered going after him, but he was right. I did need to think about this.
I always assumed I’d get married and have children someday, but never really stopped to think how that would fit with my career. How could I rise up in the ranks if I needed to take a year off for maternity leave? How seriously would I be taken by the brass if I had to interrupt a high-profile murder investigation so I could stay home with my kid who had the chicken pox?
But, by the same token, I was almost thirty. I needed to make this decision, and soon. The fact was, if I didn’t take this chance with Alan, I might never have another one.
Alan was right. The clock was ticking.
And boy, did I hate ticking clocks.
Three years ago
2007, August 8
With the clock ticking down on the unknown boy’s life, I walked into Spill, wondering what more I could do to find him. My mind was filled with awful scenarios of what would happen when the timer reached zero. Was the boy in a storage locker in some sort of sealed container, with his air running out? Or maybe some terrible machine would turn on automatically, bringing death? Or did he have a rope around his neck, standing on a slowly melting block of ice?
I shook my head, forcing away the images, and stepped into the club. It used to be the nightspot in the city, trendy and hip and A-list. A lot had changed since the last time I’d been in here. Gone were the smoke and the thumping house music and the line around the block. Spill had gone from popular to passé, the dance floor covered with a few lonely pool tables, the once-mighty bar reduced to serving fried pub grub and boilermakers to aging wiseguys. That’s where I found Dalton and his lawyer cronies, sitting on stools at the bar. I parked myself at the other end, watching them glance at me and then huddle in private conversation.
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